Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard

Remember the autograph books that were once upon a time the rage at graduation time? The books our classmates both signed and penned such profound and heartfelt sentiments as “Good luck in high school.” Some boys and girls—sorry Microsoft Word for not being inclusive here—expressed sadness at the passage of time and bid wistful farewells in one form or another. Others celebrated the achievement: graduating from grammar school or high school. I must admit that achieving a primary or secondary school diploma seemed a middling accomplishment to me. One hundred or more years earlier this may not have been the case. Still, graduation parties in my honor occurred with the always-appreciated cash in the congratulatory cards.

In fact, I purchased my first aluminum baseball bat with a portion of my grammar-school-graduation windfall. The aluminum bat was a relatively new product at the time. A friend of mine advised me not to buy my preferred choice, because, he said, I would soon grow out of it. I took his advice and opted for a heavier model that remained too heavy for me into my adulthood. Shopping locally at the Van Cortlandt Sporting Goods Center, the bat’s price tag was a whopping nine dollars, a luxury that I could only afford courtesy of graduation. An inflation calculator puts that amount in today’s dollars at $51.10.

Back to the autograph books: As I recall, there was a publication circulating, which furnished ideas on what to write in them. For whatever reason, this gem is lodged in my brain and has been since America’s bicentennial year, 1976, when I graduated from grammar school. Among the autograph-book suggestions was the memorable, “In your ocean of friends, count me a permanent wave.” Of course, such syrupy special sentiments seemed ridiculous to most of us. We were, after all, thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds.

Although my iambic pentameter was a bit off, I wrote original verse in a friend’s autograph book. I recollect only half a stanza of the rhyme scheme: “Carroll the Commie, A Ring of Salami.” This brings back memories of a simpler time indeed. America was in the midst of the Cold War back then, and we youths were aware of who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. Occasionally, a kid would position himself or herself as a provocateur and swim against the tide. In this instance, a fellow named Carroll—his last name—proclaimed he was a communist. Thus, getting memorialized in an autograph book on the cusp of its fiftieth birthday in 2026.

I doubt very much that Carroll was Red. But, for sure, it was an unforgettable snapshot in time. Some of us dubbed Julio a “communist” because he was of Cuban descent. Julio knew it was a joke and would on cue exclaim, “I’m not a communist!” He, too, could dish it out in the schoolyard with the best of them. A footnote of sorts: We youngsters were, I guess, blissfully unaware that Cuban Americans were the staunches anti-communists around.

Julio’s claim to lasting fame is what he wrote in various autograph books and yearbooks. He obliterated the get out the handkerchief and wipe away the tear’s sentiment with such classics as: “Roses are red, violets are blue. I hate you. You blowhorn!” A personal favorite: “To Ugly, have a bad time in high school.” Julio also called the aforementioned Carroll “Merrill,” paying homage to model Carol Merrill of Let’s Make a Deal fame.

If they even exist anymore, I can’t imagine what teens write in autograph books today. Are there virtual equivalents? Probably. The autograph books, though, from my day were signed by unique people with distinctive penmanship. Like so many things, cursive writing is a lost art. Me and Julio down by the schoolyard. Those were the days.