By Bob Copperstone
The placement of the city of Wahoo on Nebraska road maps quite handily positions Wahoo almost equidistant from each of three of the largest cities in the state.
Omaha: (approximately) 45 miles; Lincoln: 40; Fremont: 35.
Wahoo had its share of good doctors, optometrists, dentists, general practitioners and such, but for more specialized cases, we relied on a creaky-old bus system to take us to one of the Big Three cities.
I have loved big-little Fremont since I was growing up in Wahoo in the 1950s.
During those days we could catch the Arrow Stages or Capitol Stage bus lines (I forget which one ran to Fremont) and ride in the swaying, pitching belly of the smoking, road-weary yet dependable buses to Omaha, Lincoln or Fremont.
Fremont was not too big, and I felt more comfortable there than in Omaha or Lincoln.
Looking back on my years at Wahoo High, I remember I strived to remain with in-fashion clothing as far as my meager funds would allow.
To my delight, and for reasons that continue to escape me, I had been selected in 1957, my senior year, to be Principal “Mo” Christenson’s office aide for a couple of periods each day, and I wanted to be well-dressed for the part.
I don’t know why the principal so honored me; no other woodshop classmate had been asked. (To my lasting shame, I snickered with other students in referring to the balding gentleman behind his back as “Skinhead”. I knew that he deserved better than that.)
I dressed spiffily on school days, following the latest trends. I even owned a pair of blue-suede shoes, along with those gaudy, diamond-patterned argyle socks, of course.
One time I grew out my hair as best I could and wanted the Central Barber Shop’s Ray Gillette to cut me a ducktail. Not enough hair there, though, and I resorted to my usual crew-cut.
I made the best of the flattop by keeping the cocks-comb frontal ridge of hair standing at attention. I applied frequent slatherings from a pocket-sized jar of a greasy substance brand-named “Butch Wax”.
To get back to my memories of Fremont:
Fremont was often the destination of our annual day-long state high school music competitions. Win or lose, we always had fun in Fremont.
Sometimes, if we couldn’t find a certain contest venue among multiple sites just north of downtown, we weren’t afraid to ask anyone on the street to give us directions.
Some of us kids took the opportunity to run mildly amok.
I didn’t witness it, but one year I heard that a bunch of husky football players ganged up to prank their music teacher’s tiny sub-compact Henry J-brand automobile. The car, from the Kaiser-Frazer corporation, had recently come on the U.S. market and was about the size of a Crosley.
The kids hoisted the teacher’s car and parked it sideways and immobile in the tight slot between two brick buildings.
The teacher, grinning helplessly, showed up to drive home, and reacted as the kids had hoped. Then the brawny boys extracted the Henry J, and everyone (except the teacher) got their chuckles.
* * *
The Fremont music contest offered the perfect opportunity to strut my fashion stuff, and I was ready for it.
But to my chagrin, it turned out that it also allowed me to make a perfect ass of myself with my choice of costume.
During the late 1950s, the fashionistas gracing the nation’s campuses were wearing the odd color combination of charcoal-black and pink clothing. I had to get me some of that.
I don’t remember where I purchased the charcoal trousers, pink sports coat, pink shirt, and pink & charcoal necktie. This garish symphony of poor taste was topped with a ridiculously wide-brimmed charcoal-black hat with pink wide ribbon. It certainly didn’t come from Hultin-Anderson’s, or Lindley Clothing, or Penny’s, or any other Wahoo haberdashery.
Meanwhile, as the hour of my contest solo neared, I began to get the shakes. I knew that my choices of clothing may put me at risk. Still, I had nothing else to change into.
I was scheduled for a morning practice session, so I set out on the long walk to the auditorium.
I was feeling downcast and very pessimistic. I just wanted to get the misery over with. I stepped outside heavily, with all the confidence and aplomb of a kid caught stealing cookies. I looked as ridiculous as I felt.
That dread was cemented when two girls my age passed me on the sidewalk. They eyed my outfit top to bottom, then looked me squarely in the eye and actually giggled out loud.
Ouch! That stung!
The rest of the day, while my performance time drew near, I stewed over why those girls wanted to hurt me like that. Why, they didn’t even know me.
Painfully slowly, I began to realize that it wasn’t ME, as a person, that they were giggling at.
They were instead ridiculing the very thing that was nettling my own self. It was those damnable charcoals and pinks which I was unwittingly forcing into public display.
By golly, it was time for me to climb out of my self-defeating funk.
I knew right then what I must do -- and I did it.
I practically ran to the to the auditorium. I found the men’s room and ripped off the gaudy coat, tie and hat and threw them in a corner.
My confidence thus restored, I’m proud to say I sang beautifully that night, scoring the highest “Superior” rating.
And that atrocious charcoal and pink clown outfit? It never again left my bedroom closet.
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