Dear Old High School James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

Photo courtesy of the author.

My thoughts often drift to old school days around this time every year. Most of us remember our high school days fondly; I know I do. It was a time when my world opened up. Age fifteen was a very good year for me. I had the opportunity to play in a highly regarded high school band. A time to be a part of something important and to show my talent playing Cornet, something I had become pretty good at; I had even played a few solos now and then. And I was ready to join the ROTC, which was also a requirement if I wanted to be a part of that special band, the Louisville Male High Band, a 72-piece military band. The players in that band memorized every piece of music they played; no paper hanging off of their instruments. Even those playing 3rd parts memorized their harmony parts. Perfect harmony! As those of you who know me are aware, I never brag; I only state facts. I am proud to say I sat 1st chair Cornet in both my junior and senior years in my high school band. Hey! Only stating facts!

Every year at this time I am reminded of my high school days. In the 1950s, there were no air-conditioned classrooms, so school didn't start until after Labor Day in September. As I write this, it is September 3rd, and school has been in session for over two weeks. I might add, temperatures are near record highs. It is hot! But I also remember wondering why we had to attend school for two or three days during Labor Day week?  Every kid I knew felt the same; why not start back after that week?  We thought the people running the school system were stupid, but of course, we did not know about school funding at that time in our lives; I know I only wanted those few extra days before I had to start facing homework again. Anything to extend the summer break.

However, I did feel lucky to be attending Louisville Male High School, which thankfully had recently changed to co-ed. I am sure we endured some hot school days back then, but I don't remember suffering any. I do remember thinking I had never seen so many beautiful girls in one place. Regarding those few hot days of September having no real effect on us, that could be because almost all of us came from homes with no A/C. In fact, we felt fortunate to have window exhaust fans in our houses. We lived through some pretty hot days and nights at my house, and didn't think a thing of it. Back then, if you wanted to cool down, you went to the movies. The smell of fresh popcorn and the coolness of A/C still cause me to remember those days.

At home, Dad and I often argued about leaving our window fan running through the night. I loved to have that cool breeze flowing across my bed, the end of which was positioned next to our front porch window. I slept reversed in bed, with my head at its foot, and I wore only my jockey shorts. Please, I know that may entice you to read further, at least I hope so, but my writing will henceforth be clean. I even put my head on the windowsill, right up against the screen, listening to the sounds of the night, which put me to sleep so easily. Some time during most nights, Dad would get up and go into our kitchen where the fan was installed, and turn it off. The change in air, or lack thereof, would wake me, and I would wait until I thought he was asleep again, then slip into the kitchen and turn it back on. I got away with that now and then, but most of the time I could hear Dad grumbling my name as he walked into the kitchen to once again turn it off. Let's just say I knew not to push it too far.

I was proud I had chosen Male High School. We had choices back then, and I had known for a while that I wanted to be a Male High Bulldog, even when I was in elementary school. Two of my brothers-in-law, Harold and Gordon, had attended school there, as did a neighbor, Denny Harris, who played Saxophone in the Male High Band. I began playing Cornet when I was nine years old, and had played it in my junior high band for three years. Our band director there did not like the Male High Band, and encouraged me to attend Manual High, Male’s biggest rival, and play in their band. He said they had a better selection of music, and the band was more professional. I think he must have been friends with Manual's band director, but I knew that band could not hold a candle to the Male High Band. Male had an ROTC Military Band, 72 members, all male, and all enrolled in the ROTC, of course.  I had wanted to be in that band since the day I saw them march in the Christmas parade back in 1950. They had military training, and marched so smartly in their Eisenhower jackets and Officer pinks, with their white Military helmets. The Drum Major was so sharp; who on earth would ever want to be in Manual’s band? Their uniforms were sloppy, their hats looked clownish, and they had girls in those silly uniforms, looking sloppy as they plodded along. I always wondered why a pretty girl would want to wear one of those silly uniforms. It certainly did not complement their beauty. We had girls in our band, but they were majorettes, wearing short skirts and twirling batons. Ah, another great reason to join the Male High Military band.

Male High is the oldest high school west of the Allegany Mountains, established in 1856. It was founded to provide advanced education for young men in the growing city of Louisville, Kentucky, with its early curriculum focusing on collegiate subjects like Latin, Greek, mathematics, and sciences. Back then, young men graduating from “Male” were some of the most successful businessmen in the city. In fact, while the curriculum had changed by the time I was a student, the school retained the same professional vibe, with college-bound courses. I am not sure public education will ever recover from its current blight; there have been so many fundamental changes in the last sixty, or so, years, and for the most part, those changes have been negative. But, I digress.

I was a real sports fan of most every team at Male High, but I mostly loved football and basketball. I was 6’2”, which was tall enough for basketball, but I only weighed 125 pounds, which meant my life would have been in danger on the field or on the court. I gave up that dream, but that was okay, because the band said we couldn't be a member if we chose sports over music. However, I am proud to say our band performed at every football game, and we won many awards as a Marching Band. In fact, my very first year at Male, we were invited to march in the Rose Bowl Parade in Pasadena, California. We worked hard to get there, going door to door selling oranges for one dollar each to help fund our trip. They were Florida oranges, which of course made no difference, but we kept that quiet. The Courier Journal did a big spread on us, and most people were happy to buy an orange or two to help us out. The City designed and funded a float with the twin spires of Churchill Downs as the main focal point; the plans were sent to California for building with fresh roses. It was beautiful. We sold enough oranges across the city to completely fund our trip, at least that's what they told us. I think our parents actually funded most of the cost: I know they hit Dad up for a few bucks. He never told me how much.

I remember the early morning boarding of the three C-47s (they are what I would call the old “troop planes,” with a slant, because the plane had a small wheel on its rear, which caused it to sit cock-eyed). My brother-in-law, Gordon, and my Mom accompanied me to the airport at 4:00 a.m. on December 26th, 1956. It was my first time flying, and I was a bit apprehensive. We were all aboard, and the engines were warming up; they were very noisy. We were the last of the three planes, and we were all taxiing to the runway when suddenly, our plane stopped and headed back to the gate. Seems the oil line on one of the engines had burst. Mom was beside herself when she saw the plane returning, and to say she was worried would be quite an understatement. The other two planes had already taken off, and we were still sitting there while a mechanic repaired the oil line. Our pilot finally announced, “We are repaired, and we will catch our sister planes in no time,” and off we went. I think that is the most tiring thing I have ever been on a plane without falling asleep. We landed in Dallas to refuel, and it was dusk when we left. We never caught those other planes, but when we were flying over L.A. at night, getting ready to land, I couldn't believe the lights from the city. They lit the entire sky, and bounced around brightly inside the plane. I don't believe I have ever again seen anything quite so marvelous, so beautiful, and it went on and on, at least twenty or thirty minutes, before we finally landed.

You have to be physically fit to march in the Rose Bowl Parade. It is 5.5 miles long, and it takes close to four hours to march the whole distance. The reason, of course, is its length, plus the spotlight stop for T.V., where the floats, bands, and other participants are featured. When you consider that a Military Band often stands at strict attention, you can add even more stress to the process. I remember standing tall and hearing a young boy say to his mother, “They are really good, aren't they, mom?” I assumed she nodded yes, but I resisted turning to see if that was the case. We hadn't played a note, and this young man was praising us. We were sharp, indeed.

I imagined all the families back home watching on their black and white TV screens, waiting for us to appear. We had a big “seventeen-inch” at our house, and there was probably at least a family member equal in number to every inch of that TV Screen, watching. Our float was right in front of the band, and Mom said they had it on TV for at least a minute, maybe two. The band was announced, and we began playing as we marched in front of the cameras. Again, Mom said we were on TV for a solid two minutes, while the announcer told how we sold oranges to pay for our trip. No one could see me, even though everyone had moved closer to the TV trying to find me. It was over quickly, but we were there. Yes, we were there. We were in L.A., and we went on a movie lot; we went to Disneyland; we panned for gold at Knott’s Berry Farm. We walked the sidewalk of the Stars, toured Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and we went to the huge facility where all the floats were stored. We had a blast, then we flew home on those same old planes.

Well, as it turns out, the C47 was one of the most reliable planes ever made. All that worry was for naught, but I remember the trip back seeming much, much longer than the one going. And, in 1957, Louisville’s skyline at night was unimpressive. We left the city of superhighways and returned to the little bitty city of Louisville, Kentucky, and its same old 1930s skyline. At that point, urban renewal had not begun, and the cityscape hadn't changed a bit in years. There was hardly anything lit up, and anything that was was hard to look at. But somehow, it all felt good. Somehow, we made it home. Home, there is nothing more beautiful…