Prime Times: Snapshots from Three Indelible Decades

By Joe Murphy

It’s September 1961. Freshman Joe Murphy is just starting premed studies at Loyola’s Lake Shore campus in Chicago. There’re a lot on his mind besides biology and chemistry; he has to make friends, fit in and survive a long, daily commute on public transportation.

This humorous memoir tracks the author for three decades—through college, dating, marriage, kids and an eclectic writing career that starts with the Sears catalog. Next, he tries his luck at writing classroom films and junk mail before landing in an advertising agency. The work is stressful, the hours long and the egos colossal, but the ad biz is fun. And luckily, Joe has the staunch support of a wife who believes in him.

The young couple and their two toddlers move to the South, where Joe compiles a reel of TV commercials that gets him a job back in Chicago. Finally, he’s writing TV spots for national accounts. A dream come true? Not quite. Five years later, he hits the freelance trail, a route that leads to some bizarre assignments, quirky clients and baffling surprises. Looking back, was all his dreaming, scheming and striving worth it? One spirited episode after another will keep you guessing and laughing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532041457

Joe Murphy

Joe Murphy was born in 1979 in Co. Wexford, Ireland. In Enniscorthy Vocational College, he excelled at English, winning several awards and being shortlisted for Young Science Fiction Writer of the Year. Joe studied English at University College Dublin where he received 1st Class Hons and a scholarship to complete a Masters in Early Modern Drama. He went on to qualify as a secondary school teacher. Joe Murphy's ambitious debut novel "1798: Tomorrow the Barrow We’ll Cross" was published in 2011 by Liberties Press (Dublin) to excellent reviews: "epic novel of revolution", "a swashbuckling tale", "a cracking good read", "brilliantly researched and movingly written", "a gut wrenching and page turning story"… Muprhy’s second novel, Dead Dogs, was published by Liberties Press in September 2012 and launched by Arlene Hunt.

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Copyright © 2017 Joe Murphy.

Author Credits: Loyola University Chicago Archives and Special Collections.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4144-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4145-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902193

iUniverse rev. date:   06/26/2020

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1    Serious Learning Ahead

2    Better buckle down

3    Summer jobs

4    Stay with it

5    Don’t let up now

6    What next?

7    Brand new start

8    Sears Has Everything!

9    The great awakening

10    Leavin’ on a jet plane

11    The dating scene

12    Hocus focus

13    Movie magic

14    The times, they were a changin’

16    Somewhere west of Wieboldt’s

17    Just like downtown

18    The home front

19    Hell on wheels

20    Riding the rails

21    Ivory tower tales

22    On the road again

22    Good to be back

23    Why would I lie?

24    Aimless encounters

25    Freelancing

26   Brave new words

To my

brother Pat, who was always right there to help.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MANY GOOD PEOPLE TOOK THE time and trouble to help me with this book. Their comments and encouragement helped me stay on track and keep going. My brother Jim furnished careful proofreading, as did helpful friend, Kathy Bergee. Writer pals Jim O’Brien, Doug Smith and Dave Klaproth helped with content and style. Longtime friend John Kerrigan checked the veracity and sanity of my ramblings as well. Graphics maven Mike Figarelli contributed much to the cover design. I also want to thank Kathy Young and other staff members at Loyola University’s Cudahy Library in Chicago for their diligent fact checking. And last but not least, a mega Thank You to Tim Lee and Christina Sutherland, owners of TNT’s Coffee and Café in Madison, who put up with years of my visits as I dug through my memory while sipping dark roast. All of the stories that follow are true; those about home, family and education are easily verifiable. Others, relating to my career, describe events that actually happened. Names, dates and locations, however, have been changed to protect innocent and guilty parties and to keep me out of trouble.

INTRODUCTION

THREE DECADES IS A DAUNTING chunk of time to pack into one book, at least it is for me. But throwing caution to the wind, I’m taking a stab at it. The span of days between 1961 and 1990 took me from first-year college in Chicago to a job writing catalog pages in rural Wisconsin. Amazing history was made within that period: John Kennedy was assassinated, the civil rights movement surged ahead, oil embargoes brought grief to the gas pump. The Vietnam conflict escalated, Watergate erupted and the Berlin Wall was demolished. Then came war in Iraq. Fast-forward to right now. A firestorm of media bombards us with mindless tweets, false news and unrelenting reports of conflict and strife. Mercifully, a calming thought manages to cut through the flak now and then, bringing temporary relief. Maybe it’s a flashback to a favorite vacation, a line from a Beatles song or a catchy slang word you haven’t heard in decades. Scraps from the past like these don’t count for much in the grand scheme of things, but if one of them brings a ray of sunshine to a dark day it’s earned its keep in your memory. In this spirit I’d like to share a few choice moments from three unforgettable decades of my past.

This memoir picks up where my first book, Echoes In The Gangway, left off. On the last page I headed off to Loyola University in the fall of ’61. From that point on, my recollections continue until 1990, when my family and I moved from the Chicago area to rural Wisconsin. Of course, it would make sense to take a straight, chronological path through the years leading up the big move, but that approach would drive me nuts. So instead, I’ll forge ahead, sidetracked now and then by hot cars, pretty girls, photography and other welcome distractions. Hopefully, the episodes will make for pleasant reading, rekindle a few of your own happy memories and leave you with a good feeling.

When I was a carefree college freshman in 1961, the Vietnam war was still a few years off, but by the time I graduated, classmates of mine were sweating the draft. Just beyond the campus the real world was screaming for attention. It got harder and harder to ignore the mayhem out there. The Cuban missile crisis brought us to the brink of nuclear annihilation, and soon afterward friends of mine were heading to Southeast Asia to stop the spread of communism. The conflict, as the media called it, crept closer and closer to my safe little world. The nearest real threat to my wellbeing back then was the harrowing S-curve on Chicago’s Outer Drive. Halfway between home and Loyola, that sinuous stretch of concrete could be a car-crunching monster on icy mornings. And while college postponed my real-world education, it taught me to pay attention and persevere. Two Loyola highlights were playing intramural football and getting a couple of poems published in Cadence, the college literary magazine.

Still immune to reality after graduation, I took guitar lessons and started singing folk songs. Out in San Francisco, hippies were dropping acid and chanting peace and love, man. They tripped on LSD while American astronauts trekked the lunar sands. In 1968 I loved tooling around town in my new muscle car. Life after 5 p.m. was mellow, but my job was not going well. Sears had hired me as a catalog copywriter but I couldn’t type. I had to learn fast or get the axe. On a lighter note, Sears was teeming with nubile lovelies aplenty – Betty, Sue, Natasha and others. I managed to get a few dates while learning to type hunt-and-peck style on a manual typewriter. But writing catalog pages was not much fun and the job looked like a dead end.

I left Sears after 18 months and spent the next few years working at a mishmash of hack writing jobs. Those were rough-and-tumble times but they served as a springboard to happier days. I met a pretty girl named Mary who laughed at my jokes. We got married and were blessed with two delightful daughters. Mary made sure they took every kind of lesson known to man. We enjoyed their music recitals, ballet performances, ice-skating shows, baseball games and gymnastic meets. Like other young families, we faced hardships. One was surviving two years in our first house, a dilapidated wooden shack in Downers Grove, west of Chicago. A few years later we bought a nice old home in Oak Park that was still wired with its original 30-amp service. Using a hair dryer plunged us into darkness. But that place had potential and it was just a block from the train. Getting downtown to my job was a breeze.

I worked off and on at advertising agencies in the Loop for a decade, writing ads, radio commercials and TV spots. Finding new ways to sell things was challenging and fun. So was the variety of writing about everything from beer and frozen desserts to microphones and multiplexers. After ten years of agency work I went the freelance route, working out of my basement and taking on any writing job I could find. Mary shored up our cash flow by working at the local bank, then at the senior center and then at the hospital. We stayed in Oak Park for a dozen years. In nearby Chicago a black man was elected mayor and the Bears won Super Bowl XX. Mary and I had the house re-sided and the lawn re-sodded. We planted seven trees. Our place was starting to look good. In summer we enjoyed block parties, long walks and Shakespeare in the park. But after five years of self-employment, a pressing need for financial security steered me toward a job writing catalogs at Lands’ End, the mail order clothing outfit. It was 1990 and the company was all set to move its creative staff from Chicago to Dodgeville, Wisconsin. So my family and I pulled up roots, departed the Illinois flatlands and resettled in the land of beer, brats and cheese. A new chapter of our lives was beginning. Much more was yet to happen – maybe enough to fill another book – but I’ll worry about that later.

ONE

Road%20Sign-rev.jpg

"I have never let my schooling

interfere with my education."

– Mark Twain

WHAT A VIEW! I BLURTED as we cruised north on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive. It was late August 1961. My cousin Mike was at the wheel. We were incoming freshman headed up to Loyola University for our first day of orientation week. The passing scenery was new to me and everything looked exciting – the hairpin S curve at Grand Avenue, the shoreline bordering Lincoln Park, Montrose Beach, the elegant Edgewater Beach Hotel. A long sweeping curve ended at Sheridan Road, where we turned right. From there it was a short scoot to Loyola’s Lake Shore campus.

Every freshman received an orientation packet that included a map of the campus showing where all the buildings were located. With my lousy sense of direction I found it quite helpful. I knew Lake Michigan was east. The Cudahy Library sat right on its shore, so spotting that building set my internal compass. On our first day of orientation Mike and I walked over to check it out. Sitting at a table near the shore, we enjoyed a refreshing view of Lake Michigan tinted deep blue by the late-summer sky.

Throughout orientation week we listened to speaker after speaker. They extolled the value of a college education and lauded Loyola grads that had gone on to enjoy distinguished careers. Most of this stuff bored the hell out of me, but a few of the speeches – those that were delivered outside – were easier to take. We freshmen sat on bleachers set up alongside the gym. Above us El trains trundling north and south rumbled past. Talking about our future contributions to mankind, a late-afternoon speaker suggested that one of us might discover a way to silence noisy commuter trains. Another lecturer asked us to look at the people sitting to our right and left. Before fours years are up, both of those people will be gone, he stated. Only one in three of you will graduate. Thanks for the encouraging words! I thought, wondering if I had the brains and guts to make it all the way through.

The Beanie Bounce

At the end of orientation week, we freshmen were invited to the Beanie Bounce, a mixer held at the student union to help us newbie guys and gals get better acquainted. Throughout the prior week, we’d all worn little beanie caps on campus. Now, on Saturday night, it was time to shed this silly headgear. I hopped a ride up to the event with cousin Mike. Entering, I heard the husky voice of Brook Benton singing "Shadrach Meshach and Abednego" blaring from the PA system. It was the same song I’d heard in the union throughout the week. At the door, Mike and I wrote our names on the insides of our caps. There were two bins. Girls tossed their beanies into one bin; guys threw theirs into the other. Each girl drew a guy’s beanie; each guy drew a girl’s beanie. We were supposed to find the person whose cap we’d drawn. Mike and I separated as we set out to find our beanie mates. I asked several girls for their names, but none had the name I was looking for. What a waste of time! I abandoned my search and danced with a couple of coeds before bumping into my cousin. We went outside for some air and decided to head back to the South Side. A quarter century later, I was referred to a naprapathic physician in Chicago named Rosita Arvigo. After a few sessions, our conversation took a turn toward college days. The doctor said she had been a freshman at Loyola Lakeshore in the fall of ’61 and had enjoyed the Beanie Bounce. I told her that I was there as well. Who knows? she said, we may have danced together.

The right attitude

Despite my lackluster pre-college grades, I knew from an early age that higher education was the ticket to success. An early TV sitcom painted a rosy picture of high school that I loved. Entitled Trouble With Father, the show focused on a fumbling high school principal played by Stu Irwin. Each week he faced some minor crisis that he managed to survive with help from his understanding wife and two lively daughters. All the characters were clean cut and likeable. I was in first grade but I wanted to go to the high school where that nice man was in charge. A few years later I got similar feelings while strolling the spectacular campus at the University of Notre Dame; my Uncle Mike had taken me with him on a summer retreat. Besides the religious lectures there were trees, shrubs and winding paths – even a small lake. It was glorious. And enhancing this idyllic scene was the Irish Catholic tradition of Notre Dame football. The Fighting Irish always had a great team. I knew ND was for rich kids, but the atmosphere on campus made me feel that college would be worth a shot.

All through my four years at Leo High School the Irish Christian Brothers urged us kids to make a habit of buckling down to study, especially if we wanted to go to college. Avoid distractions! Stay focused! they told us. Even back in grammar school the Sisters of Providence stressed the importance of good study habits. As a college freshman I had not yet taken their sound advice to heart. The profs at Loyola expected us to show up for class and keep up with the required reading. Tests were infrequent but covered oceans of material. Staying with it required good time management.

Union man

The student union at Lake Shore was a modest, one-story affair. From the front it looked like it had been excised from an old strip mall. Entering it for the first time, I was surprised at its deep interior, where scores of long tables were arranged just far enough apart to allow access. Each table was home base for a particular group of students, mostly commuters like me. The scene was very territorial. The kids occupying a certain table always sat at that table. You couldn’t encroach on their home turf. On a couple of occasions I tried without success to invade their space. Striking up a conversation was impossible; the table’s regulars were engrossed in their own concerns. Getting the cold shoulder at lunchtime did not aid my digestion. Luckily, the union included an annex to one side called the Rambler Room, where the atmosphere was more democratic. You could sit at an empty table without feeling like a trespasser. And if you found room at an occupied table, the folks were pleasant and welcoming. I might spot my commuter pal, John Kerrigan, at a table playing poker with a group of guys. Knowing zip about cards, I never joined in these games. Besides, sitting through a long card game struck me as a boring waste of time. I opted to study at the library or take a hike.

The union’s speaker system was set on permanent LOUD! Entering the building I could almost count on hearing Brooke Benton singing, "Well, there were three children from the land of Israel, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego…." A counter at the far end sold sandwiches and coffee. It was lousy coffee but it was hot and a cup only cost a dime. When the vendor raised the price from 10 to 11 cents it caused an uproar. Students picketed the building and an article in the campus newspaper made the price hike sound like a major felony. After a week or two of boycotting and strife, the coffee concession caved in and rolled back the price to an affordable dime a cup.

On bitter-cold mornings getting from the Loyola El stop to the student union was a bone-chilling trek. Ignoring my mom’s advice, I braved the elements bare-knuckled and hatless. I hadn’t yet shed the notion that hats and gloves were for wimps. With a pile of books under one arm and my ears stinging, I waited at the stoplight on Sheridan Road, possibly the longest in the world. On any given morning the lengthy wait was annoying. On a sub-zero morning it was an eternity. When the WALK sign finally appeared I strode briskly across Sheridan Road and onto the Loyola campus. Passing the Alumni Gym, my shoes crunched crisply on the cinder running track as I hiked toward the union. Entering that building, the instant warmth felt wonderful, even though my thawing fingernails ached. I headed straight for the rear counter for a warming jolt of java in a paper cup.

Sharper focus

College demanded much more reading than I was ready for, and the small print in some textbooks was straining my eyes. A page in my history book turned so blurry it looked like I was seeing through shimmering Jell-O. My left eye had always been weak, but now the right one was faltering. I told Dad about it and he took me to an optometrist for an eye exam – the first one of my life. I learned that my right eye was 20/20 and my left one was 20/400 (legally blind). Following the docs’s suggestion, I was fitted with a single contact lens for my left eye. I figured it was better than sporting a monocle.

Better vision improved my outlook on everything. I started studying in the Cudahy Library. Huge and cavernous, it intimidated me at first, but before long I became a frequent visitor. That library was filled with row after row of long wooden tables. Their reddish hue and soft sheen had a calming effect on me. I could sit and study for an hour or two before needing a break. Then I might go outside and skip stones into Lake Michigan. Focusing on one subject for a while, then switching to another worked best for me. Trying to stay with one textbook for too long made me groggy. Occasionally I’d fold my arms on the table, lower my head and fall asleep. But before long, an elderly security guard would tap me on the shoulder to remind me: You can’t sleep in the library, he’d whisper apologetically. Cudahy Library was the perfect place to write essays for my freshman rhetoric course. Knowing that only minutes remained before class began provided miraculous inspiration. I liked my teacher, Mr. Cavanaugh, a pleasant young fellow with a dry sense of humor. And I liked that girl with the chestnut hair who sat behind me.

Easy come, easy go

Forty-five bucks a week was a sweet deal. I was well into my first semester at Loyola and still getting a weekly $45 Workman’s Compensation check. I’d been hit by a truck in June while delivering groceries on a bicycle and it was now October. My employer’s insurance company had been generous, and I had taken advantage of their largesse by buying all kinds of cool stuff, including a gorgeous Durst photo enlarger from Italy. In the basement I developed rolls of black-and-white film and made blowups of family members, friends and neighbors, cars with fins, airplanes at Midway Airport – even the tiny figurines on Mom’s bric-à-brac rack in the parlor. Unfortunately, Dad felt that my compensation checks were a bit stingy. He phoned the insurance company and voiced a complaint. Their claims adjuster was astonished to learn that I was out of the hospital and still getting paid. Dad’s call put a stop to the stream of ready cash I’d grown accustomed to. But in his own words, Nobody gives you anything for nothing in this world.

Duh!

As a freshman I wondered what made some kids in my classes so damned smart. They asked questions and joined in class discussions. Some of them quoted Shakespeare and Henry David Thoreau. How could they know all this crap at age 18? When they spoke up I sat there feeling like a dunce. I wondered if there might be a course I could take that covered just the names of authors and the titles of their works. Knowing that much might help me fake it for a while – until I could catch up on my reading.

I was amazed at how these brainiac kids could keep so many balls in the air at once. They had such a constant supply of mental energy. How did they keep their batteries charged? Sometimes I’d catch snippets of their conversation: Heading for Milwaukee? You bet! We’re debating Marquette. See ya Monday. Hey, I heard you’re in the musical. "Yeah – we’re doing Little Mary Sunshine!" Good for you, I thought, wondering how these kids ever found time to sleep.

After a winter of commuting it was obvious to me that dorm dwellers enjoyed advantages that were not in the cards for kids like me. They were tuned in to the moods of various profs – what they’d be likely to ask on upcoming tests and when they were apt to give pop quizzes. Dormies had easy access to the library and more time to get at books that were on reserve for classes. And beyond that they didn’t have to brave slippery roads and freezing sleet trying to reach school. They didn’t get stuck waiting for delayed El trains. They didn’t have to worry about their bladders holding out until they got to school, let alone to class. The fraternity boys enjoyed special perks too, like access to the storied frat files (a rich source of papers covering every academic field) from which to borrow.

Pipe dreams

On a September evening in our freshman year Mike and I were browsing at Sears when we lost each other. Suddenly I smelled a delicious aroma coming from the nearby tobacco counter. A young salesman had just opened a can of pipe tobacco for a customer. Hmm … I asked if I could take whiff; my wish was granted. I inhaled. Ahhh! What a wonderful aroma, rich and robust, with notes of oak and cherry. The salesman suggested that I buy a small pouch of the blend and sample it. Sure, but first I’d need a pipe, I told him. He gestured toward a display rack at the end of the counter stocked with pipes aplenty.

I chose one made of reddish burled wood with a curved neck and added it to my tobacco purchase. Riding home with Mike I pictured myself sitting in the Rambler Room at Loyola, casually puffing away. Everyone would see me as a bright, mature young fellow – probably working toward some advanced degree. In reality, I was a 17-year-old kid and pretty young for my age. My lungs were on the mend following the accident I’d had a few months earlier. And my knowledge about smoking was zilch. I didn’t even realize that smokers inhaled smoke down into their lungs.

My fantasy that smoking a pipe made me look mature and sophisticated lasted only a few weeks – until Dad discovered my pipe. I got up one morning, dressed and grabbed a couple of ballpoint pens. Something’s missing, I thought. My pipe! I asked Mom if she’d seen it. Your pipe? Well, I’m afraid that’s gone, she answered softly. Your father took it to work with him. He took it to work? Why? I demanded to know. He’s giving it to a friend, a pipe smoker, she said. John and I both think smoking will hurt your lungs. I made a loud stink that woke up two of my brothers and left for school in a huff.

My mind was set on buying a new pipe, but with so much happening so fast, I never got around to it. My thoughts were focused on textbook details galore: barbarian tribes of medieval Europe, the life cycle of a mosquito and the P’s and Q’s of symbolic logic. There was one big distraction however – an automotive design contest sponsored by Chevrolet. I had only a few weeks to finish the model car I was building and send it in.

Highway to Heaven

This is unbelievable! I thought. My little roadster might win first place! I was seated at the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild awards ceremony in Detroit. The model sports car I’d built for this General Motors competition had made it to the finals. With luck I could win a $5,000 college scholarship! I’d taken a Greyhound bus to Detroit for the event and found myself in a fancy hotel seated amid a sea of tables occupied by finalists from several age categories.

As the winners were announced, photos of the cars they’d built appeared on a huge screen above the speaker’s platform. One by one, kids from the junior divisions walked up and accepted their trophies and scholarships. Finally, it was time to announce the winners in the senior division open category, the one I’d entered. The third place award went to skinny fellow from Oklahoma. He’d entered an angular little coupe with dashing, dart-like styling. Wow! A sharp pang of jealousy stabbed me in the gut. And now it was down to just me and a guy from Oregon for first place. His name was called next; he got second place. I froze! Did I win first? There must be some mistake! I gawked at the screen showing his curvy convertible with cool, scooped-out doors and sleek mini-fins. My car beat that? I was so excited that I didn’t hear my name announced. Hey, that’s you! the kid sitting next to me said. Go up and get your award! I wobbled toward the speaker’s platform on rubber legs. The president of General Motors handed me a gilded trophy resembling the rocket hood ornament from an Oldsmobile. Shaking my hand, he smiled and said, Congratulations, young man, you can’t sleep in here! Can’t sleep? Can’t sleep? I felt an insistent tap on my shoulder. You can’t sleep in here! No sleeping in the library! What? I gasped. Lifting my head from the study table, I saw an elderly security guard standing over me. His wake-up call brought my dream to a screeching halt. I sat up straight, slid my zoology textbook toward me and looked up at the clock. Uh-oh, I had barely enough time to make it to class.

Truth be told

My interest in building a model dream car started when the Craftsman’s Guild’s national award ceremony was televised one summer night in the mid-fifties. I was probably ten years old at the time. Clicking from channel to channel, Dad settled on that broadcast, and we watched it together. Model car builders aged 12 through 19 were winning college scholarships. Shown up-close and rotating on mini-turntables, the winning entries took my breath away. It was hard for me to imagine that kids – even teenagers – could be skilled enough to build cars like that. Over the next few years I constructed lots of models, some of my own design. Then, propelled by a sudden surge of energy in my senior year of high school, I decided to give the car-building contest a shot. I picked up an info packet at a nearby Chevrolet dealer, took it home and got to work. I made it as far as the clay model stage before getting hit by a truck and spending my summer in the hospital. Then the project hit a second major detour when I started college and had to really hit the books. Before long, the deadline for completion was just two months away. I’d have to work like hell to transform my car from clay into wood, paint it and ship it off for judging.

I bought a block of poplar, traced my car’s profile onto it and took it over to the woodshop at nearby Foster Park. The kindly old man in charge cut out the car’s outline on a band saw. Progress. After a few weekend sessions with wood chisels and gouges, my car was shaping up nicely. Then came semester exams; time to hit the books. Thoughts of styling details were replaced by the study of unicellular critters in zoology, conundrums in symbolic logic and writing a final essay for my rhetoric class. Unattended, my little car coasted slowly to the junkyard of forgotten dreams. Maybe its rough-hewn body is still parked in a dark corner of a cabinet in the woodshop at Foster Park.

Education from the Jesuits

The Jesuits at Loyola taught classes in all areas – from English Lit to physics, but they required full-time students to take a theology course every semester. Theology classes were only two credit hours each, but after four years that added up to 16 hours, a full semester load. And though they weren’t overly stimulating, these courses expanded my knowledge of Catholicism. I wanted to learn more about the Bible because Mother Church did not stress The Good Book in her teaching. Instead, she relied on church-approved volumes like the Baltimore Catechism. I remembered readings from Matthew, Mark and Luke at Sunday Mass, but not much else. So learning more about the New Testament was fulfilling. And I thought St. John’s Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were a hoot; they’d look great thundering across the screen in Cinemascope. I wondered which stars Hollywood would have cast to play their parts. Maybe Charlton Heston, Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas