Mr. Cambridge

 

Over a year ago I began an article titled “Mr. Cambridge” and in it intended to salute Rupe Jennings, Class of ‘50. I thought the title appropriate, even considering many other most worthy candidates, some I’ve already thoroughly misrepresented. For better or worse, I bestowed my worthless title on Rupe for many reasons, but mainly because it was doom to anyone within earshot who put Cambridge down. Any critical Cambridge remark in Rupe’s vicinity always caused him to let everyone know how wrong headed the opinion was. In defending Cambridge, Rupe commonly made even the mistaken person laugh at his own foolishness. I was once one of these.

Rupe is a master of the succinct and humorous counterpoint some label “country witticism” but I think it’s way more than that. From much experience I know it’s most unwise to argue with the guy if the intention is to retain any semblance of victory. Only one person in my direct experience could get the better of Rupe, and that was his wife Pat, a person with laser-like intelligence too and hitched to quick verbal acuity I’ve never experienced on a higher level. It’s no coincidence Rupe and Pat’s oldest and youngest became lawyers as everyone in the family has the sort of native ability it takes to argue a point while totally disarming the opposition.

Even mouthy and thick headed as I was, I eventually learned to carefully consider any comment around the Jennings family because every stupid statement I made quickly resulted in verbal evisceration from all ends of the family tree. I was outmatched and knew it. I was also treated like a family member and knew once I’d been cut to ribbons, all would be forgiven in two seconds, so my silence wasn’t from fear of being excluded, only an issue of not wanting to be soundly beaten at a skill I thought I possessed to a decent degree myself.

I abandoned Mr. Cambridge earlier because it presented difficulties I couldn’t overcome. One was being too close to my subject matter. I hold the entire family in such high regard it seemed no matter what I wrote, it just didn’t measure up, the inferior absolutely incapable of describing the superior, but I’ve overcome this many, many times in my line of work. If I hadn’t, my only publishing credits would be about numbskulls and barbarians, and it’s hard to make a living with such limited subject matter, except in cases of politics where there will always be an abundance of cretins to chronicle.

I went back at Mr. Cambridge again upon receiving a nice note and card from Chucky about Mom passing. Many will be confused by the Chucky reference, some associating it with the knife-wielding doll made famous by the horror movie series, but Chucky to me means Rupe III. Everyone in the Jennings family called young Rupe Chucky to differentiate from his father.

Also a problem with Mr. Cambridge was being way too close to the person who greatly helped me understand Rupe, and that was my father. Dad had the enormous fortune to have Rupe as a close friend and integral partner in the daily operation of CCS.

It takes a lot of people to run any school, and good schools are always defined by the character and talents of the people tasked with this most important job. My father was at the top of the CCS pile (or bottom depending on perspective) for almost two decades, and in that time made frequent comment about many dedicated and greatly skilled people at CCS he worked with and valued highly. Of them all, though, it would be my guess that the one individual, out of so many truly important pieces holding any school system together, the man he relied on the most in so many different aspects of his life, professional and personal, was Rupe. I long ago lost count of the many times Dad chanted, well Rupe said this or Rupe said that, almost like he was quoting the Bible, but he was just showing how much weight he put on Rupe’s assessments. I grew to learn over many years he was darn smart to do so.

Lots of you know Rupe as a master outdoorsman, craftsman, and maybe from his years as head custodian and transportation supervisor at CCS. I know and admire him for all of that too, but being my father’s good friend was most important to me, because being friends with Dad was no easy relationship. The same can be said for hanging with junior. As I exploded into adolescence and darn near killed myself numerous times, Rupe realized early one of the biggest problems was that Dad and I also shared critical flaws, something neither of us saw at the time but grew to realize much later in our lives. In my youth, we were both exceptionally adept at provoking anger in each other in three words or less, and we practiced this regimen daily. Some of this could get pretty bad, but it would have been a lot worse without Rupe’s frequent refereeing.

I wondered for a while, but never asked Dad, if he went to Rupe during our long feud and said something like, “Rupe, help me with Mike. If you don’t I’m going to shoot him,” but I doubt that happened. Dad was just too proud and too stubborn to admit something like this. Fortunately, you don’t have to explain much of anything to Rupe. He most likely had both of us pegged within weeks of meeting Brown 1 and Brown 2 and still decided to get involved. Rupe, I’m fairly certain, just knew the score and stepped in, many, many times.

One of the last times Rupe performed this service was the week Dad died. Dad was hospitalized and fading fast when Mary and I flew up to see him. Rupe and Pat picked us up at the Albany Airport.

On the way back to Cambridge we were slowed behind a pickup doing about 20 in a 55 mph zone. “Well look at that,” Rupe said. “Some guy’s taking his truck out for a walk.” In general conversation, Rupe can turn a phrase like this every five seconds or so, one of the reasons I’ve always greatly enjoyed talking with him. He could make me laugh when I wanted to cry and had the guts to try when it was really, really hard.

Rupe and Pat’s real mission that day wasn’t mainly transportation. They wanted to be sure we were prepared for what we’d soon see, and anyone who’s seen the face of terminal cancer at its final stages can paint their own picture. Many folks run away from this sort of scene, but Rupe isn’t one of them; he’s the special sort of person who runs to them, what we often refer to as a “first responder.” I have no idea how many times Rupe took Dad to his medical appointments during the last six months of his life, and this was often an all day affair. I do know Rupe put the hand railing in the shower at home when Dad was losing his ability to walk well and stand steady, and I’m sure there are a million other things he did big and small that I have no idea of because I was 2,000 miles away in San Antonio for most of this.

I do know Rupe taught me how to run a trap line, the best ways to catch trout in the Battenkill, how to fish for smelt on Lake Champlain, and way more about life in general. Even when I was at my craziest, I was still welcome in his home and company. I still view Rupe as a second father, one who cut me a little more slack than Dad did, but not much.

I was never in conflict with Rupe when our families fished and camped together more times than I can remember today. Unlike at home, I at least tried to behave civilly when on Rupe’s turf, but didn’t have much choice at school where I generally made it a point to fight “the system” with all my might, and this often brought out Sheriff Rupe, not just for me, but all of my gang as well. Rupe patrolled the CCS halls like a bulldog and woe to anyone he found disrespecting his school. I use “his” because he viewed his status as protector most seriously. Mess with CCS and you were messing with him.

Some scenes in life are so startling they remain with us forever, indelibly etched into our brains through a process no one understands. In one of the very few times I truly was an unwitting victim of circumstances, I can still see Rupe’s withering stare that instantly told me more hard times were just around the corner. Rupe stood glowering in the main hallway right in front of the office while I was ten feet down the hall holding a Budweiser tall boy.

The beer was a complete surprise, a most unexpected gift at a CCS Halloween dance. In response to one of my buddies standing by his open locker who called out, “Here, Mike, catch” I reflexively grabbed what was tossed in my direction, just as Rupe turned the corner coming from the cafeteria.

“Where’d you get that beer?” Rupe snarled as he led me to the office.

“Some big guy I’ve never seen before,” I answered.

“Some big guy you’ve never seen before?” Rupe repeated. “Can’t you think up a better lie than that?”

Later, I could tell from Rupe’s expression he was deeply disappointed in my behavior. To this day, I’m still not sure which issue bothered him the most, my inability to lie creatively as he well knew I could, or the fact that, once again, I was caught “red-handed” in the act of being profoundly stupid. I’m leaning toward the latter, but you’ll have to ask Rupe for the definitive answer.

Any time I’m home, I always make it a point to see Rupe. I didn’t knock on his door this time as I knew I’d see him at Mom’s memorial service if he was still breathing.

In some movie I can’t recall specifically, a handshake caused transport into another time and place. When propelled by memory, this isn’t magic at all but a rekindling of fond emotional connections. I exchanged handshakes so much on my recent visit to Cambridge I still spin in a blender of flashbacks, prized possessions of incalculable value.

The first hand I shook at the 2019 All Classes Reunion was Peter Bell’s and that prompted a flood of wonderful memories of another great Cambridge family. I have another 100 stories to write.

One of the last handshakes before Mary and I left Cambridge was Rupe’s as we stood in the receiving line at Mom’s memorial service. Can’t put a price on that, but will say I’m a very rich man.