This summer I briefly stepped away from writing my conclusion to
Rebel Puritan and
The Reputed Wife to write the following story. This is my offering for the 2014 Fulton Memoir Project, sponsored by the Fulton Public Library. The full memoir is available at Fulton's public library and the CNY Arts store.
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| Fulton's Erie Street School |
Fulton’s
Erie Street School looks like a great rectangular cake of yellow brick, but it
doesn’t bear much frosting. The building’s decorations consist of modest brick
panels reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Prairie period, and a concrete
egg-and-dart band bordering the flat roof. The school’s broad side parallels
Erie Street, and is pierced in the center by the teachers’ entrance.
I
don’t believe that I ever walked through the Teachers Door to climb the steep
wooden steps to the main floor. There are three sets of stairs in the building
– one on either side by the Girls and Boys Doors, and the teachers’ stairs. The
treads on all three flights are narrow, but wide, and stained a deep walnut hue,
along with the rest of the school’s wood floors and trim.
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| Down we go to Kindergarten |
Erie
Street School’s lowest story is nearly subterranean. During the first years I
attended the school (1959-1966), kindergarten was the only class down there. As
baby boomers swelled the school’s population, another class room was created
down in the basement, but I can’t remember whether the room was formerly a
cafeteria, or had another use. Shortly after I left for Jr. High, most fifth
and sixth graders were transferred to the larger Fairgrieve School to make even
more rooms for younger kids.
The
sunken kindergarten room has several windows facing the street, placed so high
on the wall that I had to stand on a chair to see the street. A lone window is
sited level with the sidewalk on the girls’ side of the building. I remember
concrete plates over each side door labeled Girls and Boys, but that seems to
be a false memory. Maybe they were replaced, but in 2014, there are windows
over the side doors.
We
didn’t need no stinking plaques to tell us which was the girls, and which was
the boys’ side of the school. Teachers enforced that separation rigorously.
However, distaff kindergarteners might have been allowed to enter the Girls Door,
where a quick right down a short flight of steps took the student to Mrs.
Close’s room. Either that, or boys took a passageway by the dimly lit janitor’s
domain, tucked in between the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms. The huffing boiler
and its sprawling ductwork looked like a giant octopus stood on its head.
Despite the ominous atmosphere, the janitor was a friendly guy.
Also
down in the basement were the restrooms. However, as instructed by the
teachers, we all asked to go to the basement. After all, it sounds more polite
than a trip to the toilet, or admitting to the world that one had to go Number Two.
However, in Jr. High I marked myself as an ‘Erie Streeter’ by asking about the
basement instead of the bathroom.
It
was in the girls’ bathroom that I learned that President John F. Kennedy had
been assassinated. I thought the girl who told me was wrong – it was Lincoln
who was shot. Yellow tile walls, and a white sink set a little too low to the
floor for a fifth-grader (but reachable by a five-year old). I looked in the mirror,
but at an angle, so it reflected more yellow tile instead of my face. The
disjointed tile walls and the roar of rushing water are what I recall as I
assimilated the shocking news.
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| A favorite toy |
|
I
very much enjoyed my kindergarten year, though I must have seemed reluctant to
go. I was late for school more often than not because I’d get absorbed in a
book at home, or dawdled on the one-block walk to Erie St. As I walked past the
kindergarten room windows – the last kid through the door by several minutes –
I could see that the best toys were already taken by my classmates. Never mind;
I’d pick up a book and play later.
Kay
Close had dark, curly hair, just like one of my aunts. To me she was the most
cheerful, motherly teacher imaginable. The first thing we learned was that when
Mrs. Close played a distinctive little two-step on her piano, it was time to
pay attention. Four notes rose and fell, over and over, until everyone had
gathered at her feet. My sister learned to play it, and confused her
classmates no end.
Kindergarten
was pretty easy. The biggest turmoil (apart than failing nap time) came when Mrs.
Close stood me in front of an easel. I enjoyed painting, but I’ve always
preferred work on a small scale. Today, most of my photos are close-ups. In
kindergarten I drew small figures, but Mrs. Close wouldn’t let me quit until
that huge swath of paper was filled. I got frustrated and covered the paper
with brown paint.
“What
is that?”
“A
sand storm.” I got away with a quickly-produced sand storm a couple of times
before it was forbidden. So, I painted a grass storm, and then a blood storm.
That raised some eyebrows until someone realized that I’d rather read or play than
paint. I promised to be more creative, and Mrs. Close was more liberal about
declaring me done.
In
first grade, I graduated to the main floor. Four classrooms sit on either side
of what seemed like a vast open space. The floor plan is the same on the second
floor, with the addition of the principal’s office perched over the main door.
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| Air raid drill |
Adjoining
each class was a cloak room; a narrow slot extending the width of the class
room. It had a row of coat hooks, and opened into the class room on either end.
During much of the Cold War, especially during the Cuban Missile crisis, we had
air-raid drills. The teacher shouted ‘air raid,’ we ran into the cloak rooms,
and hid our heads under our coats. Our little bottoms protruded unprotected, so
I guess we could kiss them goodbye.
I
didn’t understand why the Russians wanted to incinerate us, but we all had to
be prepared, so Fulton tested their air-raid sirens weekly. They made me
nervous, for I figured that if the Russians wanted to catch us unaware, they
would drop their bombs during the tests, when nobody would pay attention to the
sirens. Preferring to face death to being blindsided, I walked around our house
and yard while the sirens blared, and the world seemed brighter when the sound
died away, but I was still alive.
My
first grade teacher was Mrs. Helen Wilson. She was young and blond, and a nice
lady. My biggest friction with her came over that same big piece of paper. Write:
1 + 4 = 5 4 + 1 = 5 5 – 1 = 4
5 – 4 = 1. Repeat them in columns until the sheet is full. My
handwriting is small. The other kids filled their sheet fast and went out to
recess while I was still writing. I could have made big, sprawling numbers, but
that felt dishonest. One day I got frustrated, stuffed it in my desk, and told
Mrs. Wilson I couldn’t find it. She did, and told me to go home and tell my
mother. So, I did.
My
sister’s first grade teacher, Mrs. McCaffrey, was the starchy old lady
schoolmarm of stereotype. She was
competent, but also told my sister’s class that each time they watched a
program like Bonanza , a little poison
slid through their veins, and a little more, and …. That was strong stuff for
first graders.
In
second grade Mrs. Helen Murphy got library privileges for me two years early. At
Fulton’s lovely Carnegie library I had already learned the joy of picking out
books to take home. Erie Street had a whole different collection. Dodie Smith’s
book, The 101 Dalmations, which
inspired Disney. Children’s versions of the Iliad
and Odyssey. D’aulaires Greek Mythology. Throughout grade school, I kept an open
book in my desk and slid it into my lap during slow moments. I can’t tell you
how many times I was busted for that over the years, or for penciling horses
and dinosaurs on my desk. My mom got me an extra-big eraser.
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| Ruth Kitney |
Third
grade: Ah, that was the year of Mrs. Kitney. Ruth Kitney is a superstar of my thirteen
years in Fulton’s school system. A year earlier, I butted heads with Mrs.
Murphy over multiplying and dividing with zero. As far as I was concerned, nothing
was happening to that number, so it should remain the same. Mrs. Murphy said,
“No, it’s zero,” and that was that. It took my first 0 on a test to convince me
to knuckle under, and make my result that same big round 0.
Mrs.
Kitney never presented us with that blank wall of Because I Say So. She had good explanations for everything, she was
patient, and she was fun. Plus, she presented us with great class room
projects. Nobody else baked bread and whipped up homemade butter in class – and
taught us fractions in the process.
For
third grade and above, I climbed to the second floor. The principal’s office
was also up here, in a tiny room wedged between the fifth and sixth grade
classrooms. Miss Ada Aylesworth was Erie Street’s principal, and she had
another iron maiden’s reputation.
The principal has a spanking
machine in her office!
That was one of the first rumors I heard in kindergarten. As it turns out, it’s
not uncommon. My partner says that his Kansas City, Missouri grade school principal
also had one. Nobody had actually seen it, but we all knew that it was there.
My mother, Carrie Butler, also went to Erie Street, but her principal was
rumored to have a rubber hose. Literal child that she was, Mom couldn’t
understand why the other kids worried about getting squirted.
If
there really was a spanking machine, I was confident that it would never be
used on me. I knew Miss Aylesworth from church, and she was a sweet old lady. I
relished my secret knowledge, and never let on that our principal was a pussy
cat behind her fierce reputation.
The
school nurse shared an office with Miss Aylesworth, and once or twice a year,
the school doctor made a house visit. Dr. McGovern sat at a table in the
nurse’s office, and checked us over for what problems could be uncovered in a
two-minute appraisal. We were separated by sex, then we girls stripped to our
undies in one of the cloakrooms and paraded across the great hall to the
nurse’s office. Boys were confined to class, but at least one could be relied
on to slip out and catcall at us red-faced girls. Given a chance, most girls
would return the favor when it was the boys’ turn to visit Dr. “Coldfinger,” as
he was known after 1964 (Think James Bond).
Miss
Mangeot was my next teacher – or was it Mrs. Mangeot? I had one of them for
fourth grade, and one for fifth. I confused them then, and fifty years later, my confusion is far worse.
A
pivotal life moment arrived in fourth grade, though it took me a while to recognize
it. Fulton had an amazing music department. Jose Azcue came once a week to lead
us in song and teach us a little Spanish. Those classes were even better than
reading a book sneaked into my lap. Another traveling teacher, Miss Mary Towse,
also led songs. She equipped her students with wood blocks, jingle bells, and
the like. We all loved her, and were delighted to find her teaching music in
Jr. High.
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| Richard Swierczek |
Richard
Swierczek, former head of Fulton’s music department, says that he began bringing
musical instruments into elementary schools in the 50s (I don’t remember seeing
them, but they would have impressed me). Mr. Swierczek and Mr. Azcue built an
amazing musical education machine in Fulton. Fine teachers at the Elementary,
Jr. High, and Sr. High level turned out scads of skilled instrumental and vocal
musicians, and reached an apex when the G. Ray Bodley band competed in a 1972 music
festival in Vienna, Austria.
I
don’t remember who asked me if I wanted to get tested for band in fourth grade.
From my sister’s description, it was Mr. Bales, the Beginner Band teacher, who
did the test. He put earphones on me, played two notes, asked which was higher
or lower, then another two, and another. It was ridiculously easy. Then I was
informed that I could join the Beginner Band and asked, What do you want to play?
My
parents loved classical music and so did I, but without knowing a thing about
band instruments, I had no answer. I was assigned to the clarinet section. A
friend of mine refers to the instrument as “the Devil’s toenails,” and Lord, is
that true for the instrument in the hands of a beginner. However, learning to
finger the notes – and to control them – intrigued me. As the year passed and
Mr. Bales taught us our craft, the band sounded better and better. Plus, we
musicians got out of school for a couple of hours. Once a week we were bused
over to Lanigan School to practice with Mr. Bales. We played year-round, but I
didn’t mind because I loved band.
I
don’t remember anyone excused from Erie Street for team sports, but during the
winter our classes were bused to Fairgrieve to play in the gym. Fall, winter,
and spring we had recess outside, unless our oft-challenging winter weather
cranked up. An asphalt pad was laid around three sides of the building. On the
girls’ side, only girls were allowed; the same went for the boys’ side, and the
segregation was enforced by teachers.
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| Mad Rush's field of dreams |
The
back of the school was for everyone; both the level asphalt next to the
building, and the ‘playground.’ That was a field about sixty feet long and thirty
wide, surfaced with crushed cinders. It sat in a depression behind the school,
fenced off from the outside world by chain link, and with steep hills on two
sides. The lot looked more like an industrial disaster site than a playground. In
2014, it’s a paved parking lot, but this is where we played Mad Rush.
One
of the older kids is picked to be It.
Everyone else piles up at the high end, squished against the chain link atop a
steep grassy slope (8’ high, 10’ tops). It
yells, “Mad Rush!” and we all race downhill and across the cinders to the chain
link at the far end. Whoever It
touches en route also becomes It. We
pile up at the hill, and do it again. Whoever is left untouched at the end is
the winner. I was little, but quick, and though I was absolutely forbidden by
my mother to play Mad Rush, I won a
few times (and nursed many cinder burns).
The
other Mangeot was my fifth grade teacher. I’m not sure whether it was in fifth
or sixth grade, but a few of us were assigned projects for the Science Fair. We
divided into groups of three, and made anatomical studies of painted clay. One
group did the heart, lungs, and circulatory system. Cool. Another made a brain
and nervous system. Really cool!
My
group was told to make kidneys and a bladder. No, we couldn’t do something
else. My urinary tract team cringed in embarrassment, but did as we were told,
and stood miserably by our pathetic product at the science fair.
The
best thing about fifth grade was still band. I moved up to Elementary Band this
year, also played at Lanigan with Mr. Bales. We fifth graders had been playing
our instruments for a year, and the sixth graders in the group were old hands.
New instruments were in our midst as well. There were trombones and French
horns, saxophones and oboes, and best of all, bass clarinets.
I was
an uninspired clarinetist, mired in the third section and playing perpetual
harmony to the melody-rich first clarinets and flutes. But, at the end of the
row, there was the luscious deep-throated bass clarinet, played by a sixth
grader. I spent all year with my head turned sideways, grooving on that lovely
bass clarinet. I had my fingers crossed for sixth grade.
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| Jo Ann and Blayne Webb |
I
looked forward to my final year at Erie Street for another reason. The sixth
grade teacher was Blayne Webb. He was funny and well-liked by the students, but
he was a no-nonsense man. He’d lost fingers and part of one thumb in an
industrial accident, but that hand was still nimble, and oh, was it strong! I
wouldn’t want to be the misbehaving kid with an ear grabbed by Mr. Webb.
However, I was sure that wouldn’t happen to me. My family had known the Webbs
for years. They lived a couple of houses away from us, we played with their
sons, and all shared picnics and went on short trips together.
Sixth
grade arrived, and I excitedly took a chair in Mr. Webb’s class. He and I made an understanding,
just as he did with her. No favorites, and no nonsense. No
favorites indeed! Remember SRAs? I think their title was Serialized Reading
Assignments. The stories were color coded from red and yellow, up to silver and
gold. You had to read the first booklet, answer far too many questions, and
finish all the stories on one level before you could go to the next. Those red
and yellow stories were boring compared to the stuff I brought to school with
me, and they weren’t required reading.
I
really wanted to see the fabulous stories those gold and silver envelopes surely
held, but couldn’t force myself through the first levels, and the teachers
wouldn’t let me skip ahead. Mr. Webb was my best, and final hope, but he wouldn’t
let me skip either. Were those golden stories the Harry Potter of my day? I’ll never know.
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| Jo Ann and Morticia |
I
didn’t need a gold SRA to make this my best year so far. During the first week of
school band, the director Mr. Bales told me, “You’ll get your bass clarinet on
Monday.” So, he had noticed his 3rd seat, 3rd clarinetist
playing with one eye on the bass. The instrument was almost as tall as me, and
it was a year before I didn’t need to perch on a telephone book to reach the
mouthpiece. I told my brother that “you have to blow your guts out” to play the
bass clarinet, but it was a labor of love, and still is today.
Halfway
through my sixth grade year, Miss Aylesworth retired and Erie Street School got
a new principal. I still wasn’t scared of him, for he was Blayne Webb.
In
retrospect, this isn’t so much a story about Erie Street School, as about a
single student’s passage through it. I began by hurrying through the Girls Door
as a tardy kindergartner. Seven years later I carried my beloved bass clarinet
through the same door for the last time, and bid goodbye to familiar teachers. Junior
High lay ahead, with all-new types of book-learning, its social pitfalls, and the
moments of joy.
Did
I ever sneak in through the Boys Door?
Of
course.
Sources:
Photos by author
http://www.syracuse.com/kirst/index.ssf/2012/11/at_101_eyesight_gone_but_livin.html
