My View from 1958

Timeframe: February-March 1975 / Junior Year of High School

Interesting Road Sign Update: As my wife and I  continue to travel across Interstate 80 to visit friends and family, another exit sign (exit 379 in NE) caught my attention. This one was for the town of Friend, Nebraska which I thought was another unusual name. Here is a little background thanks to some internet research (e.g. Wikipedia).

The city is named for Charles E. Friend, who homesteaded the land and initially named the community Friendville. He operated a dry goods store and post office. In 1873 the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad named its new train station there “Friend,” and the name stuck.

The Friend Police Department, which was initially housed in a tool shed during construction of U.S. Route 6, was reported by Ripley’s Believe It or Not! to be the smallest police station in the world. In the 1960s, the shed doubled in size so the Nebraska State Patrol could also be stationed there to issue traffic citations and make arrests. Afterwards, Friend still claimed to have the smallest combined police station. It was demolished in 2015 and replaced with a neon Friend sign.

Top Movies February-March 1975

Young Franenstein. I still love this movie. In fact, I bought it not long ago. Mel Brooks pushed comedy to the limit. I noted that another Mel Brooks classic,  “Blazing Saddles” is playing at the Harkin Theater just down the road. I own this movie too.  

The Godfather Part II. Never saw it, but the Godfather franchise was very popular.

The Towering Inferno. Lots of great special effects. Kinda a silly movie by my standards today but at the time it was exciting.

Earthquake. Tried to watch this a few months ago…I could not do it. Times change.

Tommy.  I never really liked this movie. I was not much of a “Who” fan, and honestly I did not follow the story line. Elton John was cool as the Pinball Wizard in those boots!  Lots of big names in the movie….Elton, Tina Turner, Ann-Margret, Oliver Reed, Jack Nicholson, and Eric Claption. Perhaps I should give it another go. I do remember taking a road trip to the  Indian Hills Theater in Omaha to watch it. I was always up for road trips. Many of us really liked Elton John at that time, so I am sure that was an attraction.

Top Songs that I enjoyed February-March 1975

“Fire” by Ohio Players

“You’re No Good” by Linda Ronstadt

“Best of My Love” by the Eagles

“Some Kind of Wonderful” by Grand Funk

“Black Water” by The Doobie Brothers:

“Pick Up the Pieces” by Average White Band

“No No Song” by Ringo Starr

“Can’t Get it Out of My Head” by the Electric Light Orchestra 

My good friend Scott Ginger was a member of our Shenandoah High School Mustang basketball team. During the 1974–75 season, the Mustangs somehow found themselves in the Iowa District  playoffs.

Now, let’s be honest—they weren’t exactly a powerhouse during those years. In fact, I’m not even sure they finished the season above .500. This was back in the days before everyone got a trophy. You actually had to earn your way into the postseason, and I suspect the Mustangs barely slipped in through the back door.

That presented a problem.

If the team kept winning, our planned trip to Oklahoma would be over before it ever began. Scott would have to stay with the team, continue practicing, and prepare for the next game. There would be no way he could disappear for a 4 day road trip.

I found myself in a position no loyal friend—or loyal fan—ever wants to be in.

I was quietly rooting for the other team.

Not publicly, of course. I wasn’t about to cheer against my classmates. But deep down, I found myself hoping Shenandoah’s season would come to an end.

Now, if you’ve read some of my earlier stories, you already know I wasn’t exactly a basketball legend. My playing career ended after eighth grade when I wisely concluded my greatest contribution to the program would be sitting in the stands instead of at the end of the bench. So I became one of the team’s biggest supporters.

Still, this time my loyalties were divided.

As the playoff game unfolded, I caught myself hoping the season would end—not because I wanted my classmates to fail, but because I wanted my best friend to join me on what promised to be the adventure of a lifetime.

As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about.

Shenandoah drew St. Albert High School, a team that would go on to win the Iowa state high school championship that year. The season ended that February night, and I experienced two emotions at the same time. I felt disappointed for the players. They had worked hard to reach the playoffs. But beneath that disappointment was relief. The trip was on.

My brother Mark had decided to attend the University of Oklahoma in Norman to study pharmacy. It wasn’t the typical path for a Shenandoah graduate. Most of my classmates headed to Iowa State, the University of Iowa, the University of Northern Iowa, or Northwest Missouri State. Mark chose something different. Maybe he wanted to get a ways away from home or Iowa for a while. Maybe he simply wanted to chart his own course. Whatever the reason, he packed his bags and headed south.

When the college school year ended, the idea surfaced that I could fly to Oklahoma, spend a few days with Mark, and then ride home with him. Naturally, I needed someone to share the adventure.

Who better than Scott?

Scott had a wonderful sense of humor and a mischievous streak that made every adventure more memorable. He had an uncanny knack for skirting real trouble, always pushing the boundaries just enough to make life interesting without ever crossing the line. He was a gifted athlete and one of those personable people who could strike up a conversation with just about anyone. He had an infectious sense of humor and a knack for telling stories and cracking jokes that could have an entire room laughing in no time.

One of the things I remember most was a word he invented, or at least I think he did.

“BWOP.”

It didn’t mean anything. At least not to anyone else. Remember this is 1975 so there is no relevance to any current meaning.

Whenever the tension in a room got a little too thick, someone made a spectacular mistake, or we witnessed something so odd that words simply weren’t adequate, Scott would slowly turn toward me, look me straight in the eye, and in the deepest voice he could manage, rumble…

“B…W…O…P.”

That was all it took.

We’d both lose it.

No explanation was ever needed. It was our own private language, one of those silly inside jokes that only two teenage friends could appreciate. Looking back, I couldn’t tell you how the word was born or why it was so funny. I only know that every time Scott said it, we laughed.  He had the gift of saying the word right on queue.  One incident still makes me laugh.

During wrestling practice one day, Scott picked up the long cardboard tube that the wrestling mats were rolled around. It must have been 10 or 12 feet long. Holding one end to his mouth like some oversized musical instrument, he took a deep breath and let out the longest, deepest…

“BWOP!!!!!”

The sound echoed across the gymnasium floor.

People stopped what they were doing and looked around, wondering what in the world had just happened. Scott and I could not keep straight faces. To everyone else it was just a strange noise. To us, it was hilarious. The word was infections and soon even underclassmen were saying it, althought not as cool as we did.

That was Scott. He had an uncanny ability to find humor in the simplest things and could turn an ordinary moment into a memory that would last a lifetime.

Even today, whenever I think of him, I can still hear that deep, booming “BWOP” echoing through the gym.

Funny how memories work. I don’t remember many conversation we had or every place we visited, but more than fifty years later, I can still hear Scott’s voice slowly rolling out that deep, drawn-out “BWOP.”

Years later, those same qualities served him well…good sense of humor, communications skills, human relations skills. He became an outstanding high school teacher and was honored as Teacher of the Year in Las Vegas, Nevada.

But in the early spring of 1975, none of that was on our minds.

We were simply two high school boys who loved to kid around, pull harmless pranks, and laugh at just about everything—sometimes at someone else’s expense. We were convinced that a weekend on a college campus would transform us into studly young men…or rather we would transform the campus. I mean after all, we were big men on the Shenandoah High School campus, surely that would translate into Okie!

We couldn’t have been more wrong.

As if the trip itself wasn’t exciting enough, there was an added bonus.

We were going to fly to Oklahoma.

Back then, flying wasn’t routine—it was an event. It was something special, something most people didn’t do very often. Walking through an airport and boarding a jet made you feel like you had arrived. At least that’s how it felt to us.

Here we were, two dumb-ass teenagers from small-town Iowa, about to board an airplane (Braniff Airlines as I recall) bound for Norman, Oklahoma, without a single adult tagging along. We thought we were living large.

How cool was that?

Mom drove us the sixty miles to the airport in Omaha, Nebraska. That alone felt like the beginning of a grand adventure.

Of everything I remember about the flight, one moment still makes me laugh.

Scott had decided to strike up a conversation with one of the flight attendants (aka airline stewerdess back in those days). Whether he was actually flirting or just being his naturally friendly self, I couldn’t tell you for sure. But in my seventeen-year-old mind, he was making a serious run at her. He said a few things that made me think he seriously thought he had a legitimate chance.

Picture of a 1974 Braniff Airlines “Stewardess

Naturally, I did what any immature friend would do.

Every time she walked past our seats, I’d elbow Scott in the ribs or give him a little poke, trying to make him lose his composure. Finally, he leaned over and, in complete seriousness, and whispered, “You’re ruining my chances with her. She saw you poke me!”

His chances?

Looking back, I’m sure that poor flight attendant saw exactly what we were—two teenage immature kids from Shenandoah, Iowa, on their first real adventure away from home, probably still wearing dipers in her mind. But that isn’t how we saw ourselves.

We were Mustangs.

We were flying to the University of Oklahoma.

We were traveling without our parents.

And for those few hours at 30,000 feet, we honestly believed we were pretty big stuff. That thought would continue through the weekend.

To two high school juniors, this wasn’t just a trip. It was our first real taste of college life. We were certain that once we stepped onto campus, we’d blend right in. In our minds, we’d look older, act older, and somehow the college girls would immediately recognize the two handsome young men who had just arrived from Iowa.

Reality, of course, had other plans.

My brother welcomed us into his dorm room, and for the next couple of days we did our best to live like college students. We wandered around campus, lingered over pancakes at IHOP, stared at the college girls with our teenage lust, bowled at the dorm bowling alley, and ate at the Denco Café, convinced we were now part of the university scene. We slept on the floor of my brother’s dorm room. I can still remember the cold tile beneath me, although I can’t remember whether we had sleeping bags, blankets, or just a couple of jackets to throw over ourselves. Whatever we had, it wasn’t much.

Funny how memory works. I can’t recall what we used for bedding, but I can still remember the feel of that hard, cold white tile floor. At seventeen, it didn’t matter. We were spending the weekend in a college dorm, and that alone made us feel like we had finally arrived.

The place I couldn’t wait to see was the Denco Café. My brother had been talking about it long before we ever arrived in Norman. He described it as a place unlike anything we had back home. The taco chips were greasy, the bathroom was outside, the pay phone was outside, and—according to Mark—the cook had warts all over his hands and arms.

Now, instead of losing my appetite, all of that somehow made me want to go even more. I was seventeen. This sounded like one of the coolest places on earth. And it was a bar too.  Mom and dad would never know.  Think of the stories we would tell the guys back home!

My brother and Scott both recently provided me old newspaper articles about the Denco Café which has since closed.  The following paragraphs contain excerpts from those articles.

The Denco wasn’t much to look at, but that’s what gave it its character. Originally opened as a lunch counter for bus passengers arriving at the train terminal across the street, it had evolved into one of Norman’s legendary late-night hangouts. By the time we visited in 1975, generations of University of Oklahoma students had made it their unofficial gathering place after parties, football games, and nights on the town.

The food wasn’t famous because it was gourmet. It was famous because it was hot, greasy, cheap, and available when everything else in town was closed. College students didn’t seem to care about fancy meals at two or three in the morning. They wanted burgers, fries, chips, and whatever would soak up the night’s adventures.

There always seemed to be a glowing “Help Wanted” sign in the window, as though they had simply given up trying to take it down. A waitress named Pat was legendary for keeping rowdy college kids in line, and no amount of alcohol was going to earn anyone special treatment from her.

To Scott and me, Denco’s wasn’t just another café. It was proof that we were experiencing college life—at least for one weekend. Looking back, I’m not sure whether the food was actually good or if we simply loved the idea of eating where real college students hung out.

Either way, we thought it was one of the coolest places I’d ever seen.

Picture of Denco Cafe in the 1970’s

They served what was called a Denco Darlin’,  a legendary, late-night blue-plate special. The iconic diner dish consisted of a bed of spaghetti (or elbow macaroni) smothered in greasy chili, topped with grated longhorn cheese, and crowned with two sunny-side up fried eggs.

Below is a photo of the inside of the Denco Café, and yes, I remember sitting right at that bar, eagerly waiting for those famous greasy taco chips—and trying not to stare at the cook’s warts.

We never ordered a beer. My brother was a lot smarter than Scott and me, and he wasn’t about to let two seventeen-year-olds do something that could get us, or him, into trouble.

That didn’t stop us from wanting one.

To us, having a beer in a real college bar would have been the final piece of the puzzle. We already thought we looked like college students. Surely one beer would complete the transformation.

Picture inside Denco Cafe

I do remember looking in the back room to see the infamous cook and his warts. Sadly, I don’t remember seeing them…..but I am sure they were there!

The weekend came to an end far too quickly. Instead of flying home, we climbed into my brother’s Plymouth Road Runner for the 497-mile trip back to Iowa.

The Road Runner wasn’t exactly built for comfort, especially when it was loaded to the roof with everything my brother wanted taken home. The engine rumbled with that unmistakable car growl as we headed north on Interstate 35, the miles stretching out before us. Every inch of space was filled, leaving Scott to squeeze into what little room remained in the back seat. Scott was a big guy. He played tight end in high school and outside linebacker. There was no way he was comfortable.

Kansas seemed to stretch on forever. Mile after mile of open prairie,  fields, and an endless ribbon of concrete disappeared into the horizon. Kansas has a way of convincing you that you’ve been driving for hours without actually going anywhere. Every few miles another overpass or grain elevator broke the monotony, but mostly it was just sky, fields, and the steady rumble of my brother’s Road Runner. Looking back, the drive felt almost as long as the state itself—especially for Scott, who was wedged into the cramped back seat.

I-35 Heading North in Kansas

Neither of us complained much. We were still riding the high of our weekend at the University of Oklahoma. We stayed in a college dorm, had eaten where college students ate, bowled a few games at the college bowling alley, and spent two days pretending we belonged on a college campus. The college girls hadn’t exactly noticed us, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. We were sure they would remember us for the next trip when we would probably be playing football for the Sooners, or so we thought.

Looking back more than fifty years later, I have to laugh at how confident we were. We probably looked exactly what we were—two wide-eyed high school kids trying very hard to appear sophisticated. The college girls didn’t exactly line up to meet us, despite our optimistic expectations.

None of that mattered.

For one unforgettable weekend, Scott and I walked a college campus, stayed in a dormitory, and imagined what our own futures might look like. It gave us a glimpse of the lives we hoped were waiting just around the next bend in the road.

We returned home with no great stories of college romance or wild parties (I am sure we told a few lies), but with something better—a memory that still makes me smile every time I think about it.

Sometimes the best trips aren’t remembered because of what happened. They’re remembered because of who we believed we were while they were happening.

I would like to thank Scott and my brother Mark  for helping me with some of these memories and of course this story. One day out of the blue, Scott started texting about this trip and I knew it had to become part of my blog. Thank you Scott. It was a good ride.

BWOP