I just learned that one of my friends from the old neighborhood passed away in 2001. Bill Wargo lived on the corner of Whittier Place and Riverdale Drive, sort of across the fence from John Kotlarczyk, who, of course, lived across my back fence. I can’t remember when I first met Bill, but when I did, it probably had something to do with bobcat blood.
Bill told me that you had to drink bobcat blood before you could become a Cub Scout. He would know, since he was a year older than me and his dad was the pack leader.
I was dying to join the Cub Scouts. My brother had been one before he moved on to the Boy Scouts. I had all his Cub Scout books-Wolf, Bear, Lion-and had been scouring through them for months before my 8th birthday. I was in kid heaven thinking of all the badges I could earn.
Bobcat was the lowest Cub Scout rank. It was a cool little bronze medal, and when you got it, Bill’s dad pinned it on you in front of the whole pack and all the parents on the stage in the Kentucky Fried Chicken smelling basement of Cherry Hill United Presbyterian Church. But first you had to drink bobcat blood. I did, and it tasted like tomato juice with hot sauce.
They put me in Den 6 and once a week, Bill and I would walk over to Steve Bingham’s house. Steve was a trip, the likes of which space will not permit me to explain, and I sort of mean that in a good way. Anyhow, we’d do all the Cub Scout stuff (make clove apples, fried marble jewelry, macaroni ashtrays, etc.) then get juice and cookies. Six months later, Bill’s mom became Den Mother. It was at a Den meeting at Bill’s house in October, 1962 when I learned the Ford Rotunda burned down. There would be no field trip.
About a year and a half later, Bill did something that changed the way I look at this world, the way I look at schools, kids, and even my job as an education professor at Penn State. Well, ok, I exaggerate a little, but as Christopher Robin once said, “bear with me.”
It was early summer, 1964, and Bill calls me up and asks, “do you want to ride the bus to Hudson’s tomorrow?” J. L. Hudson’s was the biggest department store in Detroit—twelve stories of everything and twelve miles from the corner of Michigan Avenue and Gulley Road. I really never thought my parents would let me go—a ten and eleven year old kid riding the bus alone and spending the day roaming downtown Detroit—but they did.
Bill and I caught the Wayne bus at about 8:00 AM and rode it all the way to the last stop at Adams Street. Bill must have done this before because he knew that our first stop would be at the nearby Quickie Cafeteria for donuts and—I’m pretty sure—coffee, the first time I ever bought coffee anywhere. The bus cost 40 cents, the donut and coffee maybe another 20.
From there we walked over to Hudson’s. What a beautiful building! Huge revolving doors pulled us into a vast shopping space as large as a train station; elevators with uniformed men and women asking for your floor, sliding a brass lever to shut a massive brass cage of a door. Bill said we should get off at the mezzanine. What the hell was that? Bill said it was like the second floor, but that there was also another second floor, which was the real second floor. Yeah, it all made sense.
I only remember two things I really wanted to shop for. One was stamps. Hudson’s had a great little philately department tucked away, almost hidden, between two sections of the building. The other thing I really wanted was a copy of the new Jan and Dean single, Dead Man’s Curve b/w New Girl in School. For those of you under 40, a “single” was a 45 rpm record, a thin vinyl disk with a big hole in the middle that you played on something called a “phonograph,” or perhaps a “stereo.” The abbreviation “b/w” – I have no idea, maybe “backed with.” Who knows?
I think Hudson’s record department was on the fifth floor. You could ask to listen to the record before you bought it and there were phonographs and headphones at various stations around the shop. I really wanted Dead Man’s Curve, a song most of you have heard about a drag race tragedy, which contains the spoken line, “well, the last thing I remember, doc, I started to swerve….” But alas, they were totally sold out. Bummer.
It was lunch time and Bill knew where to go. He said we could eat in the famous J. L. Hudson restaurant, but he knew something even better. We left Hudson’s, walked north on Woodward Avenue, and after a block or so turned right. “This is it,” Bill said, “The Flaming Embers.”
The Flaming Embers was a cafeteria style steakhouse about half the size of your local Denny’s. For a buck forty-nine you got a sirloin steak, salad, baked potato, Texas toast, and a drink. As the name implies, they cooked your steak to order over an open fire. It was the first time I ever ordered steak. I don’t think I even liked steak that much back then, but when you’re a kid on your own, twelve miles from home, everything you pay for yourself tastes furtively delicious.
Not long after that, we took the bus back home and you must be wondering why this was such a landmark experience for me. Can’t you tell? Have you not yet figured out the meaning of the Four Trees?
One summer day about six or seven years ago, my daughter, Eva Mei, and her friend Louise were sitting around our front porch like two bored little girls, because that’s what they were, seven and eight, with nothing to do. I asked, “why don’t you walk over to Wal-Mart?” They gave me a look signifying that (A) they hadn’t understood me or (B) I was crazy. I continued. “It’s not that far and you can take my cell phone. Just be sure to cross Atherton at the light.”
Wal-Mart was maybe a mile away and I was sure they could handle it. But they just kept looking at me like I was making some kind of sick twisted joke. Finally, Louise said, “I don’t think my parents will let me cross Atherton.” Well, you know, when you’re a parent, and your kid’s friend says something like that you can’t push back too much. So, I backed off a bit and told them the story of my trips to Detroit with Bill.
What’s that? You say times have changed? I say they haven’t. Only parents and kids have changed.
Coming soon: I’ve got to talk about Devil’s Night, Mrs. Shay, Sixth Grade, and English Leather.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Place we could All Go
It’s fifth grade, the wild and wiggly grade. Boys are getting horny and they don’t even know why. Girls know why but keep the secret masked in giggly whispers. Every fifth grade class is a crazytown underground of bubbling pre-teen steam. And it takes a careful hand on the controls to keep the whole thing from blowing up. Our fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Berry, managed fairly well most of the time. But then there was that one day.
First a little bit about Mrs. Berry. If she wasn’t our teacher, most of boys would have said she was a beautiful blond. A couple of years before we got into her class she had married Mr. Berry, the playground guy who I mentioned earlier organized those massive football games at recess. Most of the time she was pretty nice and a pretty good teacher. But it usually didn’t take long for us to get her all pissed off. Her cheeks would puff up, she’d give an icy glare, and speak in a low slow rolling voice of doom.
It was 1964. Goldwater vs. Johnson. I don’t even remember who I voted for in our mock election. But I remember Mrs. Berry writing something amusing on the chalkboard: BaAuH2o; which you chemical historians out there should recognize as the losing candidate’s name. Mrs. Berry also made us memorize the names of all the states and their capitals. I loved it. I got a 100% on the test, though I’m sure some of those places are gone now or have moved elsewhere.
Anyhow, the following events took place probably in the early spring of 1965. I’m really not sure, but it’s been early spring here for the last several weeks and everyone is sick, tired, and depressed. So, I’m just inferring it must have been like that then, too.
It seemed like a dark day. We’d had a number of tornado and nuclear war drills in the recent weeks. Mrs. Berry’s room was in the basement of Oxford, just down the hall from the boiler room. Whenever we had a drill we’d head to the hall and students would line up and lean their arms and heads against the lockers. Then another line of students would lean their arms and heads against them. If you were lucky, and if you were a boy, you got to lean against Rosanne, Wendy, or Barbara. If it was a real storm or a real nuclear attack, we’d stay out in the hall for up to an hour until the tornados or missiles passed over into Canada or Ohio.
We’d just had one of these drills and had gone back into the classroom. Mrs. Berry was trying to settle us down. Right about then our principal, Mrs. Cotter, popped into the room, said hello, and motioned Mrs. Berry to the hall. I really don’t know how the fracas started. Usually what would happen was that Sam would make some crack about Colleen. She’d tell Sam to shut up. He’d say “make me” and start with that stupid bully snickering laugh. Someone would throw something. Jeff would start up with his Louis Armstrong impersonation. Some girl would start writing on the chalkboard. Like steam blowing a hole in the floor, the room would burst into noise and nonsense.
After about ten minutes of this, Mrs. Berry walked in slowly with her guns drawn, glaring at us like a modern day female Lucas McCain. There was sudden silence. I don’t remember all the words she said next. They had something to do with how rude and childish we were, how much we had embarrassed her, and how ashamed we should be. EV-ery OTH-er SYL-lable was EM-phasized like when Captain Kirk kicked the Klingon off the cliff in Search for Spock and said, “I have had e-NOUGH of YOU!”
She really had had enough of us. She said a bunch more words, then paused, then glared harder, and finally said, “and you can all go to hell.” Then she walked out of the room.
Within moments we were sort of in hell, if hell means weeping and gnashing of teeth. I mean, several girls did begin to cry. Sam snickered and a teary-eyed Colleen told him to shut up. Johnny Kotlarczyk, my good Catholic pal, was telling everyone how bad they had been. I just kind of sat there stunned and wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Berry was fired.
Strange thing was, nearly every kid in the room seemed to think we had deserved Mrs. Berry’s harsh words. After about five minutes she came back into the room and quietly sat at her desk. Three or four girls walked up to her, put their arms around her, and sobbed, “we’re so sorry Mrs. Berry!” A couple of boys said the same thing, and soon there was a line of kids up there wanting to give her a hug. Not me. I liked her, but I didn’t love her.
Mrs. Berry was not fired and no one ever spoke of this again.
Coming soon: My Friend Bill, Devils Night, Mrs. Shay Turns against me, and Starting the Room on Fire.
First a little bit about Mrs. Berry. If she wasn’t our teacher, most of boys would have said she was a beautiful blond. A couple of years before we got into her class she had married Mr. Berry, the playground guy who I mentioned earlier organized those massive football games at recess. Most of the time she was pretty nice and a pretty good teacher. But it usually didn’t take long for us to get her all pissed off. Her cheeks would puff up, she’d give an icy glare, and speak in a low slow rolling voice of doom.
It was 1964. Goldwater vs. Johnson. I don’t even remember who I voted for in our mock election. But I remember Mrs. Berry writing something amusing on the chalkboard: BaAuH2o; which you chemical historians out there should recognize as the losing candidate’s name. Mrs. Berry also made us memorize the names of all the states and their capitals. I loved it. I got a 100% on the test, though I’m sure some of those places are gone now or have moved elsewhere.
Anyhow, the following events took place probably in the early spring of 1965. I’m really not sure, but it’s been early spring here for the last several weeks and everyone is sick, tired, and depressed. So, I’m just inferring it must have been like that then, too.
It seemed like a dark day. We’d had a number of tornado and nuclear war drills in the recent weeks. Mrs. Berry’s room was in the basement of Oxford, just down the hall from the boiler room. Whenever we had a drill we’d head to the hall and students would line up and lean their arms and heads against the lockers. Then another line of students would lean their arms and heads against them. If you were lucky, and if you were a boy, you got to lean against Rosanne, Wendy, or Barbara. If it was a real storm or a real nuclear attack, we’d stay out in the hall for up to an hour until the tornados or missiles passed over into Canada or Ohio.
We’d just had one of these drills and had gone back into the classroom. Mrs. Berry was trying to settle us down. Right about then our principal, Mrs. Cotter, popped into the room, said hello, and motioned Mrs. Berry to the hall. I really don’t know how the fracas started. Usually what would happen was that Sam would make some crack about Colleen. She’d tell Sam to shut up. He’d say “make me” and start with that stupid bully snickering laugh. Someone would throw something. Jeff would start up with his Louis Armstrong impersonation. Some girl would start writing on the chalkboard. Like steam blowing a hole in the floor, the room would burst into noise and nonsense.
After about ten minutes of this, Mrs. Berry walked in slowly with her guns drawn, glaring at us like a modern day female Lucas McCain. There was sudden silence. I don’t remember all the words she said next. They had something to do with how rude and childish we were, how much we had embarrassed her, and how ashamed we should be. EV-ery OTH-er SYL-lable was EM-phasized like when Captain Kirk kicked the Klingon off the cliff in Search for Spock and said, “I have had e-NOUGH of YOU!”
She really had had enough of us. She said a bunch more words, then paused, then glared harder, and finally said, “and you can all go to hell.” Then she walked out of the room.
Within moments we were sort of in hell, if hell means weeping and gnashing of teeth. I mean, several girls did begin to cry. Sam snickered and a teary-eyed Colleen told him to shut up. Johnny Kotlarczyk, my good Catholic pal, was telling everyone how bad they had been. I just kind of sat there stunned and wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Berry was fired.
Strange thing was, nearly every kid in the room seemed to think we had deserved Mrs. Berry’s harsh words. After about five minutes she came back into the room and quietly sat at her desk. Three or four girls walked up to her, put their arms around her, and sobbed, “we’re so sorry Mrs. Berry!” A couple of boys said the same thing, and soon there was a line of kids up there wanting to give her a hug. Not me. I liked her, but I didn’t love her.
Mrs. Berry was not fired and no one ever spoke of this again.
Coming soon: My Friend Bill, Devils Night, Mrs. Shay Turns against me, and Starting the Room on Fire.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Narrative Place Holder Chapter
It’s not that I don’t have a lot more to say. It’s just that it’s hard to organize it all into neat little chapter units with clever little titles. But the important thing is to keep writing, right?
Oxford was a “traditional” school. We did mostly book work, but with a lot of loosely structured “enrichment” type activity, some of which is quite rare in today’s schools. For example, beginning around 3rd grade, we’d get “book report” assignments—but we were allowed to pick any book we wanted. Teachers would march us to the library and basically turn us loose for 45 minutes to find some interesting book. We got a lot of “project” work—making African masks out of paper-mache or a llama out of wire and cotton batten. Once Mrs. Powers had us growing bacteria on petri dishes filled with unflavored gelatin. Up to that point, I had never heard of unflavored gelatin, and the very idea amused me more than the ugly spores we grew.
We had ample art and music at Oxford, each one at least twice a week. Mrs. Edwards became our music teacher after 3rd grade (replacing kindly old Mrs. Hood). At least once a year she’d bring in her huge orchestra quality xylophone and play for us amazingly—holding 3 or 4 beaters in each hand. I can’t remember our art teacher’s name, but she was truly an “art teacher” with all the flamboyance one might imagine.
Our teachers gave us a good deal of “free time” during the day. Often that was so we could finish our leftover work from the day, but if we had already done it or most of it, we could read or take a sheet of manila paper and draw to our hearts’ content. Sam, Tim, and Bob were the best of the boy artists, filling their paper with beautiful drawings of tanks, war planes, soldiers, and dinosaurs. I could barely begin to match their work, but by trying I learned a lot about 3-D drawing and perspective. Today, it’s unlikely that many, if any, teachers would give students this kind of free time.
So, while Oxford teachers tended toward traditional modes of instruction, they must have also realized that they just couldn’t fill up a whole day or week with all that crap. This is why I claim today that Oxford, with all its old ways, offered students a lot more “free space” than most schools today. I’ve already mentioned the snowball area, the massive amounts of recess, and the four trees. Did I mention how those with enough courage were allowed to climb to the top of the monkey bars and stand freely into the air? Wendy Doll (her real name) did once fall to the ground, and did break her back. Her friend Cassie Sweet (her real name) ran to get the teacher. We watched out our classroom window as an ambulance took her away. Some of the girls cried. But Wendy was back in school 6 weeks later.
A few years ago, when she was in 2nd grade, my daughter came home and reported that it had been decided at her fancy, frilly, trendy school that students could no longer play tag at recess. Wait—they couldn’t even call it “recess.” Since the state had determined that “recess” could not be considered “instructional time,” schools across the state were now calling it “directed play.” God, what a terribly chilling name! Anyhow, my daughter said that the reason for the tag ban was something like, “there are so many trees! So many roots! Someone will surely trip over them!” I told my daughter that she would never get in trouble with me for breaking that rule and that if enough kids did so, the rule would eventually fade away.
“Yeah,” she replied. “That’s sort of what we’re doing.”
A few years back in a town far away, an 11 year-old girl was suspended for persisting in doing cartwheels on the playground even after her principal had decided to ban them. At the time I said “bravo” to the girl and “bravo” to all boys and girls who break silly rules. Just a few days ago I read where a middle school principal had ordered all students to henceforth refrain from touching each other in any way. I like to think that were I a student there, I’d organize a massive group hand shake the very next day. See? You’ve got me started. Got me drifting away from Oxford School and writing about the need for every child to be taught or somehow learn a healthy disrespect for authority. See the film Rabbit Proof Fence and you’ll further understand why this is so critical. Why is it so neglected today?
One last soapbox remark before putting this chapter to bed. Though I fear I’ll sound like Grandpa Simpson, today’s young kids are missing three things we had plenty of: freedom, space, and informal interaction. They lack it at home and they lack it at school. Parents and teachers are apparently afraid to let their children roam free. But I put it to you—if youngsters seldom get to experience freedom, won’t they fail to appreciate it as adults?
Coming Soon: Mrs. Shay, Hell, Devil's Night, Classroom Fires, Corporal Punishment, and More!
Oxford was a “traditional” school. We did mostly book work, but with a lot of loosely structured “enrichment” type activity, some of which is quite rare in today’s schools. For example, beginning around 3rd grade, we’d get “book report” assignments—but we were allowed to pick any book we wanted. Teachers would march us to the library and basically turn us loose for 45 minutes to find some interesting book. We got a lot of “project” work—making African masks out of paper-mache or a llama out of wire and cotton batten. Once Mrs. Powers had us growing bacteria on petri dishes filled with unflavored gelatin. Up to that point, I had never heard of unflavored gelatin, and the very idea amused me more than the ugly spores we grew.
We had ample art and music at Oxford, each one at least twice a week. Mrs. Edwards became our music teacher after 3rd grade (replacing kindly old Mrs. Hood). At least once a year she’d bring in her huge orchestra quality xylophone and play for us amazingly—holding 3 or 4 beaters in each hand. I can’t remember our art teacher’s name, but she was truly an “art teacher” with all the flamboyance one might imagine.
Our teachers gave us a good deal of “free time” during the day. Often that was so we could finish our leftover work from the day, but if we had already done it or most of it, we could read or take a sheet of manila paper and draw to our hearts’ content. Sam, Tim, and Bob were the best of the boy artists, filling their paper with beautiful drawings of tanks, war planes, soldiers, and dinosaurs. I could barely begin to match their work, but by trying I learned a lot about 3-D drawing and perspective. Today, it’s unlikely that many, if any, teachers would give students this kind of free time.
So, while Oxford teachers tended toward traditional modes of instruction, they must have also realized that they just couldn’t fill up a whole day or week with all that crap. This is why I claim today that Oxford, with all its old ways, offered students a lot more “free space” than most schools today. I’ve already mentioned the snowball area, the massive amounts of recess, and the four trees. Did I mention how those with enough courage were allowed to climb to the top of the monkey bars and stand freely into the air? Wendy Doll (her real name) did once fall to the ground, and did break her back. Her friend Cassie Sweet (her real name) ran to get the teacher. We watched out our classroom window as an ambulance took her away. Some of the girls cried. But Wendy was back in school 6 weeks later.
A few years ago, when she was in 2nd grade, my daughter came home and reported that it had been decided at her fancy, frilly, trendy school that students could no longer play tag at recess. Wait—they couldn’t even call it “recess.” Since the state had determined that “recess” could not be considered “instructional time,” schools across the state were now calling it “directed play.” God, what a terribly chilling name! Anyhow, my daughter said that the reason for the tag ban was something like, “there are so many trees! So many roots! Someone will surely trip over them!” I told my daughter that she would never get in trouble with me for breaking that rule and that if enough kids did so, the rule would eventually fade away.
“Yeah,” she replied. “That’s sort of what we’re doing.”
A few years back in a town far away, an 11 year-old girl was suspended for persisting in doing cartwheels on the playground even after her principal had decided to ban them. At the time I said “bravo” to the girl and “bravo” to all boys and girls who break silly rules. Just a few days ago I read where a middle school principal had ordered all students to henceforth refrain from touching each other in any way. I like to think that were I a student there, I’d organize a massive group hand shake the very next day. See? You’ve got me started. Got me drifting away from Oxford School and writing about the need for every child to be taught or somehow learn a healthy disrespect for authority. See the film Rabbit Proof Fence and you’ll further understand why this is so critical. Why is it so neglected today?
One last soapbox remark before putting this chapter to bed. Though I fear I’ll sound like Grandpa Simpson, today’s young kids are missing three things we had plenty of: freedom, space, and informal interaction. They lack it at home and they lack it at school. Parents and teachers are apparently afraid to let their children roam free. But I put it to you—if youngsters seldom get to experience freedom, won’t they fail to appreciate it as adults?
Coming Soon: Mrs. Shay, Hell, Devil's Night, Classroom Fires, Corporal Punishment, and More!
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