There were a few brave boys and girls who even in 5th grade made it clear that they were a "couple." The one couple I recall best was Marty F. and Cheryl P. You could see their initials written everywhere--always, "MF + CP -- on sidewalks, desks, playground equipment, street signs, etc.
Last summer, 2011, I was walking with my dog through the old neighborhood. I thought about MF+CP and wondered if I could still find one. Looking at an old section of sidewalk on Riverdale Drive, I spotted the very faint mark, etched in the ancient concrete, "MF+CP."
Call it "personal archaeology."
Thursday, June 14, 2012
John and Barbara: Circa Flag Day, 1966
John and Barbara: Circa Flag Day, 1966
Today is June 14. This is Johnny K’s birthday. Flag Day. A
day around the time that Oxford School used to close for the summer. This is
about the last day of school, 46 years ago, and about Johnny K. and Barbara H.
It was an excellent last day of school. We sixth graders
would be leaving Oxford forever, heading to our respective junior highs, either
Adams or Smith, the following fall. Mr. Kodyk took us out to play softball.
Co-ed teams, boys must bat opposite hand. I remember hitting a triple to
right-center field. I remember my teammate, Jane P., smashing a ball way into
the outfield. After the game I made sure to say “nice hit.” Girls were getting
to be awesomely and painfully mysterious.
We didn’t do much for the rest of the afternoon. I think
Kodyk let us go to the library or generally wander through the halls. We
collected autographs from our classmates and former teachers. I still have most
of mine. Maybe I’ll scan and post one day.
I remember being in the library around 2 PM, sitting at a
table across from Vicki P. She was beautiful. I knew her a little. She wasn’t
in my class, but we were both in Mrs. Shay’s reading class (the librarian who
turned against me). We somehow started leg wrestling under the table and when I
say wrestling I mean me trying to feel as much of her legs with mine as I
could. It was hot.
Somehow I made it back to my seat in Kodyk’s room. And here’s
where the story of John and Barbara sort of starts and ends.
Ever since maybe first grade, all John’s buddies knew he “liked”
Barbara. It was just one of those things that we all knew, and we were pretty
sure she liked him too. This “liking” business doesn’t really mean much until 5th
or 6th grade. I mean, I had actually gone on a date with Wendy L.
when we were in the 2nd grade. Went skating at the Youth Center. Had
ice cream. Went home.
But it’s in the 5th and 6th grade
where a culture of boy-girl liking starts to emerge, a set of rules, driven
pretty much by the girls, who use it as a form of social control. Boys begin
trying to figure it out, like a sort-of-smart dog trying to behave so as to get
a cookie from his owner. There is much failure here. But we gradually start to “get”
the intricate web of notes, codes, hand signs, and various procedures that the
girls have developed.
For example, if a girl wants to know if a boy likes her, she’ll
send out scouts. The scouts won’t go directly to the boy in question, but to
his friends. They’ll ask things like “who does Joey like?” or they’ll hint
around – I know someone who likes someone you know!” Gradually, events and
procedures spin into smaller circles that reveal the actual details of who is
liking who.
On that last day of school, after an earlier series of
technicalities and red tape, a procedure was developed that would allow Johnny
K. to express his “like” for Barbara H. I played a key role. The plan was as
follows: since Safety Boys (including Johnny and me) always left the class 5
minutes early, it was possible for a message to be delivered to Barbara after
Johnny had left the room. So, when Johnny left, I would linger behind gathering
my various crap to take home. On my way out, after Johnny was well down the
hallway, I would have to cross the room to where Barbara sat and tell her who
it was that set Johnny’s heart on fire.
I followed procedures to a tee. I walked over to Barbara’s
desk and said, “It’s you!” She beamed.
I’m not sure, but I don’t believe they ever saw each other
again until 10th grade. At that time, they no longer knew each
other.
Happy birthday, John!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A Mystery, partially solved
Years ago, back in the 60s, I knew this kid from Boy Scouts.
He was a little twisted, but not outrageously so. Had this weird sense of
humor, tossed an occasional grasshopper on the charcoal grill, and taught me
that virtually any forest twig can be smoked like a cigarette. He hung around
with my clique in junior high and seemed like an ok fellah. Around 1968 he
moved away somewhere. I thought New Jersey, but now have discovered it was
elsewhere. Why did I just discover this?
I’d been searching for him on Google, entering various
search terms; his name followed by variations on “killed parents.” You see, back around 1970, word got around my
high school that the guy had shot his parents and that maybe it had something
to do with drugs or abuse. None of my friends seemed to know anything.
Around 1971 or 1972, he showed up again in my high school. “That’s
strange,” I thought.
I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t talk to me. We didn’t
acknowledge each other at all. I think only kids in school have the ability to
do this – to see old friends from years back and walk by them like they don’t
exist. I can understand his reluctance to talk, but not my own.
What had happened and how did he end up back in my high
school after having supposedly done this awful deed? Since the dawn of the
Internet, I would occasionally Google his name, maybe once every couple of
years. Nothing showed up until yesterday—a very brief and vague mention on some
community chat page about “whatever happened to …?”
More Googling. I found some newspaper articles. Here’s what
I learned.
Around the summer of 1970, police were called to his house.
Both his parents had been shot. He claimed a prowler had come in and done the
deed, a possibility quickly dismissed by the police. He was arrested and tried as an adult the
following year.
At that time, he testified that he saw his mother shoot his
father, and then he shot her. Eventually he was convicted of manslaughter for
having done so; but exonerated for the death of his father.
Placed in the custody of his grandparents while awaiting
sentencing, he returned to my high school, one year behind where he would have
been if none of this had happened. I graduated in 1972. He would have graduated
in 1973, but for the fact that the judge ruled he would have to report to
prison in January of that year. The prosecutor maintained that this young man
had “hoodwinked” the jury.
That’s all I know right now. I wonder how where he is and
how he’s doing. I hope he’s alright.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Lloyd Court - and Lloyd
The two parts of this title have little to do with one another, other than their being significant artifacts from my career as a Safety Boy. The first is a street, usually written as “Lloyd Ct.,” but henceforth to be pronounced by you, dear reader, as “Lloyd Coit” (I’ll explain why later on). The second is a pseudonym for a boy who deserves to not have his real name associated with the sad story I intend to tell.
To begin, let’s talk about Safety Boys and their counterparts, the Service Squad Girls. I’m not sure either of these still exists in today’s public schools, but throughout the 50s and 60s they were important instruments of school decorum. Service Squad Girls had various duties. First, they sold ice cream, bringing a tray of cups and bars on a stick to each table, making you raise your hand before accepting your nickel. They patrolled the lunchroom watching for misbehavior. Before you could leave your seat you needed to raise your hand, and if the SS Girl determined you had sufficiently cleaned your place, she would formally announce, “You may go.” The Girls also stood guard at the slop counter where the kids who bought a hot lunch would leave their trays. Finally, on rainy days when there was no lunchtime recess, there’d be Girl watching over every 1st through 3rd grade class, allowing their teachers to eat their lunches in peace.
But Safety Boys got the glory jobs; patrolling the playground, school buses, and street corners, and every winter morning they’d get hot chocolate. And while the Girls got to wear modest little armbands, the Boys were issued amazingly cool looking white belts with an even cooler looking shoulder strap. It was a combination that struck fear into most kids, at least the younger, more innocent ones. Plus – and this was big – Safety Boys got to “report” kids; that is, sort of like “arrest” them and get them in trouble with whichever 6th grade teacher was heading up the Safety Patrol that year. SS girls could report you, of course, but I don’t remember it ever happening.
Once as a 2nd grader, I got reported for fighting on the playground (I don’t even remember who I was fighting with). We were taken to Mr. Gabriel, the scariest teacher at Oxford School. He held us against the lockers with his huge arms. Despite his height, he managed to get about two inches away from our faces. Then softly, slowly, but oh so sternly he warned us, “No more fighting. And I don’t ever want to see either of you like this again.” I nearly wet my pants.
Three years later, a bunch of us 5th grade boys were chosen for I guess what you’d call limited duty or “auxiliary” Safety Boys. Boys without belts. We’d get to patrol a nearby street corner at lunch. And this is how I ended up on Lloyd Court, “the dangerous corner.” Though not a very long street, Lloyd Ct. connected Coburn Avenue with U.S. 24, Telegraph Road, a multilane divided highway running from Detroit all the way to Kansas City. A quarter mile to the north, Telegraph intersected with U.S. 12, Michigan Avenue, which ran from Detroit all the way to the Pacific Ocean! The intersection was a marvelous concrete cloverleaf; the only spot in the country where two even numbered U.S. highways, one being double the other, crossed each other. Each day, thousands of cars and trucks passed in four directions, on their way to who knows where.
How disappointing it was for me, then, to discover that seldom if ever did any cars travel down Lloyd Ct. It became known as “the dangerous corner” only because of Jeff Biggers’ sharp sense of sarcastic irony. He even came up with this little song about it, which I will gladly sing for you on request.
“Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!
Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!”
The day would come, however, when “Lloyd Coit” indeed became a very dangerous corner; albeit in an approximate, vaguely indirect sort of way.
It was a sunny spring day. I had nearly finished crossing all the kids heading home to lunch; which is to say I had crossed the one little girl and one little boy who walked home that way. Having accomplished another busy day’s work, I headed back toward the school. But for some reason, a moment or two later, I turned looked back over my shoulder at the deceptively quiet intersection and saw something so strange, so troubling, that I would barely be able to eat my second helping of meatloaf before later reporting it to the Safety Patrol teacher supervisor, Mr. Kotyk.
(Editor’s note: Roger doesn’t exactly remember whether or not he ate his lunch before reporting what you’re about to read. But he did think it was funny to imagine that he had.)
The boy who every day crossed Lloyd Ct. and headed left for home had been picked up by a black car. Or dark green maybe. Anyway, he’d gotten into a car and I’d never seen him do this before. So I told Mrs. Berry, who sent me to tell Mr. Kotyk, who apparently called the police. An hour or so later, Mr. Kodyk came to Mrs. Berry’s classroom, called me out to the hall, and gave me the news I dreaded to hear.
“It was his father. His father picked him up to take him to lunch.”
“Oh…good,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
“But it was good that you reported it,” Mr. Kodyk said in a somber respectful voice, and I headed back to class. Of course I had told all my pals about what I’d seen, including Jeff Biggers and Johnny Kotlarczyk, who as soon as they had a chance began singing, “Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!”
And that’s the story of Lloyd Court. Looks like there’s not enough time tonight to tell the other story, the story of Lloyd, a boy who all you who were there at the time know was not really named “Lloyd,” but whose name I must change because it’s simply the decent thing to do.
Next time: The Further Adventures of Roger of the Safety Patrol: The Lloyd Story.
To begin, let’s talk about Safety Boys and their counterparts, the Service Squad Girls. I’m not sure either of these still exists in today’s public schools, but throughout the 50s and 60s they were important instruments of school decorum. Service Squad Girls had various duties. First, they sold ice cream, bringing a tray of cups and bars on a stick to each table, making you raise your hand before accepting your nickel. They patrolled the lunchroom watching for misbehavior. Before you could leave your seat you needed to raise your hand, and if the SS Girl determined you had sufficiently cleaned your place, she would formally announce, “You may go.” The Girls also stood guard at the slop counter where the kids who bought a hot lunch would leave their trays. Finally, on rainy days when there was no lunchtime recess, there’d be Girl watching over every 1st through 3rd grade class, allowing their teachers to eat their lunches in peace.
But Safety Boys got the glory jobs; patrolling the playground, school buses, and street corners, and every winter morning they’d get hot chocolate. And while the Girls got to wear modest little armbands, the Boys were issued amazingly cool looking white belts with an even cooler looking shoulder strap. It was a combination that struck fear into most kids, at least the younger, more innocent ones. Plus – and this was big – Safety Boys got to “report” kids; that is, sort of like “arrest” them and get them in trouble with whichever 6th grade teacher was heading up the Safety Patrol that year. SS girls could report you, of course, but I don’t remember it ever happening.
Once as a 2nd grader, I got reported for fighting on the playground (I don’t even remember who I was fighting with). We were taken to Mr. Gabriel, the scariest teacher at Oxford School. He held us against the lockers with his huge arms. Despite his height, he managed to get about two inches away from our faces. Then softly, slowly, but oh so sternly he warned us, “No more fighting. And I don’t ever want to see either of you like this again.” I nearly wet my pants.
Three years later, a bunch of us 5th grade boys were chosen for I guess what you’d call limited duty or “auxiliary” Safety Boys. Boys without belts. We’d get to patrol a nearby street corner at lunch. And this is how I ended up on Lloyd Court, “the dangerous corner.” Though not a very long street, Lloyd Ct. connected Coburn Avenue with U.S. 24, Telegraph Road, a multilane divided highway running from Detroit all the way to Kansas City. A quarter mile to the north, Telegraph intersected with U.S. 12, Michigan Avenue, which ran from Detroit all the way to the Pacific Ocean! The intersection was a marvelous concrete cloverleaf; the only spot in the country where two even numbered U.S. highways, one being double the other, crossed each other. Each day, thousands of cars and trucks passed in four directions, on their way to who knows where.
How disappointing it was for me, then, to discover that seldom if ever did any cars travel down Lloyd Ct. It became known as “the dangerous corner” only because of Jeff Biggers’ sharp sense of sarcastic irony. He even came up with this little song about it, which I will gladly sing for you on request.
“Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!
Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!”
The day would come, however, when “Lloyd Coit” indeed became a very dangerous corner; albeit in an approximate, vaguely indirect sort of way.
It was a sunny spring day. I had nearly finished crossing all the kids heading home to lunch; which is to say I had crossed the one little girl and one little boy who walked home that way. Having accomplished another busy day’s work, I headed back toward the school. But for some reason, a moment or two later, I turned looked back over my shoulder at the deceptively quiet intersection and saw something so strange, so troubling, that I would barely be able to eat my second helping of meatloaf before later reporting it to the Safety Patrol teacher supervisor, Mr. Kotyk.
(Editor’s note: Roger doesn’t exactly remember whether or not he ate his lunch before reporting what you’re about to read. But he did think it was funny to imagine that he had.)
The boy who every day crossed Lloyd Ct. and headed left for home had been picked up by a black car. Or dark green maybe. Anyway, he’d gotten into a car and I’d never seen him do this before. So I told Mrs. Berry, who sent me to tell Mr. Kotyk, who apparently called the police. An hour or so later, Mr. Kodyk came to Mrs. Berry’s classroom, called me out to the hall, and gave me the news I dreaded to hear.
“It was his father. His father picked him up to take him to lunch.”
“Oh…good,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
“But it was good that you reported it,” Mr. Kodyk said in a somber respectful voice, and I headed back to class. Of course I had told all my pals about what I’d seen, including Jeff Biggers and Johnny Kotlarczyk, who as soon as they had a chance began singing, “Lloyd Coit, the dangerous corner!”
And that’s the story of Lloyd Court. Looks like there’s not enough time tonight to tell the other story, the story of Lloyd, a boy who all you who were there at the time know was not really named “Lloyd,” but whose name I must change because it’s simply the decent thing to do.
Next time: The Further Adventures of Roger of the Safety Patrol: The Lloyd Story.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I Don't Want to Set the Room on Fire
Like most guys, I’ve always loved playing with fire and blowing things up. Fireworks and gunpowder; I learned how to make my own. But despite this, neither of the fires in Mr. Kodyk’s classroom were my fault.
The first incident happened during Mr. Kotyk’s soap making assignment. I have no idea why we were making soap. Were we studying pioneers? Who knows? For several days he reminded us to bring in “some lye, grease or fat, and some kind of small container.” Amazingly, on the appointed day I actually remembered to bring it all in. I mean, why not? There was no homework involved. We’d get to kill an hour or so making an oily soapy mess.
So, my mom bought some lye, gave me some bacon fat, and a container, all of which I carried in a bag to school. We began around mid-morning. Mr. Kotyk had set two or three hot plates in the back of the room, and though I can’t remember exactly, the procedure must have involved heating and mixing fat and lye, then pouring the mixture into our small containers. Mr. Kotyk supervised everything, pouring hot molten soap into students’ containers one by one. All went well until he poured mine, when two problems intersected in sudden exothermic fashion.
1. Mr. Kotyk either didn’t know, or else never considered that some kid’s container might be a turkey pie tin.
2. Lye, aluminum, and warm liquid really don’t play well together.
Ok, so a moment or two after Mr. Kotyk pours my bacon soap mixture into my turkey pie pan, smoke begins billowing up from the counter. The pan is dissolving, kids are yelling, and Mr. Kotyk is cursing. He grabbed the burning pie tin with a pair of pliers and headed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. I know this because we all followed him.
After lunch, Mr. Kotyk announced our grades one by one. “H” meant “hi,” “S” meant “so so,” and “L” meant “loser.” So it was like, “Hanson, H; Kotlarczyk, H; Lakomy, S; … Shouse, L,” and he said it with that sardonic grin he was so good at. It didn’t seem fair and I said so.
“Well you darn near started the room on fire!” he bellowed, and I was caught without reply.
I got even with him, however, when I did it again.
It was the volcano project. Very simple. Just make a model volcano. I made a beauty out of paper mache, with simulated flowing lava made from red candle wax. At the top I installed a small metal cup to hold some kind of flammable chemical. But now where would I get such a thing? Where could I find some kind of powder that would shoot sparks out the top of my paper mache and wax volcano?
There was just one place to go. The Shaders’ house. A teacher and counsellor at one of the local high schools, Mr. Shader was a like a walking encyclopedia of science, nature, and history. During the summer, Mr. Shader worked as the Town Crier at the Henry Ford Museum. Antique rifles covered the walls of his basement den, along with an old crank style telephone. The adjacent laundry room was filled with interesting chemicals and other science stuff, so, I figured Mr. Shader might have just what I needed.
“Copper sulfate might work,” Mr. Shader suggested, and he gave me a not-so-small vial of the stuff, which I took to school on the appointed day along with a book of matches. When it came time to show off our volcanoes, I told Mr. Kotyk that mine could erupt.
“Really?” he said with a genuine glint of childlike curiosity.
“Sure,” I said, “but I have to light it.”
In today’s American school, this would all be impossible. Aside from streaming video, “erupting” of any kind would never be tolerated and God forbid anyone suggesting “lighting” anything. But Mr. Kotyk, I guess was thinking to himself, “what could possibly go wrong?”
Having obviously forgotten the soap incident, he gave the go-ahead. It took one match to set off the powder at the top of the cone. Sizzling blue sparks and yellow flame began spewing out and the whole class was going “ahh” and “ooh” and then we all realized that the whole volcano was starting to burn. I guess wax covered paper mache burns pretty well once it gets going. Whoda thought?
As he lunged across the room, Mr. Kotyk did some of that, oh, whaddya call it, “almost swearing.” You know, like “gonna fran san, whatta little muffa bung dongit!” He grabbed the burning mass by the plywood board it sat on, headed out the door, down the stairs, out through the kindergarten hallway doors, and onto the playground blacktop. I know this because we all followed him.
I liked Mr. Kotyk, but I’m not sure whether or not he liked me. On the last day of school he signed me an autograph. I still have it. It reads, “To the world’s biggest clown. Mr. Kotyk.”
Coming soon: Other reasons why Mr. Kotyk might have thought I was a clown. Problems with the Safety Patrol. A sad love story.
The first incident happened during Mr. Kotyk’s soap making assignment. I have no idea why we were making soap. Were we studying pioneers? Who knows? For several days he reminded us to bring in “some lye, grease or fat, and some kind of small container.” Amazingly, on the appointed day I actually remembered to bring it all in. I mean, why not? There was no homework involved. We’d get to kill an hour or so making an oily soapy mess.
So, my mom bought some lye, gave me some bacon fat, and a container, all of which I carried in a bag to school. We began around mid-morning. Mr. Kotyk had set two or three hot plates in the back of the room, and though I can’t remember exactly, the procedure must have involved heating and mixing fat and lye, then pouring the mixture into our small containers. Mr. Kotyk supervised everything, pouring hot molten soap into students’ containers one by one. All went well until he poured mine, when two problems intersected in sudden exothermic fashion.
1. Mr. Kotyk either didn’t know, or else never considered that some kid’s container might be a turkey pie tin.
2. Lye, aluminum, and warm liquid really don’t play well together.
Ok, so a moment or two after Mr. Kotyk pours my bacon soap mixture into my turkey pie pan, smoke begins billowing up from the counter. The pan is dissolving, kids are yelling, and Mr. Kotyk is cursing. He grabbed the burning pie tin with a pair of pliers and headed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. I know this because we all followed him.
After lunch, Mr. Kotyk announced our grades one by one. “H” meant “hi,” “S” meant “so so,” and “L” meant “loser.” So it was like, “Hanson, H; Kotlarczyk, H; Lakomy, S; … Shouse, L,” and he said it with that sardonic grin he was so good at. It didn’t seem fair and I said so.
“Well you darn near started the room on fire!” he bellowed, and I was caught without reply.
I got even with him, however, when I did it again.
It was the volcano project. Very simple. Just make a model volcano. I made a beauty out of paper mache, with simulated flowing lava made from red candle wax. At the top I installed a small metal cup to hold some kind of flammable chemical. But now where would I get such a thing? Where could I find some kind of powder that would shoot sparks out the top of my paper mache and wax volcano?
There was just one place to go. The Shaders’ house. A teacher and counsellor at one of the local high schools, Mr. Shader was a like a walking encyclopedia of science, nature, and history. During the summer, Mr. Shader worked as the Town Crier at the Henry Ford Museum. Antique rifles covered the walls of his basement den, along with an old crank style telephone. The adjacent laundry room was filled with interesting chemicals and other science stuff, so, I figured Mr. Shader might have just what I needed.
“Copper sulfate might work,” Mr. Shader suggested, and he gave me a not-so-small vial of the stuff, which I took to school on the appointed day along with a book of matches. When it came time to show off our volcanoes, I told Mr. Kotyk that mine could erupt.
“Really?” he said with a genuine glint of childlike curiosity.
“Sure,” I said, “but I have to light it.”
In today’s American school, this would all be impossible. Aside from streaming video, “erupting” of any kind would never be tolerated and God forbid anyone suggesting “lighting” anything. But Mr. Kotyk, I guess was thinking to himself, “what could possibly go wrong?”
Having obviously forgotten the soap incident, he gave the go-ahead. It took one match to set off the powder at the top of the cone. Sizzling blue sparks and yellow flame began spewing out and the whole class was going “ahh” and “ooh” and then we all realized that the whole volcano was starting to burn. I guess wax covered paper mache burns pretty well once it gets going. Whoda thought?
As he lunged across the room, Mr. Kotyk did some of that, oh, whaddya call it, “almost swearing.” You know, like “gonna fran san, whatta little muffa bung dongit!” He grabbed the burning mass by the plywood board it sat on, headed out the door, down the stairs, out through the kindergarten hallway doors, and onto the playground blacktop. I know this because we all followed him.
I liked Mr. Kotyk, but I’m not sure whether or not he liked me. On the last day of school he signed me an autograph. I still have it. It reads, “To the world’s biggest clown. Mr. Kotyk.”
Coming soon: Other reasons why Mr. Kotyk might have thought I was a clown. Problems with the Safety Patrol. A sad love story.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sixth Grade, Michelle, Jade East, Everything
Sixth grade. The awkward grade. I had a terrible crush on Michelle, but watched her turn from fratgirl to greaser chick over a period of months. In fact, all the girls turned weird. They used to be so easy to get along with. Now, in the corner of my eye, they almost seemed to be snickering at me. No matter how much Jade East I splashed on my unshowered face each morning, I could never make any progress with Michelle. In fact, as time went by, she grew more and more distant. What could explain such behavior?
· Was it our sixth grade teacher Mr. Kotyk’s fascinating approach to pupil control?
· Was it because I was accused of unethical Safety Patrol behavior?
· That I nearly set the classroom on fire twice?
I overheard someone on TV say that girls matured sooner than boys. Impossible! I was totally mature! I wore white khakis and a no-collar shirt, the kind that buttoned from the chest up. I was able to describe everything that happened on Man from Uncle from the previous Friday night. I was reasonably good at 4-square. Oh, sure, I was a Boy Scout, but I seldom wore my uniform to school. In what possible way did I lack the maturity needed to get Michelle, or any suitable girl for that matter, to “like” me?
Maybe it was my shoddy approach to “learning.”
I was a “smart” kid in that I knew a lot of stuff. But, as I’ve said earlier, I seldom did homework or viewed it as any sort of imperative upon my valuable time. If the homework seemed interesting and did not cut into my street football or favorite TV show time, there was a reasonable probability that I would complete some of it. Scratch “reasonable.” Say “some.”
Perhaps the most amazing example of this was when our vocal music teacher, Mrs. Edwards, assigned us to make some kind of musical instrument. But I already had a guitar, a trumpet, and a piano at home and I really saw no reason to make some kind of dorky second rate noise maker. Oh yeah, I could have put beans in an oatmeal box and covered it with construction paper, but why? For a while, I considered making a sort of guitar out of cigar box and I went so far as to cut a hole in the lid.
That hole-in-top cigar box sat on a shelf at home for about a month, the length of time Mrs. Edwards had given us to complete this important assignment. Essentially, I had forgotten about the whole thing. The night before it was due, I realized that this was the night before it was due.
I took the cigar box to school the next day and to music class that afternoon. Mrs. Edwards asked each student to show off his/her product. When it was my turn, I stood up and demonstrated what a loud noise the box made when I slammed it, and I had the balls to add, “It wouldn’t make such a loud noise if I hadn’t cut a hole in the lid!”
I could almost see squiggly comic book lines of aggravation shooting from the head of this friendly, funny, sweet, and very talented teacher. “Roger,” she said in her deepest, most serious tone, “I’m very disappointed in you.” Fortunately, I think – I hope – this was the only time I upset her so.
On the other hand, my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Kotyk – I disappointed him lots of times. But given his sarcastic familiarity with the ways of 12-year old boys, he really might not have given a shit. Mr. Kotyk was funny and friendly, not like kindly Mrs. Edwards, but in a Greek, Polish, Romanian, Turkish, Son of Popeye, part-time bar tender at the local Elks Club sort of way. He was a tough old cuss who could pat you on the back one moment and give you a quick pop in the chops the next. I tended to get more pops than pats.
Example: Mr. Kotyk hated “long hair on boys,” meaning any hair he could see or pinch. When he wanted me to get a haircut, he didn’t make a request. He’d just yank the hank o’ hair above my ear and say something like, “If I can still do that on Monday, you’d better hope I’m not here!”
Example: My desk was usually a mess, filled with stuffed and bulging books and papers. Kotyk had a simple solution. He’d drag it out in the hall, dump it all over the place, and make me clean it up. Actually, I kind of enjoyed this. The peacefulness of the hallway made up for the brief moment of humiliation.
But now here’s the grand example of Mr. Kotyk’s unique approach to pupil control, an example that I still speak about with tremendous admiration to my Penn State education students. Allow me to set the scene.
It’s about 2:00. We’re supposed to be copying sentences from our language book, learning to write, “Pass the potatoes to me” instead of “Shoot me the potatoes.” The book had an illustration of a cowboy shooting his pal for having use the incorrect phrase. They don’t write ‘em like that anymore. Anyhow, it was always at this lazy boring afternoon moment when Mr. Kotyk would leave the room.
We didn’t know where he went. Maybe he went to the bathroom, maybe to make a phone call, maybe to sell insurance. Sometimes two minutes, sometimes twenty. Sometimes we’d sort of carry on with our work, but most of the time we’d start screwin’ around. Imagine a classroom as an engine and disruption as a flywheel. It takes some effort to get the initial gear moving. But when you get it going just right, all the other gears start to spin.
For example: Somebody’d say to Jeff Biggers, “do your Man from Uncle!” and he’d rearrange the parts of his pen, hold it up to his mouth, and say “open channel D!” Then all the boys would be take their pens apart and pretend to be Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin. Somebody’d make a fart noise or actually let one. Colleen Collins or Ruth Umstead would fall off her chair and the room would explode into sweet mayhem. Once again, however, we were doomed.
From out of nowhere, Mr. Kotyk would burst in and announce, “All the talkers come to the front of the room!” Because this would cause dead silence, one might think that we’d all be smart enough to just sit there and quietly go back to work. Yet inevitably, one or two of the good Catholic kids would slowly rise and walk to the front. That was bad enough, but then one of them – often my pal Johnny Kotlarczyk – would turn back to me and admonish, “Shouse! You were talking too!” Kotyk’s sardonic grin would hit me like a tractor beam. "C'mon up here, Shouse!"
So, what was in store for us? Long chalkboard pointer in hand, Kotyk stood at the head of the line. One by one he’d order the boys to bend over and the girls to extend their hand (except that one time when he was so pissed at Colleen Collins that he made her bend over too). Some days there’d be three or four kids up there. But on a really good day, there might be 20 or more and only three or four left in their seats. This was classic Kotyk. If he was having a good day, there’d be a wisecrack, a whack, and a smile for each kid. If not, it would be just one wicked whack.
The entire ceremony was highly functional. First, it allowed Mr. Kotyk to kill 15 or 20 minutes of class time. Second, it must have seemed to him like a reasonable way to teach a room full of kids to behave themselves even when the teacher was out of the room. Today’s teachers and school administrators whine and moan weird stuff like, “oh, the teacher must never leave the room!” which, of course, I find absurd. Obviously, a sixth grade teacher must sometimes leave the room, if only to help students develop habits of self control.
Finally, the ceremony was a way of establishing a sense of classroom justice; for there were days when some of us did keep doing our work, while others had tried hard to get the damn flywheel spinning. If you were one of the mature, responsible kids, you felt a great sense of satisfaction to watch the festivities at the front of the room.
Mr. Kotyk demonstrated what I would call the artful use of corporal punishment, the pros and cons of which we can debate another day. One more thing—this wasn’t the only way Mr. Kotyk “killed time” in the afternoon. On nice spring days he’d take us out for an extra long recess to play softball. He’d pitch. It was good for all our souls.
Coming soon: Fire in the classroom; Safety Boy scandals; The Story of John and Barbara.
· Was it our sixth grade teacher Mr. Kotyk’s fascinating approach to pupil control?
· Was it because I was accused of unethical Safety Patrol behavior?
· That I nearly set the classroom on fire twice?
I overheard someone on TV say that girls matured sooner than boys. Impossible! I was totally mature! I wore white khakis and a no-collar shirt, the kind that buttoned from the chest up. I was able to describe everything that happened on Man from Uncle from the previous Friday night. I was reasonably good at 4-square. Oh, sure, I was a Boy Scout, but I seldom wore my uniform to school. In what possible way did I lack the maturity needed to get Michelle, or any suitable girl for that matter, to “like” me?
Maybe it was my shoddy approach to “learning.”
I was a “smart” kid in that I knew a lot of stuff. But, as I’ve said earlier, I seldom did homework or viewed it as any sort of imperative upon my valuable time. If the homework seemed interesting and did not cut into my street football or favorite TV show time, there was a reasonable probability that I would complete some of it. Scratch “reasonable.” Say “some.”
Perhaps the most amazing example of this was when our vocal music teacher, Mrs. Edwards, assigned us to make some kind of musical instrument. But I already had a guitar, a trumpet, and a piano at home and I really saw no reason to make some kind of dorky second rate noise maker. Oh yeah, I could have put beans in an oatmeal box and covered it with construction paper, but why? For a while, I considered making a sort of guitar out of cigar box and I went so far as to cut a hole in the lid.
That hole-in-top cigar box sat on a shelf at home for about a month, the length of time Mrs. Edwards had given us to complete this important assignment. Essentially, I had forgotten about the whole thing. The night before it was due, I realized that this was the night before it was due.
I took the cigar box to school the next day and to music class that afternoon. Mrs. Edwards asked each student to show off his/her product. When it was my turn, I stood up and demonstrated what a loud noise the box made when I slammed it, and I had the balls to add, “It wouldn’t make such a loud noise if I hadn’t cut a hole in the lid!”
I could almost see squiggly comic book lines of aggravation shooting from the head of this friendly, funny, sweet, and very talented teacher. “Roger,” she said in her deepest, most serious tone, “I’m very disappointed in you.” Fortunately, I think – I hope – this was the only time I upset her so.
On the other hand, my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Kotyk – I disappointed him lots of times. But given his sarcastic familiarity with the ways of 12-year old boys, he really might not have given a shit. Mr. Kotyk was funny and friendly, not like kindly Mrs. Edwards, but in a Greek, Polish, Romanian, Turkish, Son of Popeye, part-time bar tender at the local Elks Club sort of way. He was a tough old cuss who could pat you on the back one moment and give you a quick pop in the chops the next. I tended to get more pops than pats.
Example: Mr. Kotyk hated “long hair on boys,” meaning any hair he could see or pinch. When he wanted me to get a haircut, he didn’t make a request. He’d just yank the hank o’ hair above my ear and say something like, “If I can still do that on Monday, you’d better hope I’m not here!”
Example: My desk was usually a mess, filled with stuffed and bulging books and papers. Kotyk had a simple solution. He’d drag it out in the hall, dump it all over the place, and make me clean it up. Actually, I kind of enjoyed this. The peacefulness of the hallway made up for the brief moment of humiliation.
But now here’s the grand example of Mr. Kotyk’s unique approach to pupil control, an example that I still speak about with tremendous admiration to my Penn State education students. Allow me to set the scene.
It’s about 2:00. We’re supposed to be copying sentences from our language book, learning to write, “Pass the potatoes to me” instead of “Shoot me the potatoes.” The book had an illustration of a cowboy shooting his pal for having use the incorrect phrase. They don’t write ‘em like that anymore. Anyhow, it was always at this lazy boring afternoon moment when Mr. Kotyk would leave the room.
We didn’t know where he went. Maybe he went to the bathroom, maybe to make a phone call, maybe to sell insurance. Sometimes two minutes, sometimes twenty. Sometimes we’d sort of carry on with our work, but most of the time we’d start screwin’ around. Imagine a classroom as an engine and disruption as a flywheel. It takes some effort to get the initial gear moving. But when you get it going just right, all the other gears start to spin.
For example: Somebody’d say to Jeff Biggers, “do your Man from Uncle!” and he’d rearrange the parts of his pen, hold it up to his mouth, and say “open channel D!” Then all the boys would be take their pens apart and pretend to be Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin. Somebody’d make a fart noise or actually let one. Colleen Collins or Ruth Umstead would fall off her chair and the room would explode into sweet mayhem. Once again, however, we were doomed.
From out of nowhere, Mr. Kotyk would burst in and announce, “All the talkers come to the front of the room!” Because this would cause dead silence, one might think that we’d all be smart enough to just sit there and quietly go back to work. Yet inevitably, one or two of the good Catholic kids would slowly rise and walk to the front. That was bad enough, but then one of them – often my pal Johnny Kotlarczyk – would turn back to me and admonish, “Shouse! You were talking too!” Kotyk’s sardonic grin would hit me like a tractor beam. "C'mon up here, Shouse!"
So, what was in store for us? Long chalkboard pointer in hand, Kotyk stood at the head of the line. One by one he’d order the boys to bend over and the girls to extend their hand (except that one time when he was so pissed at Colleen Collins that he made her bend over too). Some days there’d be three or four kids up there. But on a really good day, there might be 20 or more and only three or four left in their seats. This was classic Kotyk. If he was having a good day, there’d be a wisecrack, a whack, and a smile for each kid. If not, it would be just one wicked whack.
The entire ceremony was highly functional. First, it allowed Mr. Kotyk to kill 15 or 20 minutes of class time. Second, it must have seemed to him like a reasonable way to teach a room full of kids to behave themselves even when the teacher was out of the room. Today’s teachers and school administrators whine and moan weird stuff like, “oh, the teacher must never leave the room!” which, of course, I find absurd. Obviously, a sixth grade teacher must sometimes leave the room, if only to help students develop habits of self control.
Finally, the ceremony was a way of establishing a sense of classroom justice; for there were days when some of us did keep doing our work, while others had tried hard to get the damn flywheel spinning. If you were one of the mature, responsible kids, you felt a great sense of satisfaction to watch the festivities at the front of the room.
Mr. Kotyk demonstrated what I would call the artful use of corporal punishment, the pros and cons of which we can debate another day. One more thing—this wasn’t the only way Mr. Kotyk “killed time” in the afternoon. On nice spring days he’d take us out for an extra long recess to play softball. He’d pitch. It was good for all our souls.
Coming soon: Fire in the classroom; Safety Boy scandals; The Story of John and Barbara.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Devil's Night
I guess I’ve been talking about Devil’s Night so much that the words to follow will seem anticlimactic. It’s not so much that I have some amazing story to tell about a particular Devil’s Night; I just want to explain how amazing it is to even have a Devil’s Night and why it’s such a shame we don’t seem to have one anymore.
You first have to understand that Halloween was not always a night of simple trick or treating. And to that end I highly recommend all readers to watch the movie, Meet Me in St. Louis. Among the many fascinating scenes of turn-of-the-last-century-life depicted in the film is one involving Halloween night. The kids in this middle class neighborhood have built a massive bonfire in the center of the street. They’re dragging all the wood they can find – old furniture, buggy parts, tree branches, whatever – into that flaming mess. Dressed in hobo clothes and masks, they talk over which kids will “take” which houses, and by “take” they mean “kill,” and by “kill” they mean…well, I don’t want to give it away. But the cool thing is that the adults in the neighborhood all seem to accept the fact that these young kids should be out building fires, ringing doorbells, and “killing” people after dark.
I’m not sure if I remember my first Halloween, though I do vaguely remember dressing up in a Mighty Mouse costume at age three. The following year I was a devil, but I think it was all hobos each and every year after that. My brother, our pals, and I would go out for what seemed like hours until we filled up a pillow case full of candy. Not crappy little snack sized Milky Ways, but the big ones (I think they cost a nickel back then). And there were homemade popcorn balls, cupcakes, even miniature loaves of Silver Cup Bread. We’d try to hit the “fancy” houses or the ones where we thought famous people lived. For example, quarterback Milt Plum’s house (his candy turned out to be nothing special) or WKNR disc jockey Swingin’ Sweeny (he handed out old 45 records). Then there was the year when neighborhood punk Jimmy Yeagley handed out Ex-Lax….
But though my Halloweens were great fun, we always talked about Devil’s Night and how “next year for sure” we would all go out the night before Halloween to soap windows, ring doorbells, and pull the flaming bag o’ crap on the front porch trick on Roy Meyer’s dad. But somehow we just never got around to it; that is, until that one year, I think it was 1966.
I’m pretty sure that Jeff Biggers, John Kotlarczyk, and I must have been daring each other all week that we wouldn’t be able to go out on Devil’s night. Jeff would razz Johnny, “you’re mommy and daddy won’t let you!” Johnny would insist on betting five dollars that they would, then quickly withdraw the offer. I wasn’t sure if my parents would let me go or not. I just assumed I’d walk out the door after dinner with a bar of soap and two rolls of toilet paper under my coat, hop the back fence, and blend into the dusky darkness.
That’s what I did. And as I did, my mom just gave me one of those looks that all at once said, ok, be careful, behave yourself.
After meeting Johnny in the little traffic island right in front of his house, we cut through Schwartz’s yard and headed to the “staging area” – the field. Jeff was there along with a few other guys (I don’t think any girls went out on Devil’s Night). After standing around wondering what to do next, we spotted Johnny Mason walking toward us from Michigan Avenue carrying two large grocery bags. Johnny was Charley Mason’s younger brother. Just to recap, Charley leaned psycho, Johnny leaned socio. Johnny was the kind of guy who’d play like a puppy one minute, then snap like a cat the next. I recall one day him sitting in front of me in junior high math class. He had tied several short pieces of black string together so that each of the residual tied ends stuck out about an inch. Turning to me, and while holding the entire two foot long string tautly with both hands, he cackled in a creepy witch-like voice, “Nice fresh barbedwire!”
So anyway, Johnny Mason walks up to us with these two large bags, sets them down on the dirt, starts pulling stuff out, and in a sing-song voice says, “Here’s one for you, and one for you, and one for….” They were cartons of eggs.
This next bit I’m still a bit ashamed about. After passing out what must have been a dozen cartons of eggs, Johnny Mason says, “now gentlemen, on to Nearman’s!” Recapping once again, Beth Nearman was a smart, friendly, precocious girl who, for reasons known only to the gods of cruel little boys, was frequently targeted. Alas, amidst the boy mob electric night excitement, we all agreed and followed.
It’s one thing to soap a few car windows and TP an occasional house. But when we got to Beth’s house it was like a junior version of one of those movie scenes where the crowd surrounds the jailhouse. Instead of torches and rope, we had eggs and Charmin. I threw several eggs at Nearman’s roof. I think Johnny Kotlarczyk, perhaps struck by the total wrongness of it all, decided not to throw any. I threw a roll of toilet paper. If done properly, it unrolls and “tents” the roof. My first effort failed, then someone showed me how to do it correctly, and the next one sailed over the house. Police cars were spotted in the distance. Dropping the rest of our eggs, Kotlarczyk and I ran two blocks back to his house. Standing beneath the crabapple trees that grew on the small traffic island, we caught our breath.
Down the street we could see what strikes me now as dozens of guys moving hither and yon. We heard the sounds and smelled the smoke of cherry bombs in the distance. For a 12 year old Roger, it was all hell breaking loose – and yet he was drawn to it.
But I snapped out of it as two things happened. First, Jeff Biggers comes running up and in his typical deadpan style says, “uh… [Charley] Mason and Yeagley are out with BB guns.” Jesus. The psycho and the punk, together, like an embryonic version of In Cold Blood’s Perry and Dick. Next, as I fathomed this bit of info, a police car rolled slowly past the traffic island. Under the streetlight, with his window down, the cop gave us a look much different than the one my mom had given me when I’d slipped out the back door. It was time to flee.
So I hear you ask, "How can this kind of activity have any kind of value whatsoever?" All I can say is that it was real life youth drama, the sort from which kids develop experience, independence, and a sense of moral agency. We learned how bad we could be and why it's usually better to be good. Yet, soaking in a nightful of risky freedom and figuring out for ourselves what to do with it, we felt the power and joy of disobedience. Where today can young people gather this knowledge?
Coming Soon: Mr. Kodyk and some Oxford summarizing.
You first have to understand that Halloween was not always a night of simple trick or treating. And to that end I highly recommend all readers to watch the movie, Meet Me in St. Louis. Among the many fascinating scenes of turn-of-the-last-century-life depicted in the film is one involving Halloween night. The kids in this middle class neighborhood have built a massive bonfire in the center of the street. They’re dragging all the wood they can find – old furniture, buggy parts, tree branches, whatever – into that flaming mess. Dressed in hobo clothes and masks, they talk over which kids will “take” which houses, and by “take” they mean “kill,” and by “kill” they mean…well, I don’t want to give it away. But the cool thing is that the adults in the neighborhood all seem to accept the fact that these young kids should be out building fires, ringing doorbells, and “killing” people after dark.
I’m not sure if I remember my first Halloween, though I do vaguely remember dressing up in a Mighty Mouse costume at age three. The following year I was a devil, but I think it was all hobos each and every year after that. My brother, our pals, and I would go out for what seemed like hours until we filled up a pillow case full of candy. Not crappy little snack sized Milky Ways, but the big ones (I think they cost a nickel back then). And there were homemade popcorn balls, cupcakes, even miniature loaves of Silver Cup Bread. We’d try to hit the “fancy” houses or the ones where we thought famous people lived. For example, quarterback Milt Plum’s house (his candy turned out to be nothing special) or WKNR disc jockey Swingin’ Sweeny (he handed out old 45 records). Then there was the year when neighborhood punk Jimmy Yeagley handed out Ex-Lax….
But though my Halloweens were great fun, we always talked about Devil’s Night and how “next year for sure” we would all go out the night before Halloween to soap windows, ring doorbells, and pull the flaming bag o’ crap on the front porch trick on Roy Meyer’s dad. But somehow we just never got around to it; that is, until that one year, I think it was 1966.
I’m pretty sure that Jeff Biggers, John Kotlarczyk, and I must have been daring each other all week that we wouldn’t be able to go out on Devil’s night. Jeff would razz Johnny, “you’re mommy and daddy won’t let you!” Johnny would insist on betting five dollars that they would, then quickly withdraw the offer. I wasn’t sure if my parents would let me go or not. I just assumed I’d walk out the door after dinner with a bar of soap and two rolls of toilet paper under my coat, hop the back fence, and blend into the dusky darkness.
That’s what I did. And as I did, my mom just gave me one of those looks that all at once said, ok, be careful, behave yourself.
After meeting Johnny in the little traffic island right in front of his house, we cut through Schwartz’s yard and headed to the “staging area” – the field. Jeff was there along with a few other guys (I don’t think any girls went out on Devil’s Night). After standing around wondering what to do next, we spotted Johnny Mason walking toward us from Michigan Avenue carrying two large grocery bags. Johnny was Charley Mason’s younger brother. Just to recap, Charley leaned psycho, Johnny leaned socio. Johnny was the kind of guy who’d play like a puppy one minute, then snap like a cat the next. I recall one day him sitting in front of me in junior high math class. He had tied several short pieces of black string together so that each of the residual tied ends stuck out about an inch. Turning to me, and while holding the entire two foot long string tautly with both hands, he cackled in a creepy witch-like voice, “Nice fresh barbedwire!”
So anyway, Johnny Mason walks up to us with these two large bags, sets them down on the dirt, starts pulling stuff out, and in a sing-song voice says, “Here’s one for you, and one for you, and one for….” They were cartons of eggs.
This next bit I’m still a bit ashamed about. After passing out what must have been a dozen cartons of eggs, Johnny Mason says, “now gentlemen, on to Nearman’s!” Recapping once again, Beth Nearman was a smart, friendly, precocious girl who, for reasons known only to the gods of cruel little boys, was frequently targeted. Alas, amidst the boy mob electric night excitement, we all agreed and followed.
It’s one thing to soap a few car windows and TP an occasional house. But when we got to Beth’s house it was like a junior version of one of those movie scenes where the crowd surrounds the jailhouse. Instead of torches and rope, we had eggs and Charmin. I threw several eggs at Nearman’s roof. I think Johnny Kotlarczyk, perhaps struck by the total wrongness of it all, decided not to throw any. I threw a roll of toilet paper. If done properly, it unrolls and “tents” the roof. My first effort failed, then someone showed me how to do it correctly, and the next one sailed over the house. Police cars were spotted in the distance. Dropping the rest of our eggs, Kotlarczyk and I ran two blocks back to his house. Standing beneath the crabapple trees that grew on the small traffic island, we caught our breath.
Down the street we could see what strikes me now as dozens of guys moving hither and yon. We heard the sounds and smelled the smoke of cherry bombs in the distance. For a 12 year old Roger, it was all hell breaking loose – and yet he was drawn to it.
But I snapped out of it as two things happened. First, Jeff Biggers comes running up and in his typical deadpan style says, “uh… [Charley] Mason and Yeagley are out with BB guns.” Jesus. The psycho and the punk, together, like an embryonic version of In Cold Blood’s Perry and Dick. Next, as I fathomed this bit of info, a police car rolled slowly past the traffic island. Under the streetlight, with his window down, the cop gave us a look much different than the one my mom had given me when I’d slipped out the back door. It was time to flee.
So I hear you ask, "How can this kind of activity have any kind of value whatsoever?" All I can say is that it was real life youth drama, the sort from which kids develop experience, independence, and a sense of moral agency. We learned how bad we could be and why it's usually better to be good. Yet, soaking in a nightful of risky freedom and figuring out for ourselves what to do with it, we felt the power and joy of disobedience. Where today can young people gather this knowledge?
Coming Soon: Mr. Kodyk and some Oxford summarizing.
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