"Saturday's Child Has Far To Go"MARY ELIZABETH BLACK

The courthouse square of our town isalways crowded on summer Saturdaynights. Cars are wedged neatly around thefour sides of the square in every availableparking place, the shops and groceries areablaze with lights, and horns honk wildlyas little children dash across the streets tojoin their friends in playing tag on thecourthouse lawn. As one makes one's waythrough the crowd, women with bundlesof all sizes and shapes and grocery bagswith celery peeping out of the tops jostleone from all sides. Farmers dressed infaded overalls and toddlers licking icecream cones bump elbows with girls in too-short skirts and soldiers in from the near-by camp. Everyone seems in a great hurryto go nowhere, except the teen-age boysand girls, whose destination is well-known.

In every town there is a rendezvousfor the younger set, where they meet onSaturday nights. In our town it is "Pop's."The boldly-winking red neon sign and thesound of Harry James' trumpet blaringabove the din of the crowd make the placeunmistakable as one walks toward it downthe street. Then is seen the gleaming plateglass windows on which is written "S. J.Papadakos' Confectionery." Lolling infront of the door, looking at the array ofcandies and nuts or, more often than nothooting and whistling at the passers-by,are groups of boys in soiled cords, clod-hopper shoes and bright plaid shirts.

One has to elbow through this crowdto gain the entrance. Just inside the dooris the soda fountain and its fascinating dis-play of metal spigots. Opposite is thecandy counter. The rest of the availablespace is taken up by booths and white-topped tables, with a small space left in

front of the gaily-colored juke box wherecouples are dancing in a close proximityof heat and noise and smoke. The light isdim, coming from soft yellow and greenlamps placed along the side of the room.The walls are painted in faded scenes,comparable to those on a calendar sent outby a mail-order house. Alternate withthese pictures are mirrors on which areplastered "Try Our Sundaes-15c," or"How About a Luscious Malt-20c?" Abovethe strains of "Cow-Cow Boogie" corne therattle of dishes, the sharp ring of glasses.nnd the dull metallic clink of silverware.There is a monotonous undertone of talk-ing, broken by loud laughter and, now andthen, a piercing shriek.

And everywhere, sitting with theirfeet propped up in the booths or leaningon the juke box or dancing on the postage-stamp floor are boys and girls in red, yel-low, or bright green sweaters.

Sitting in the corner with a crowd ofboys listening eagerly to her every word,and siping daintily at a coke, is Jill, the"glamour girl" of the crowd. She wearsonly Station wagon sweaters in soft pastelsand would walk all over town to get a hairribbon to match them exactly. She wouldn'tthink of wearing anything but Pancakemakeup, and her collection of turquoiseIndian bracelts reaches from her wrist toher elbow and is the envy of every girlin town. She wears her hair long anddrooping over one eye like Veronica Lake.Her pet peeve is not wearing lipstick and

nail polish to match.Standing aloof to the crowd surround-

ing Jill is the football hero of the town,Johnny. He talks avidly to old Steve, the \proprietor, of how Tony Hinkle's team beat

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the great Notre Dame, nonchalantly tryingto appear unconscious of the admiringglances of all the girls. He knows he canget a date with any of them. A lettersweater with padded shoulders is his bait.His language is full of "T-formations,""blocked kicks," and, most of all, Johnny.The least of Johnny's worries is the factthat he usually flunks all his courses.

From the dance floor, Judy's voicecan be heard above the blare of the music,as she tries to attract Johnny's attention.He is her idol and Frank Sinatra herideal. Judy has the dirtiest pair of saddleshoes in town and the largest number ofautographs on her Panda bear. Her petraves, next to Johnny and "Frankie" areSonny Tufts and Helmut Dantine. Judycan always be found here on the dancefloor at Pops learning the latest jitterbugsteps with Joe.

Joe is the best dancer in the town,meaning he can do the most contortions.He is never seen without his little red andgreen cap perched precariously on theback of his head. With a total disregard forEsquire, he wears Argyle sweaters andcovered with painted names and slangexpressions, and on a very conspicuousspot, is a bright red patch. Joe dotes onboogie woogie and Harry James - and,Incidentauv, doesn't think Harry did sobad when he got Betty Grable.

This is the future generation ofAmerica. In these seemingly aimless handslies the destiny of the greatest nation onearth. All over America, in 'places justlike "Pops", they congregate and laughand smile and dance. But are they asworthless as they seem? They have theirown lines of slang, their own special likesand dislikes. They want fun and lovecrowds and people. But they are simplynormal and human and healthy, just asAmerica is normal and human and healthy.

Yes, this is what they are today, but whatwill they be tomorrow?

Five years ago on every Saturday night"Pops" was filled with a similar group.They did "Susie Q" to the tune of "FlatFoot Floogie" or dreamed to the strains of"I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart." TheJill of that day wore a tight sweater witha triangular scarf knotted around her neck.She clumped about in wooden shoes andhad her hair done in page boy a la GingerRogers. The Judys five years ago sighedover Nelson Eddy and Tyrone Power, andover the football hero of the crowd whostrutted around with his varsity letter justas Johnny does now. And another Joeargued avidly over the relative merits ofBenny Goodman and Artie Shaw.

Today that Joe is lying face down inthe swamps of Guadalcanal, and the swingmusic that once rang in his ears is sup-planted by the drone of an occasional scoutplane as it flies over the remants of thebattlefield. And Johnny is leading hissquadron in nightly attacks against FortressEurope, and is wearing medals instead ofletters. Loud-mouthed, good-natured Judyis working twelve hours a day - no longerin saddle shoes but in' nurses' oxfords. Jillhas settled down to one man, an armylieutenant, and has exchanged her vaindreams of wealth and position for hopesand beliefs in their future together.

And when that future comes theJudys and the Johnnys of today will provetheir worth just as the Jills and Joes ofyesterday have done. And five years fromnow, 'on Saturday nights, a new group ofboys and girls in just as bright clothes willpack "Pops". They will lean on the coun-ters and sip cokes and talk and laugh andsmoke and dance on the crowded floor asthe juke box sends forth some popularsong of tomorrow. And life will go on asusual in our town.

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