The Greatest Stories Never Told

(as best as we can remember them)


Join the four of us,  Marc and Darlene Glaze Jennings,  Tom Kender and Ed Stout as we remember our years at Fairview High School in Dayton, Ohio in the 60's. We'll share our stories and we want to hear yours as well.

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All of the authors' current stories are on this page, to see
previous stories please go to the Archive page 

Marc Jennings
  Darlene Glaze Jennings
Ed Stout
Tom Kender


Some of our favorite music, videos, places and quotes

Fairview HS Website


The AXE Horn Signal


John Milner
"American Graffiti"
Re: "The Beach Boys

I don't like that surfin' shit. Rock and roll's been going down hill ever since Buddy Holly died.



WING Song of the Day

(In the interest of only providing real and honest information ..we provide you with the real words to "Louie , Louie"

"Louie, Louie"
by "The Kingsmen"

Pending Requests

From: Marc
To:   Darlene
"Never Be Anyone Else But You" by Ricky Nelson

From:Darlene (shyly)
To: Mike Levitt
Song: "I wanna hold your hand" by "The Beatles"

From: Marc
To:  "The Girls of Meadowdale"
"Let's Have A Party" by Wanda Jackson

From: Marc Jennings
To:  Scott Kelso
 "Bread and Butter" by the Newbeats

From: Darlene
To:  Someone Special
Song:  "To Know him is  to Love Him"

From:  Sonny
:  Cher
: "I got you babe"




     Past Requests

From:FHS, MD and Julienne Girls
To: Tommy Boy
"I Get Around"by "The Beach Boys"

From:  Marc
:  Darlene in Georgia
: "Gee Whiz"


As a tribute to Bob Holiday of the greatest AM radio station in the 60's WING...we now have our dedication line open. If you have a favorite song or want to make a dedication, simply type it in below and we'll  make it our song of the day

Song Title







By  Darlene Glaze Jennings

When growing up, the two biggest things in our young lives were going to school and summer vacation. We could not wait for that first day, and we could not wait for that last day. We always got out sometime around the first week of June, and went back in the first week of September. I can still remember getting our school books and writing the date in them; maybe September 8, and looking to see who had the books before me. In grade school at Loos, the last day was a couple of long hours in the morning. I took my younger brother Lloyd with me. He was five years younger, so this was a thrill for me, especially in my younger years—to take him and “show him off”—he was so cute!  

The days of summer would begin with such excitement and anticipation; it seemed we would have forever to do whatever we wanted. In the late 50’s and early 60’s childhood was a lot different than now. Most of us had the run of the whole neighborhood and beyond. Most of my friends, Carole, Glenda and Sharon all lived a few blocks away. Walking or riding our bikes to each others’ house was second nature to us. We could even go to Northtown Shopping Center and Forest Park Plaza in the latter years. My Mother always knew where I was going at all times, but there was never any concern if I made it there or not. We all just knew when to be home, 5 o’clock for dinner.

Girl’s lives were different from the boys in the neighborhood, a fact of life. We were not trying to see what devilish things we could come up with, we were not trying to set fire to or blow up something—or even hang out down by the Stillwater River. Oh no, our lives were much tamer. Playing records, playing duets on the piano, maybe learning a new dance, talking about boys, walking around—trying to find out where those boys might be! A big treat was walking up to Burger Chef behind Loos School and buying our lunch, feeling so grown up and on our own at age 12 or 13! Which is just what we girls wanted to do—grow up and have that teen life we had seen in those Gidget movies.

Most of us got to go swimming, but only when our mothers could take us. I went to Miller’s Grove with the freezing water and the bumpy cement bottom. On certain summer holidays we would be taken to Trotwood…a million miles away. Later in my young teen years I would go to Philips Pool, owned by Mike Schmidt’s grandparents. So our summer days were long, it seemed. We had the time to do whatever our hearts desired, with a few chores thrown in to keep us “responsible” I guess. But then, after our long “languid” days of summer passed, we began thinking of school again. We all knew who our teacher would be, that info was given to us on the last day of school. The biggest thrill was that our best friend would be with us—the deepest disappointment was that they would not.

As the middle of August neared the excitement began to build for me, and I am guessing for many other girls. It would soon be time for all of us to be back together again uh, and yes to see those boys again, who had remained so elusive all summer! The biggest back to school ritual for me in grade school was going downtown to Rikes. Every August they would have their big “Back to School” sale on Spalding shoes. Now I only wore these shoes in grade school; high school was another story. I can remember walking up Carol Avenue to the bus stop at Redwood and Kathleen, the mode of transportation to downtown Dayton. I usually had a friend with me in the later years, my Mother when I was younger. Yes, we all had the freedom to go downtown on our own. We would be dropped off in front of Rikes, eight floors of merchandise wonder. I think the Shoe Department was on the 4th or 6th floor, one would think I could remember it better than my own name, but I don’t. Once I got to the shoe department, there they were! Saddles, loafers and white bucks! Wow, so beautiful, so perfect, would they have my size? I always HAD to get the black and white saddles with red rubber sole, the staple of grade school footwear. They would be brought out, tissue paper pulled aside to try on. I would take a pair of bobby socks to try them on. Yes they were perfect, I’ll take them! I would also get a pair of loafers, looking forward to actually putting a penny in them. And yes, I’ll take a pair of white bucks with their little powder Bunny bag to keep them white. So with purchases in hand, school fever was taking over. Remember, Rikes would also deliver anything you purchased if you wanted, and it would be the next day! I never wanted to do that, they were mine now; I just had to carry them home!

Once home my shoes were put upstairs in a hallway closet, to await the first day of school. At least once a day I would go up there and look at them; try them on. This is the memory that is the most vivid to me: taking the boxes off of the shelf, sitting down on the floor and opening them up. As I pulled the tissue paper away I would get the wonderful smell of new leather, Mm, Mm, Mm; I can smell it now. I would try them on and walk up and down the hallway. Oh yes, can’t wait for school to begin!

When I entered Fairview High School, the saddles fashion faded away, we wore hose and skirts every day! My gosh, I cannot believe it now. As I entered Miami University, dress became a little more casual, didn’t go the Hippie route, but more casual indeed. Then came the fall of my Sophomore year. Lo and Behold, there sitting in a class with me was a girl wearing a pair of Spalding saddles (yes I could spot them a mile away). She was wearing knee socks and a short wool skirt. Wow, I thought, I want me some Spalding’s too, once again! Shortly after that I went home for the weekend and headed down to Rikes, 4th or 6th floor. There on display were my saddles. I was a bit disappointed that they only had brown and white, but I took them. The following Monday I was wearing my saddles, knee socks, John Meyer or Villager wool skirt and sweater. Wow! The compliments were flying, the “Oh, where did you get those?” the “Oh, I remember my saddles, I loved them.” My accounting professor saying, “I like your Rah Rahs.” I think he meant my shoes.

I wore my saddles to death, eventually just wearing them with jeans at Miami, when I was becoming less concerned about my wardrobe and just concerned about getting to class. Life moved fast after that; marriage, kids, moving, at one point settling in Louisville, where our kids went to high school. I was wearing my saddles to mow the lawn, paint the picket fence, any labor that required a sturdy old shoe, an old friend. The soles never wore down much, but the stitching began to come undone. I guess I eventually threw them away. Still can’t believe I did. I can hardly ever throw a pair of shoes away.

The years have passed, but not the memory of my saddles. Searching the Internet for Spalding’s, contacting the company, going to EBay, but to no avail. Maybe a few out there, size 6, but not an 8. There is a company called Muffy’s Shoes that makes new shoes, a close second to Spalding’s, but at $99. I didn’t think I could really do that one. I finally gave up the obsession, only wishing I had not thrown my last pair away.

We have lived here, outside of Atlanta for more than 9 years. Most weekends we head out on day trips to little towns within a 50 mile radius. One of our favorite towns is Monroe, Georgia, 30 miles southwest of us. This town has it all, a great restaurant, antique shops, a courthouse with the Confederate Soldier out front. We feel we belong when we go there. One Saturday last spring we headed into town, passing a sign that said “Church Sale.” We passed by it when I said, “Hey, let’s check it out”, although not usually going to those sales. As we pulled up into the parking lot, men were hauling tables out of the building, the sale was ending. As we stopped I thought maybe we should just forget it, but we got out and Marc started helping the men move the tables. I walked into the building, seeing everything boxed up, stuff that did not sell, maybe to be saved for the next one. “Come on in,” they said, “see if you want anything.” I poked around, digging in the boxes, finding a book and a vase. There just wasn’t much left, I thought. Marc was still helping the men remove racks and tables so I continued to poke and move things around in the boxes. Something caught my eye—could it be—red soles, Yes! There in a box was a pair of nearly new, no, brand new brown and tan saddles! I think they are called Soap and Saddle. I pulled them out, staring at them, they looked small but I had to put my foot in one. Yes, Cinderella, they fit! They were made by Striderite but as close to a Spalding as I have seen in over 40 years. I tried them both on, they fit. Here on my feet was what I had been looking for – forever! Marc walked in and I showed them to him, he was stunned, too. He had done a lot of internet searching too. “They fit, OMG,” I told him. We almost didn’t come here, we almost didn’t get out of the car, and I almost did not bother to look around. I took my 3 items up to the ladies taking the money, $1 for the book and vase and 50 cents for the shoes—aghhhhhh! We gave them more; so thrilled to have found my saddles.

I know to most of the guys reading this and maybe to some of the women, it might not mean too much. But I just bet there are some of you reading this who have that one favorite article of clothing you had, or shoes you wore, that you wished you still had. All I can say is, don’t give up. This site is about our memories, and this is one of my favorite ones, and yes—my shoe obsession has only grown.

If you would like to leave a comment about Darlene's  Stories, please go to our  "Comments Page"



Music Part II: Concerts

By Marc Jennings

As a teenager I was interested in all kinds of music, but I loved rock and roll. One day during the summer before eighth grade I was looking at record albums downtown, at Mayors, when I saw “Little Richard’s Greatest Hits”, and bought it. I played this album for hours at a time. It was so raw, so wild; the beat, the saxophones, the pounding piano, Little Richard crying, “Lucille, please come back where you belong”, or “Good Golly, Miss Molly, sure like to ball, when you’re rockin’ and rollin’, can’t hear your mama call”. I knew every word and note of these songs. I wished I could dance to them. I wished I could perform them. I wished I could see Little Richard sing them in person.

My fascination with music continued throughout high school, and I was not alone. We had a three person music fan club: Mike Overly, Dave Todd and me. I guess you could say we were serious students of music. It was one thing that bound us together. We studied it, we critiqued it, we marveled at it when it was good and we mocked it when it didn’t meet our standards. We were well informed and connoisseurs of the best music. When something new came along we quickly evaluated it.

It was only natural that when an artist that we admired came to Dayton, we went to see them. Our first opportunity to do this was probably the strangest. In 1963, we saw an ad in the paper for an appearance of Jerry Lee Lewis. In the early 60’s many of the best rock and roll performers of the 50’s were no longer popular. This included Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis, “The Killer”. In addition to his music being out of style, Jerry Lee had married his 13 year old cousin in 1957, after which he was pretty much an outcast from the music business. But Mike, Dave and I loved his music and didn’t much care who he was married to.

Jerry Lee was performing on a Sunday afternoon, at what turned out to be a bar on West Third Street. I don’t remember how we got there, but we paid our money and walked into the place. The bar was OK as a bar, I guess, but a pretty strange place for a concert. Walking through the front door you saw a very long and narrow room. The bar was on the left and the room was no wider than fifteen feet. At the far end of the room, right next to the back door, was a tiny stage with just enough room on it for an upright piano and a chair.

Mike, Dave and I arrived early and we took seats right in front of the stage so we could get a good view of the performance. This was almost a mistake. It didn’t dawn on us at the time, since we had never seen a live performance of a music celebrity, but there was no band to back up Jerry Lee. However, they had managed to amplify this old piano somehow and the big speakers were just a few feet from our faces. The crowd was hard to identify. There were mostly people older than us, but it was a Sunday afternoon and there was no drinking so it was pretty subdued. When Jerry Lee Lewis made his appearance, he just walked in the front door and through the room like he was going back to get a coke. The crowd just watched him; no applause, shouting or anything. Either the crowd was very polite, or hung over from Saturday night.

Jerry Lee walked to the stage, stepped up and sat on the chair in front of the piano. He didn’t say a thing; no introduction, banter with the audience or anything. He just put his hands on the keyboard, and instantly, that weird Sunday afternoon in a bar on West Third Street became old-time rock and roll hell on wheels:

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain,
too much love drives a man insane.
You broke my will, but what a thrill,
Goodness gracious, Great Balls of Fire!”

Today, I suppose we expect music to be really loud, even in our cars. But in 1963 it was a shock when Jerry Lee started pounding those 88 keys like they were an ugly step-child. It was loud and it was rocking and we had never heard anything like it. There was not a vinyl record in the universe that could come anywhere close to duplicating the singing and music we were hearing and feeling. It hurt my ears at first, but soon, the only sensation was that pounding music. It was one hell of a show, and there weren’t any lights or fireworks or smoke or big screens or rain coming down on the stage or any other show business effects. It was just Jerry Lee Lewis, singing and playing his piano, one song after another. He did them all and when it was over he thanked the audience, got up and walked out. We were all stunned, like shell-shocked. He had left us floating down from rock and roll land and by the time we came to, he was gone. Never in my life, before or since, have I experienced a music event quite like that. We were so close we could have leaned over and taken Jerry Lee’s wallet from his pocket, yet we didn’t say a word to him, didn’t ask him for an autograph. By the time we thought of it, he was probably back in Ferriday, Louisiana.....Click here to continue reading


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By Ed Stout

Halloween is approaching and it has caused me to think back on my glory Halloween days. In other words, this was a 3-year span between the time when I was 10 until I was 13 years old. During these years, I had reached the point where I was fully into the spirit of the season and had come up with some ideas on how to maximize its benefits. The Halloween season was all about two things: candy and trickery.

October 30, the night before Halloween, was referred to as “beggar’s night,” a term that as far as I know was unique to Dayton, Ohio. That of course was the night that all of us goblins went from door to door in an effort to garner as much candy as possible in a two hour or so time span. My motto was start early and finish late.

In order to fully participate in beggar’s night, one had to have some type of costume. I always wore the same one: old clothes and hat and black face. Old clothes weren’t a problem and since men wore hats in those days, one could always come up with an old brim hat. The only expense involved in my costume was the black face. This was solved by shoe polish. If we didn’t have any at the house, I had to fork over 29 cents for a can of Kiwi or Esquire. Then I’d apply generous portions to my face, wash my hands and I was on my way. The area I covered was either side of North Main Street near the North Town Shopping Center. I did not use a “trick or treat bag.” Instead, my mother was kind enough to give me one of her pillow cases. Again, my goal was to maximize benefits and a pillow case could hold a lot of candy.

We did not walk from door to door, we ran, in an effort to cover the most ground in the shortest possible time. There were some apartment complexes in the area and one would think that these would be a great way to maximize efforts. Maybe yes, and maybe no. Some apartment dwellers were either not home or refused to answer the door. In such cases, the regular single family house neighborhoods were the places to be. I do, however, remember one apartment complex that I got to a little after 6 p.m. One of the residents had placed a big bag of Butterfingers next to the apartment door. On the bag they had painted a sign that read, “Take one.” That year I finished my last Butterfinger while watching the Cotton Bowl on New Year’s Day.

During that three year, four Halloween span, I never did fill one of my mother’s pillow cases with candy but I came close. I carried some pretty heavy loads of candy back to our house after I’d finished my beggar’s night spree. Looking back on it, I’m pretty sure my dentist is happy about my diligent Halloween efforts (I think I’ve put at least one or perhaps both of his daughters through the University of Tennessee). My mouth is filled with caps, bridges and root canals which are, no doubt, directly related to consuming mass quantities of candy during the months of November, December and January each year.

The other thing about Halloween is the “trick” element. We could talk about papering, egging and flaming bags, filled with who knows what, thrown onto porches. Instead, I’d like to say a word or two about soaping windows. First, however, I must ask when was the last time you saw any soaped windows? I can’t really remember seeing any in the last few decades. It must be a lost art. I wonder, what’s wrong with kids today? Apparently they don’t have any initiative. To be sure, back in the late 50s and early 60s, one did not have to look far to see soaped windows in Dayton, Ohio.

I won’t admit to being a chronic window soaper, but I will confess that I did engage in this aspect of Halloween trickery. The first thing one must do in order to properly soap a window is choose the right soap. To anyone with any experience, however, this is a no-brainer. Ivory soap was by far the best. In claiming the title for best soap, Ivory had several things going for it. The two main things were that it was cheap and it left a bold mark on any window it encountered. The fact that it was able to float was not relevant. The only down side to Ivory was that it was a bit large to fit “just right” in a young boy’s hand. You could quickly turn this deficit into an asset by breaking the bar in half (two for the price of one). During this time we’re talking about, Dial was the most popular soap. (“Aren’t you glad you use Dial? Don’t you wish everyone did?”) But it was a poor choice for soaping windows. While its smaller size fit nicely in the hand, it was yellow and consequently, it left a very faint mark on any window it was applied to. Dial was not the worst soap choice, though. That distinction belonged to Lava, the hand soap. Lava had a sand-like component to it and it was impossible to leave a bold, consistent mark on any window. So, if you were carrying a bar of Lava you could never be a top flight soaper.

Thus, with a bar of Ivory in hand, the soaper went about his business. Soaping season generally began two weeks before Halloween. Anyone soaping before this time was deemed to be a chronic soaper who was acting in bad taste. There were three possible soaping targets: stores, cars and house windows. Stores were the easiest because it could be done after hours. Some, though, would do it during the time the store was open. I’ve seen expert soapers carrying a bar of soap at his side, walking closely to the store window and soaping while he walked without anyone really noticing it. When you saw something like that, you knew you were watching a true artist practicing his craft. Cars were also a target. Many were parked on the street in the dark and a sneaky soaper would walk by and scribble a few marks on the passenger windows. Houses, however, were a different subject altogether. It was indeed a brave soaper who would walk up to somebody’s house and soap a picture window, for example. Such people were crazy and I tried to avoid them at all costs.

These are some of my Halloween memories. Generally, they are positive ones. I do have some regrets. I regret that soaping has become a lost art. Although I will confess I would not be a happy camper if some young gentleman soaped my windows. I also regret the amount of candy I consumed and the long term effect that consumption has had. Nevertheless, given the option, I’d probably do the same thing again.

If you would like to leave a comment about Ed's  Stories, please go to our  "Comments Page"



Best Teachers

By Tom Kender

I'm thinking I should have entitled this "Most Memorable Teachers" but we'll leave it like this.

Naturally, we all had our favorites but I can easily decide which teachers made an impact on me. I don't know if it was necessarily because I enjoyed the subject matter more or if it was the way they presented the material, all I know when I think of Fairview and the faculty I think of these people first.

Looking through my dog-eared yearbook Mrs. Rowe always comes to mind. I find it interesting that our creamy white faculty and our creamy white student body was fortunate to have a dedicated teacher at a time when it was probably very difficult for a woman of color to find a position in an upscale high school. I mean this was the 60's. But never once in mind did I ever think of her as being black, I only thought of her as being so conscious of who we were, our confusion at a time of global responsibility and our difficulty in setting our compasses in the right direction. She set the course for me when I asked a question about the looming Vietnam War.

Although we were still a couple of years away from finding out what our future might bring and our responsibilities, I asked "what if I don't want to go to war, what if I want to move away to Canada". She responded by explaining the legal obligations of what was the edict at that time. Following the laws of the land. But then she explained we had a moral obligation as well. If we felt in our hearts that there were injustices in the world, then we should stand up and express those opinions. It scared me to think about the repercussions that might result. I'm guessing her comments were more directed to the race wars that were slowly brewing but it still gave me the help in deciding about my service to the country. Ironically, a couple of years later after college, I decided to serve in the Air Force. Not necessary in favor of the War but still be willing to stand up and express my opinion if injustices needed to be corrected.

On a lighter side, or maybe a more institutional perspective, my ability to cipher' is through the teachings of Charles Mumma. Ask me any math question and I'll solve it for you. Hell, I can even give you the correct Lotto numbers, it may not be on the same day that they pick them, but they will be the right numbers?? Mr. Mumma was a no-nonsense teacher who treated you like a good ole' yellow dog. When you did good, he praised you, when you screwed up he made sure you didn't make the same mistake again. To this day I love math, algebra, geometry, statistics, calculus anything to do with numbers. Maybe it is the one science where 2 plus 2 always equaled 4. You can always find the answer. Rest assured, I didn't later become a rocket scientist but I still get a little buzz when a math problem shows up in Marilyn Vos Savant's column in Parade magazine. And Sudoku....give me a break...I was doing Sudoku when Sudoku wasn't cool.


"Every grain of sand effects the tide"

If you ever had the chance to take Dorothy Herbst's English class, or maybe it was called Humanities or something like that...the above sentence still stands in your mind.
I had a sole purpose or maybe a soul purpose in enrolling in Ms. Herbst class. ..To go to New York City...but I'll leave that story for a later date because I really need to pay her a much-deserved due.
I had already wasted 3 years of idiocracy in my antics at Fairview....and yes, if I had to do it all over again, I would have certainly studied harder, became more involved in other activities like theater, or art......but then I guess I wouldn't be what I am today....and to some, who believe in me, that's not so bad.
But, I had a chance to maybe find my creativity with Dorothy and I blew it. She so much loved what she did. She lived in the moment and could look into one's eyes and see that beautiful sculpture that lay enclosed in a block of marble and I just let her down.
She knew better than to struggle with me while I stole her time from much more deserving students. She knew I had some kind of a gift, and she told me so.....but that layer of protection that surrounded me, those insecurities of fear of success that I misinterpreted as fear of failure, prevented me finding my passion until years later.
Today, as I visit art museums or take in a play or relish in musicals, I sometimes think what it would have been like if instead of trying to be cool I would have tried to explore a deeper, a more intense, an exposure of the soul type dedication to expressing emotion or feelings other than just getting by for another semester in order to just have fun.
Yes, Ms. Herbst, I waisted your time and my time back then but perhaps these little acts that I perform now in this blog as I strut and fret my hour upon the stage I can repay you for your devotion to bringing out the best in us.

And speaking of those who believed I had or have something to offer is Barbara Minton.
I remember her as fresh out of college wanting to teach and share her passion for the written word as she was thrown into a class occupied by my "Spagnola-type" behavior. A couple of years ago as I contemplated reaching for my quill and parchment that I had so long ago set aside in search for a more profitable career, she came across my earlier bloggings and we began to correspond as I asked for direction and criticism as I pursued my longing to be a writer. Through no fault of her own, I ran from our talks, scared once again of that fear of success of wanting that passion for telling my stories. Barbara, thanks for your help and I hope you can once again enjoy my musings as I try to bring a laugh and a smile to everyone's face.


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The last lines of our valedictorian, Mike Levitt's address to the class of 1966

Only the dream will last. Some distant day
The wheels will falter, and the silent sun
Will see the last beam leveled to decay
And all man's futile clangor spent and done.
Yet, after brick and steel and stone are gone
And flesh and blood are dust, the dream lives on.


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