*                *                *                *                *                *

My dad had a tube type AM radio near the bed, and I would lie on the bed some evenings and just turned the dial to see what I could find.  One night I stumbled across WLAC from Nashville Tennessee.  WLAC was the station that was owned by the Life and Casualty insurance company out of Nashville, who marketed cheap life-insurance policies to black people across the South. The policies were the kind that charged 50 cents a week or so, and paid for a good funeral after your demise. Since they were selling to black people they played black music, mostly blues, featuring artists such as Howling Wolf and Muddy Waters. The music was about unfaithful women, picking cotton, poverty, death -- you know, all of the things that an adolescent white male in Waukesha Wisconsin is familiar with. I fell in love with the music and the names of the performers (Muddy Waters – how cool is that?) for some stupid reason, and still love to listen to the blues. Although it is almost completely irrelevant to my life, I find it incredibly appealing then and now.

WLAC had a wonderful disc jockey who went by the name of John R. Many years later I found out to my surprise that John R. was a white man, just another white man who made a damn good living off of black people's music. I don't care; John R. was cool and taught me to love this wonderful American art form called the blues.

*               *                   *                *
In high school I was nuts about custom cars (spelled Kustom Kars) and hot rods.  I had a subscription to Hot Rod Magazine in high school. It was published in a small format probably 5 by 8 inches, so you can hide it conveniently in a textbook while you were in class, and you could be pretending to read the textbook while the teacher could pretend to be fooled by the stupid subterfuge.

One day I was walking past the Dale Chevrolet used-car lot in Waukesha and they had a 1935 Ford two-door sedan for sale.  I asked how much they wanted for it, and the guy said $35.  This sounded like the greatest bargain in the history of the world, so I went home and somehow scraped up the money and somehow scraped up permission to buy it, and went back the next day and consummated the transaction.  The vehicle was in remarkably good condition for a 22 year old automobile.  The floorboard had rusted out and someone had painted the fenders aqua marine with a paint brush, but other than that it was OK.

I picked up the car on Friday, and, since I didn't have a driver's license, I had my friend John drive the car.  Instead of taking it right home as we should've, we picked up a couple of my friends and proceeded to drive around Waukesha. John went down Grand Avenue in Waukesha, but what he didn't know was that the last block of Grand Avenue was a one-way street and he, of course, was going the wrong way.  All the guys in the car were screaming at him to stop, but I guess he just thought that was part of the general hilarity of the evening and continued down the street until he got to the stoplight at the end.  There was a cop at the end of the street who was operating the stoplight; he switched over to automatic stoplight operation and proceeded to walk across to where we were stopped.  Watching the policeman walk across the street to the car was like watching the hangman approach the gallows that you're standing upon.  I was appalled, I was terrified, with a sick feeling in my stomach.  Here I was on the first day of vehicle ownership, and I was going to get a ticket and my dad would be furious and my life would be ruined.

The policeman asked for John's license, and John produced a learner's permit.  Since learner's permits in Wisconsin were good only during daylight hours and only with one other licensed driver in the automobile, John was in serious trouble and, since I didn't have any license plates on the car I was in serious trouble also. The cop must've been a teenager at some point in his life, because he gave us a lecture and told us to get this “damn junk heap” home.  We did.

Since I didn't have a driver's license (remember I started kindergarten at 4 1/2 years old?), the car was jacked up in the back yard and I proceeded to work on it. I got old pieces of lumber and various bricks and flat rocks to hold it up.  One day the whole conglomeration collapsed, and the car ended up on its axles on the ground, and fortunately there was nobody working underneath it at the time.  My father told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get something better to prop it up with.  There was a cement block factory in Waukesha that would sell their cement block rejects for not very much money, so I bought four of these (or maybe eight I don't remember), and then jacked up the car again and put this much more stable platform underneath the axles.

All Fords built through the year 1947 had mechanical brakes, and it was considered uncool to have these on your car.  Fortunately, the Ford Motor Company, like most other large companies, had engineered their cars so that it was easy to retrofit parts from newer years into older years.  So my friend John and I went to the junkyard on Main Street in Waukesha to get parts.  After bickering with the owner for a while (he like to dicker, being of Eastern European origin) we settled on a price and proceeded to scout out what we needed to retrofit hydraulic brakes onto my car.  We discovered a 1948 Ford coupe that was just the ticket, but we didn't have a jack so we borrowed one from the junkyard. The jack that we borrowed was basically a piece of crap -- it used ball bearings that recirculated so it was easier to turn the screw that jacked up the car.  Unfortunately the little tube that the balls recirculated through had gotten loose and lots of the ball bearings had escaped.  We wired it together with some copper wire and proceeded to get to work.

We had to take off all four wheel backing plates, all of the hoses, and the master cylinder. John was working underneath the car which was jacked up about 2 feet or so.  Since it was a hot day, he decided it was time to take a break, so he wiggled out from underneath the car and we proceeded to light up two cigarettes. We were sitting there smoking and talking, and about 15 seconds after we lit the cigarettes, the jack gave way, and the whole car crashed down onto the dirt, about three and a half feet or so.  I was horror struck. “John”, I said, “you could have been killed. You would have been killed if you hadn't decided you wanted a cigarette.” At the time John was one of those happy souls who never could look at the bad side of life, and he just said the something flippant like “What the hell”. To this day, I thank my stars, or whatever convinced John to get out from underneath that damn car at that moment, because he was doing me a favor, and I know he would have been killed or seriously injured if he'd stayed under that car for another 30 or 45 seconds.

      *     *     *     *     *

Back when I was in eighth grade, the YMCA in downtown Waukesha had turned the upper story of its building into a teenage hangout which was called “The Attic”. However, by the time I became a freshman in high school a new YMCA had been built, and The Attic was no longer in the upper story of the YMCA but rather on the second floor.  It still had the same function in life, however, and that was to be a gathering place for teenagers to keep us off the streets and out of trouble.  This was a noble venture, and, in general, it did exactly what it was supposed to do.  Today it seems as though people would rather have their teenagers sneaking around as opposed to giving them a place to gather that is supervised by adults.  Personally, I think this is really stupid, but there are a lot of things that I really think are stupid but are perpetrated on us anyway.

One night I was socializing with the other teens at The Attic when two friends of mine came up to me and said that they had scored two six packs of beer, and was I interested in joining them?  Was I! I had borrowed my father's car, a 1952 Chrysler Saratoga four-door sedan, black, with a real hemi-engine and an automatic transmission that had a clutch.  Chrysler just hadn't kept up with General Motors.

We went down to the parking lot that was across the street from the YMCA, and I started my dad's car and drove over to where my friends indicated that Nirvana was waiting.  I put the transmission in neutral, and waited for my friends to transfer the liquid Ambrosia to the car.  They opened the back door, just as the policeman pulled up behind us in a three wheeled motorcycle.  We were busted, plain and simple.

They hauled us up to the police station and I ended up sitting on a bench by myself for about 45 minutes or so that seemed more like 45 hours.  Finally I was dragged into an interrogation room and questioned, but, since I didn't know where the beer came from in the first-place, I was useless to the police and was soon sent home with a young policeman.  One of the hardest things I had to do in my whole life was to go into the bedroom and wake my father, and tell him that there was somebody there that wanted to talk with him. The policeman basically told my father what had happened, and then my father turned to me and said “We’ll talk in the morning”.

The next morning I had an appointment to take the National Merit Scholarship Award exam.  This was a big deal at the time; there were five of us in the senior class of over 400 kids at Waukesha high school who qualified for the finals.  A friend of mine, Roger, was taking the same exam on the same day.  They split us up so that we were not all in the same room taking the same exam, and Roger was in a different room. After the exam, my friend Bill asked me if I'd like to ride home and I said yes, but he dropped off a couple of other young ladies who lived on the other side of town before he dropped me off.  In the meantime, Roger had called home asking where I was and had I taken the exam? No one knew that I was on my way home, and everybody thought that I had decided to do something really stupid (like leaving town maybe?) because of my escapades the night before. When I finally got home, my father immediately burst out with “Where the hell have you been?” and I explained that I got a ride home after the exam, but we dropped off a couple of other kids on the other side of town before I got home.  This seemed to satisfy everybody, and my father said that I was grounded and wouldn't get to use the car for the next two months.  This was fine with me, as I knew that I had screwed up big-time.

A little while later I got a letter from the Evinrude outboard motor company inviting me to Milwaukee to interview for the Evinrude scholarship, an offshoot of the national Merit Scholarship.  I took the bus into Milwaukee, and transferred to another bus, and finally got to the general area of the Evinrude plant.  It was a Saturday, and my mother was working, and my father was playing cards at The Blue Lantern Tavern in Waukesha, so he, of course, couldn't be bothered with driving his son to Milwaukee for a scholarship interview.

I talked with the people from the Evinrude Co., but I hadn't made any plans for college and I hadn't made any preparations or even applied to any college, even though this was my senior year in high school.  The reason was, of course, I had no money to pay tuition and no good way of earning any money to pay tuition for college.  So my interview with the Evinrude people was a disaster; I looked like a real Bozo.  Years later, when I was going to the University of Wisconsin -- Milwaukee, I got a one semester’s worth of tuition from the Emil Blatz foundation.  At the time one semester's tuition was $118. After that, I drank Blatz every time I had a beer, until the Blatz Brewing Co. went broke.

      *          *                  *                  *                  *                  *

Somewhere around my senior year someone got the idea that it would be interesting and rewarding to tour the State of Wisconsin via a horse drawn wagon. They left the wagon overnight in Frame Park in Waukesha, a park alongside the Fox River.

I don't know what we were doing but we went past the park around 10:30 at night, and the wagon was just sitting there begging to be moved along the river to downtown Waukesha.  There were about five or six of us, and that sucker was heavy, no doubt about it.  But we got it downtown or almost downtown and somebody said “Hey, there's a police car!” We of course scrambled and split up.  I walked home and went to bed.

Months later I was reading the newspaper and they had an article about the horse drawn wagon trip around the state.  I eagerly read the article but all it said was that the wagon had been moved by the police in Waukesha for safekeeping.  Not a mention of the intrepid band of teenagers who had moved it about a mile or so along the river bank. But then again, you never really get credit for the things you do when you're a kid.

I got to thinking about the “good old days” after reading what Don Beringer and David Fuller wrote about their memories.

I grew up in a small town – Greendale WI and moved to New Berlin at the age of 12.  My dad and mom decided that it was time we live in our own home rather than paying rent.  But my dad was an engineer for UNIT CRANE and SHOVEL so he felt he could design and build his own house. So most of my free-time during those early years was spent on the jump seat - sitting behind my dad.  He drove a 1940 International Panel truck to New Berlin packed with food and tools and worked just about every night and weekend he was able.

So those early years were not your typical experiences of a young boy.  After my parents built the home I spent my 8^th grade year going to a new school (Hickory Grove).    Then right after that it was into a high school and another brand new bunch of friends.  So to say the least I was somewhat of a "loner" getting on the bus each morning and traveling to Waukesha ’s High School.   Going from classroom to classroom left no time to met and get new friends and if it appeared I started to get one – I had no way to get to their house and hang around with them.  

I tried taking up football as a freshman but had to drop out as I had no clear cut way to get home after practice each night as I was too young to drive or even get a drivers license.   By my junior year I was on the varsity volleyball team and sixteen but my father still didn’t permit me to drive to school, so I worked out a plan that let me walk to the bus station in downtown Waukesha and take the Greyhound Bus to Milwaukee .  The bus had a stop about two miles from our house so when I got there I would call on a public phone and my dad would come and pick me up. Then the next morning it was time to get on the bus and do it all over again. I even went in on buying a 1940 Ford with another friend but that really didn’t benefit me that much as my dad didn’t want it parked at our house – so it always stayed at my friend’s farm – more than walking distance away. 

My senior year – our class moved into the new HIGH SCHOOL so sport’s was out the window as I had no way to get to the bus station and get home  Both my parents were fairly strict and only a few times a year was I permitted to use the car.  I was never permitted to have more than one other person in the car and never permitted to use the car on a date except for the one year that I went to the PROM.  So in the group of guys that I hung around with – it was make sure that their parents permitted them to drive and then hook a ride along with a friend.

By the summer of my senior year I had found a summer job that was PERFECT.  A stone mason needed a helper and he was willing to pick me up and take me home each night so by the end of the summer I had saved enough money to purchase my first vehicle a 1951 125CC Harley Davidson motorcycle.  I drove that everywhere and had a ball.  But during the winter mouths I was without wheels again.  The interesting part was I don’t ever recall getting vehicle insurance on that cycle?

.

When I graduated and decided to go to UWM – I worked out a ride share with another guy and he drove one week and I drove the other.  That lasted for one year and finally a bunch of us rented a duplex next to the school and my share of the rent  was $22.50 a month and tuition was only $90.00 a semester. I had a part time job and I made just enough to make it work.  Finally at the age of 21, I finally got my own car and was totally on my own – thank GOD.

  David Kerznar

 


I was 4 and 1/2 when WW2 ended. My sister and I and the kid next door were beating rocks with a hammer, trying to make cement (we were a little unclear on the concept) when the lady next door ran out of the house beating on a dishpan and yelling "The War is over!  The War is over!"  We looked at each other and then went back to beating rocks with a hammer.

I do remember our Victory Garden in the back yard, my Dad raising rabbits because we didn't get meat (By the way, rabbit does taste a little like chicken), and removing the bottoms from tin cans, stepping on them to flatten them, and recycling the results.

D.R.  Fuller

Dave,
  I appreciate the whimsy about your reaction to the end of the war and the flattening of cans for the war effort. As know, everything from cooking grease (not oil, that was for the rich) to newspaper and tin foil were also saved and given to the junkman (not scavenger service) for pennies.  

  As a kid I listened to "Your FBI, In War and Peace"--remember? "brought to you by L-A-V-A"--and it happened one day that  factory whistles went off all over. I asked my mother "why," and her reply was that "We are at peace." I had no idea what "peace" meant, although I had some vague idea  about war from the  radio, so I  brought the  question to Jack Osman who showed me  his  back as he  turned his tricycle (a rare toy then) around and rode off yelling, "None of your bee's wax!"

Don B

We had a teacher in high school named Fannie Hopkins. She was elderly, about 5 feet tall, maybe about 90 pounds soaking wet, and ran her class with an iron fist, no velvet gloves.  Miss Hopkins taught geometry, some algebra, and how to use a slide rule.

We are in class one day and Miss Hopkins asked one of the students a question.  She had something on the board and she wanted an answer along the lines of “A sine Theta”, something relatively simple.  But the student that she had called on didn't know the answer right away.  She underlined something on the board with her chalk and asked the question again.  By this time the student that she had called on was horror stricken, and probably would have given the wrong answer if she had asked him what his name was.  She underlined the item on the board again and again until something happen that I'd never seen before – her vigoroyus underlining had applied so much chalk to the board that it started sliding down the boardof its own weight.  Then she started emphasizing the item on the board by hitting at it with the chalk, and little pieces of chalk went flying all over the floor by the chalkboard.  Finally in disgust she called on someone else and got the right answer.

We had a fellow in our class named Jim who was very funny, witty, a great athlete, and incredibly self-assured.  I envied him. He enlivened every class we were in by making clever and funny comments to the teachers.  On the first day of school I showed up for Miss Hopkins’ geometry class, and was interested to see that Jim was in her class.  This would be the Clash of the Titans, Mohammed Ali versus Joe Frazier or Godzilla versus King Kong. Everybody waited for Jim's first smart aleck remark and Fannie Hopkins’ explosion at the remark.  We waited and waited.  Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months and Jim was always a model of decor and politeness to Miss Hopkins.  It was a little disappointing but inevitable – Jim had met his match.

From the long-lost, but not forgotten, JIM KERR:

HELLO FELLOW INTERNET REUNION-NICHE REVELERS;  

I'D LIKE TO THANK BROTHER AND WEBMASTER SUPREME, DAVID R. FULLER, FOR CALLING ME AWAY FROM MY TROPICAL ISLAND  (LATITUDE 18) TRADE WITH HIS RECENT POST HERE.   ( I OVERSEE  THE SHOVELING OF DRIVEWAYS CLEAR OF IGUANA GUANO - THE SECRET CARIBBEAN SPICE “FOR TRUE ‘LOCAL FLAVOR’ -  UNFORGETTABLE! ”) 

BUT SERIOUSLY FOLKS, I AM WALKING OUT FROM THE PALM TREES HOLDING THE HANDS OF TWO WHS TEACHERS, ONE ON EACH SIDE: MISS FANNY HOPKINS AND MISS CLARICE KLINE.

DAVID WAS RIGHT, WHEN HE WROTE THAT I HAD FOUND MY “MATCH” IN MISS HOPKINS.   WE ARE ALL PROBABLY “MATCHED” WITH SOME VERY SPECIAL WHS FACULTY MEMBERS AND MISS FANNY HOPKINS AND MISS CLARICE KLINE ARE TWO OF MINE.  

THESE VERY SPECIAL TEACHERS ARE EXEMPLARS TO ME FOR THEIR ABILITY TO: CONCENTRATE; THEIR DESIRE FOR OUR IMPROVEMENT; AND THEIR PURE ENJOYMENT OF THE DAILY TASKS THAT MAKE ANY JOURNEY INTERESTING AND SUCCESS POSSIBLE.   THANK GOD FOR OUR TEACHERS.   AIN’T IT GREAT TO BE A BLACKSHIRT!

I'LL SPEAK OF FANNY HOPKINS FIRST.   WE ARE BOTH HAPPY WITH THE "MATCH" WE WERE FOR EACH OTHER.   I HAD A STRONG INTEREST IN, BUT NO OVERT ANTICIPATION FOR, HER CLASS, "SOLID GEOMETRY" EXCEPT A LINGERING ANGUISH/FEAR THAT MY NEWFOUND INTEREST IN MATH NOURISHED IN  NINTH GRADE BY THE SUBJECT -  ALGEBRA – AND THE WARM, UNDERSTANDING WIZARDRY OF MISS MILDRED  BRAY MIGHT BE LOST WITH A DREADED RETURN TO THE MIND-NUMBING YEARS UP TO EIGHTH GRADE WHERE THE ONLY CHANGE SEEMED TO BE THAT THE NUMBERS USED BECAME LONGER AND (YAWN) LONGER.   WEREN'T WE ALL GOING A LITTLE NUTS AT THAT POINT?   STILL, MISS EVA TOMPITCH WAS AN INTERESTING AND EERILY SIMILAR GNOME-LIKE CREATION TO MISS HOPKINS, WASN'T SHE?   BUT IT IS TOO SOON TO DIGRESS.

IT WAS THE INTENSITY AND PACE OF MISS HOPKINS THAT DREW ME ONCE I WAS IN HER CLASSROOM.   SHE WAS A TEACHING FREIGHT TRAIN AND I COULDN'T RESIST STANDING SO CLOSE THAT I WAS "SUCKED INTO THE WHEELS" JUST LIKE OUR ELDERS TOLD US COULD HAPPEN DOWN AT THE SOO LINE TRACKS.   SHE WAS UNDOUBTEDLY A FORCE, AND I WAS GLAD TO TRAVEL ALONG WITH HER TO TRY TO "MATCH" HER STEP-BY-STEP.   (WE ACTUALLY WERE CONSIDERED FOR NEXT SEASON'S "DANCING WITH THE STARS," BUT THEY SAID MATH TEACHERS WOULD HURT THEIR RATINGS.  SHALLOW FOLK, EH WHAT?   TO SAY MORE WOULD BE A "DIGRESSION" WHICH, MISS HOPKINS HAS JUST REMINDED ME WITH A PULL ON MY HAND, SHE WILL NOT ALLOW!

SO NOW, I WOULD LIKE TO PRESENT A "FAMILY VARIATION" ON DAVID R. FULLER'S "CLASSROOM CLASSIC”  THE "CHALK CASCADE" WITH IT'S THEORETICAL SCIENTIFIC TWINS:  THE "DOPPELGANGER CLOUD FORMATION” WHICH IS TRIGGERED BY THE ESPECIALLY CELEBRATED  “DOPPELGANGER CLOUD STATEMENT."  THIS CLOUD FORMATION AND SPOKEN PHRASE IS KNOWN TO ALL HER FORMER STUDENT-TICKET RAIL RIDERS SO THEY KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT AND TO HOLD-ON.  "NEWBIE'S" ARE WARNED TO SLOW DOWN AND TAKE CARE IF THEY DECIDE TO READ FURTHER.  (ANN DAVIES SHAW TAUGHT ME TO WRITE THAT LAST PART – THE WARNING - WITH THE BUNDLE OF "LAWYER-SPEAK" HER FINE AND CAREFUL HUSBAND MAKES HER TAG ON TO ALL E-MAIL.   IT’S A “SAFE BET” IN THESE LITIGIOUS TIMES AND I’M GLAD I LEARNED TO DO IT.  I THINK “EVERYBODY SHOULD KNOW HOWE . . .” )  

NOW THAT  WAS A BIG  DIGRESSION, AND MISS HOPKINS IS TAPPING HER FOOT AND GIVING ME THE "EVIL-EYE."  "MY BAD," AS KIDS SAY TODAY.  NO LETTERS, PLEASE.

OUR "CLASSIC" HAPPENS LIKE THIS: MISS HOPKINS WOULD BE AT HER "NUMBER-ONE POSITION" LOOKING LIKE NOTHING  BUT A MUCH OVER-SUNNED SIXTH-GRADER FUSED IN CONCENTRATION TO THE SLATE BLACKBOARD, RIGHT ARM EXTENDED, SLIGHTLY BENT AT THE ELBOW WITH A STUB - ALWAYS JUST A STUB - OF CHALK SCRUNCHED INTO THE TIPS OF HER BONEY FINGERS.  

A STUDENT WOULD BE IN THE PROCESS OF ANSWERING A QUESTION WHEN SUDDENLY MISS HOPKINS WOULD FREEZE AT THE BOARD AS IF A RAILROAD BULL HAD JUST STEPPED INTO THE BOXCAR AND WAS GOING TO TAKE AWAY ALL HER LEARNERS.   THERE WOULD PASS A MOMENT WHEREIN SHE MIGHT SHIFT HER FEET SLIGHTLY TO IMPROVE HER POSITION OF LEVERAGE, (THIS DONE WITHOUT THAWING HER "FROZEN" UPPER BODY POSITION BY EVEN SO MUCH AS ONE DEGREE CELSIUS.)

NEXT WOULD COME WHAT EVERY STUDENT WHO HAS EVER SAT ON THE EDGE OF THEIR SEAT IN HER CLASS KNEW WOULD COME:  THE SOFT (AT FIRST) REGULAR TAPPING OF THAT TIGHTLY HELD SACRIFICIAL STUB IN HER HAND.   

EVERYTHING STOPPED AT THAT MOMENT INCLUDING SIDEREAL TIME, FINGERNAIL GROWTH OF THE DEAD, AND (MOST) TAXES. 

THEN, IN A VOICE SEEMINGLY FIGHTING FOR IT’S OWN  CONTROL, CAME THE MANTRA WHICH BLEW THE HINGES OFF HER DOOR TO THE MATH DEPARTMENT AND SET STANDARDS OF ENGLISH FOR WHICH WE STILL FIGHT TODAY:  "LET'S USE SENTENCES . . ."  SHE WOULD SAY . . .

THIS SPOKEN PHRASE WOULD THEN BE PUNCTUATED BY A "CRACK" AS CLEAR AS THAT FROM HANK AARON'S BAT AS THE FIRST, SHARP, FIRM, IMPACT OF CHALK HIT THE SOLID STONE, AMPLIFYING SLATE BOARD:  THE FINAL ALARM HAD SOUNDED. 

EVEN THOSE DROWSING IN THE WARMTH OF HER ALWAYS SLIGHTLY HOTTER CLASSROOM ARE NOW JOLTED WIDE AWAKE, KNOWING WHAT COMES NEXT.

“LET’S USE SENTENCES!!” MISS HOPKINS REPEATS WITH THE SAME CLEAR, ROCK-STEADY MEASURED BEAT IN HER VOICE AS BEFORE.   IT’S INTENSITY ONLY GROW AS THE FORCE SHE IS EXERTING ON THE  CHALK  INCREASES.  

HER EYES GATHER OURS TO THE POINT ON THE BOARD OF HER BURNING FOCUS.   

PIECES OF WHITE CALCIUM FLICK INTO THE AIR AROUND HER AS THE CHALK BEGINS TO FRACTURE.       

“LET’S USE SENTENCES !!!”  SHE REPEATS AS THE DISINTEGRATING DIATOMS RAM THE LOCUS OF HER FOCUS INTO PALTRY, PULVERIZED PARTICLES WHICH ERUPT FROM THE BLACK SLATE LIKE A PETITE VOLCANO FORMING A CLOUD OF FINE WHITE DUST ENVELOPING HER HAND AND HEAD. 

USUALLY, BY THE THIRD OR FOURTH REPEAT OF MISS HOPKINS MAGICAL MATHEMATICAL/ENGLISH INCANTATION, THE STUDENT “SENTENCE FRAGMENTER” WOULD RECOVER THEIR SENSES ENOUGH TO RECONSIDER AND REPLY “PROPERLY.”   NO OTHER PROMPTS REQUIRED.  SIMPLE AS THAT! . . .   (NOTE: POST-ERUPTION CALM-COUNSELING AND BLOOD PRESSURE TREATMENT IS AVAILABLE LATER AT THE SCHOOL NURSE'S OFFICE.)

WHILE MISS HOPKINS MIGHT BACK SILENTLY OUT OF THE CLOUD AS IT DISSIPATED NATURALLY, THERE REMAINED ON THE SPOT WHERE OUR MESMERIZED EYES WERE STILL TRANSFIXED, A SMALL CLUMP OF CHALK UNNATURALLY ATTACHED TO THE BOARD.  IT WAS, IN FACT, A PERFECT, LITTLE CONE FORMATION PROJECTING FROM THE PERFECT BULL'S-EYE OF HER EXACT IMPACTS.

HARDLY A BREATH WAS TAKEN BY ANYONE PRESENT DURING THE ENTIRE EXPOSITION LEAVING US, IN ALL PROBABILITY, SOMEWHAT OXYGEN-DEPRIVED.   I HAVE OFTEN THOUGHT THE FEELING MUST BE AKIN TO THAT FELT BY EVEREST CLIMBERS ATOP THEIR OWN TINY SNOW PACKED CONE TIP. 

DESIRING TO AVOID DUPLICATION AND HAVING APPARENTLY  LEARNED, AS WE HAVE, THAT NOT ALL OF LIFE'S LESSONS NEED BE REPEATED, A QUICK SURVEY OF OUR CLASS HAS CLEARLY SHOWN ALL WITH MANY, MANY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS SAVED  IN UNSPENT SHERPA FEES ALONE! (SO FAR -)

I NEVER SAW MISS HOPKINS HOLD A FULL-LENGTH PIECE OF CHALK, ONLY SHORT STUBS ABOUT ONE FORTH THE LENGTH OF A STICK.   I THINK THEY FIT HER HAND BETTER AND WHEN SHE PULVERIZED ONE INTO EITHER A “CASCADE OF CHALK” POURING FROM AN OVERWORKED UNDERLINE LIKE THE WATER FALL  DAVID FULLER REPORTED, OR ITS DOPLEGANGER THE “WHITE CLOUD OF RECTITUDE,” EXPLAINED HERE, IT ALL WORKED TO KEEP US ALERT, ATTENTIVE, AND IN NO NEED OF STIMULANT, “WISE-CRACK” BANTER.

SHE WAS A “STUNNING” TEACHER, WHO TAUGHT MATH WELL, REINFORCED GOOD ENGLISH, HELD A PACE THAT COULD HOLD YOUR ATTENTION WITH GOOD IDEAS AND, ADMITTEDLY, A LITTLE SEMI-FRIGHTENING STAGECRAFT, PLUS SHE WAS COMFORTABLE IN BEING DIFFERENT, EVEN JUST A LITTLE BIT “ODD.”   SOUND FAMILIAR?   NO WONDER SOME TEEN-AGERS FELT THEY HAD MET THEIR “MATCH” WITH HER.  "ODD" IS  A WAY OF LIFE FOR THEM.  THEY ARE IN THE ”ODDEST” PART OF LIFE.  SOME ARE EVEN PROFESSIONAL "ODDISTS" WITHOUT PORTFOLIO.)   I USED TO RUN INTO MANY MAKING SUCH A CLAIM FOR THEMSELVES OF ALL AGES LIVING AROUND BOSTON .  IN LOFTS, MOSTLY. LARGE STUDIO LOFTS. . .  WITH EASELS, CAMEL HAIR BRUSHES AND CANV . . .  WHAZZAT? OH, I KNOW, FANNY, NO DIGRESSIONS!   SORRY EVERYBODY.

MISS HOPKINS WANTED US TO GET SOMEWHERE SO WHEN THE  TRAIN STARTED MOVING, I, LIKE MANY OTHER THANKFUL RAILROADERS, FOLLOWED HER CALL OF “ALL ABOARD!”

NOW, ABOUT MISS KLINE. 

WE WERE A CLASS OF “FIRSTERS,” AS WE ALL ARE PROUD TO CROW, ER, KNOW.   BUT DO YOU RECALL THE “FIRST OF OUR  FIRSTS?”   IT WAS THAT WE WERE THE FIRST FRESHMAN CLASS TO BE “ALLOWED” TO TAKE A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.  JUST AS AN “EXPERIMENT,” MIND YOU,  - -  ONLY TO SEE IF WE LOWLY CREATURES COULD “HANDLE” INTELLECTUAL CHALLENGES OF SUCH MAGNITUDE.   FOR A LONG TIME, MANY THOUGHT WAUKESHA NINTH-GRADERS COULD NOT.  

NOW, OF COURSE, WE HAVE LEARNED THAT THE BRAINS OF VERY YOUNG CHILDREN ARE EXQUISITELY OPEN TO LEARNING LANGUAGE, BUT, WHOA MAMA, NOT BACK IN THAT PART  OF “THE DAY.” 

SO THE GREAT EDUCATIONAL PLANNERS THEN WERE WRONG ABOUT THAT ONE. 

EXCEPT FOR ME.   THEY WERE RIGHT ABOUT ME.  I WAS HOPELESS.   I ENTERED A CLASSROOM OF WELL-KNOWN SENIOR AND JUNIOR  GIRLS WHO WERE ALL FRIENDS OF MY HONOR SOCIETY, SECRETARY OF THE STUDENT COUNCIL, G.A.A. STAR, ACAPELLA  SINGER, et al, CONVIVIAL SISTER.   IT WAS AN ENTIRELY IRRESISTIBLE SITUATION.  

SEATING WAS ALPHABETICALLY "RANDOM," BUT REFORMED ITSELF, AS I SAW IT, INTO TWO PARTS BY GENDER:  THE SMILING, READY AUDIENCE OF GORGEOUS GIGGLING GIRLS COMPRISED ONE PART AND THE “MEN” WHO WERE ALL “KNOCKED SILENT” BY THE SWEATERS JUST AS SURELY AS IF THE PROVERBIAL  “2X4” HAD HIT THEM, STRAINED CREDULITY TO FORM THE OTHER PART.  THIS WAS MY FIRST CHANCE ON A “LEVEL PLAYING FIELD” TO SEE WHAT THE GIRLS IN OUR CLASS FOUND SO  INTERESTING ABOUT THOSE “OLDER” BOYS.   JUST HOW THEY HAD STOLEN OUR GRADE-SCHOOL GIRLFRIENDS AS SOON AS WE HIT SEVENTH GRADE, WAS A MYSTERY OF SOME CONCERN TO ME.   (HINT: THEY DROVE CARS.)

IN ANY CASE, MISS KLINE HOWEVER STERN AND IMPLACABLE, WAS SLIGHTLY EASIER ON “DIGRESSIONS,” THAN MISS HOPKINS, AS YOU MIGHT  HAVE SURMISED SINCE MOST TEACHERS WERE, AND I WALKED AROUND THE MEXICAN PLAZA IN OUR SPANISH TEXTBOOK LIKE ANY FOURTEEN YEAR-OLD GADFLY ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.

UNTIL, . . . UNTIL THAT IS, ONE DAY WHEN WE WERE GOING AROUND THE CLASSROOM WITH EACH STUDENT TAKING THE NEXT WORD FROM OUR TEXTBOOK CHAPTER’S VOCABULARY LIST AND USING IT IN A SPANISH SENTENCE. THE WORD I HAD TO USE WAS “BONITA.” 

NOW, STARTING FROM THAT LAST FATEFUL WORD ON, YOU WILL HAVE TO EXCUSE MY SPANISH.  WHAT I WILL RELAY NEXT TOLD ME, IN ONE SENTENCE,  OF THE TRUE TALENT AND DESIRE TO TEACH, THE EXTRAORDINARY CALM, AND THE REFRESHING AWARENESS POSSESSED BY MISS CLARICE KLINE.  I WAS SO HAPPY TO GET HER AGAIN IN 12TH GRADE FOR “AMERICAN PROBLEMS” JUST BECAUSE IT MEANT THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING ABLE TO SHOW HER A NEWER SIDE OF ME.   (That may be the last  digression.)

“LA PROFESSORO NO ES BONITA,” I SAID.

THERE FOLLOWED A QUICK COLLECTIVE GULP INTAKE OF  AIR BY THE CLASS, THEN AFTER SEVERAL BEATS OF SILENCE (READ AS THE VACUUM OF “SHOCK  AND AWE”) THE PLACE ERUPTED IN A BURST OF SURPRISE WITH THAT SPECIAL, UNCONTROLLABLE, SCHOOL-HOUSE LAUGHTER THE MAGNITUDE OF WHICH ALMOST MADE ME LEVITATE.

MISS KLINE STOOD EXPRESSIONLESS AT THE HEAD OF THE CLASS UNTIL THE MAYHEM COOLED DOWN.  SHE NEVER FLINCHED OR FOUGHT IT.   BUT INSTEAD, WHEN THE ROOM WAS QUIET AND ALL EYES WERE UPON HER AGAIN, SHE CALMLY EXPLAINED SOMETHING BRANDED IN MY MIND QUITE LIKE THE FOLLOWING:

“IF YOU WERE SPEAKING ABOUT A MALE TEACHER, YOU HAD THE CORRECT  WORD, ‘PROFESSORO’  BUT YOU NEEDED TO MATCH THAT MASCULINE FORM WITH THE CORRESPONDING ‘EL.’  NOT ‘LA’ WHICH IS USED REFERRING TO FEMALES ONLY.  ALSO,   REMEMBER, IN SPANISH THE SUFFIX ENDING ‘A’  AS IN OUR WORD ‘BONITA’  FOR A HANDSOME MAN IS INCORRECT.  ‘BONITA’ IS USED FOR FEMALES ONLY.  THE WORD NEEDED IN SPANISH IS ‘BONITO’   MAKING THE CORRECT SENTENCE - IF YOU ARE SPEAKING OF A MALE:  ‘EL PROFESSORO ES BONITO,’ IF YOU THINK HIM HANDSOME.”

“BUT, IF YOU WERE SPEAKING ABOUT THIS TEACHER,  ( HERE SHE BENT BOTH ARMS AND POINTED TO HERSELF,)  AND WANTED TO SAY SHE WAS NOT ATTRACTIVE, YOU WOULD HAVE TO USE THE PROPER FEMININE FORMS.  FOR EXAMPLE, THE ‘LA’  FORM WITH THE CORRESPONDING FEMALE, ‘PROFESSORA,’  AND LIKEWISE THEN THE ‘A’  ENDING FOR THE ADJECTIVE DESCRIBING YOUR OPINION OF HER LOOKS, ‘BONITA’  WITH THE NEGATIVE, ‘NO,’ IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WISH TO SAY, MAKING THE CORRECT SPANISH: “LA PROFESSORA NO ES BONITA.”

“DO YOU SEE WHY?”

I SAW A LOT MORE THAN “WHY.”  I COULD SEE I HAD WASTED ENOUGH TIME TO MAKE “RECOVERY” IN LEARNING THIS LANGUAGE UNLIKELY AT THIS MOMENT DUE TO MY OWN PREVIOUS  LACK OF SERIOUS STUDY AND THE LOSS WEIGHED HEAVILY UPON MY ONCE SO HAPPY-GO-LUCKY SPIRIT.  

IT CHANGED MUCH IN MY LIFE BACK THEN, WHICH,  ALONG WITH SPORTS, FORGED AN EARLY PATHWAY TOWARD AN ENJOYABLE  LIFE WITHIN MYSELF AND OF SHARING WITH OTHERS.   (AND I DID FINALLY  GET THAT GRADE-SCHOOL GIRLFRIEND BACK, AT LEAST FOR A WHILE - - – AFTER I COULD DRIVE.)

NOW, BEFORE MISS HOPKINS, MISS KLINE AND I BID ADO TO ALL YOU KIND READERS AND WALK ON DOWN THIS CARIBBEAN BEACH AND INTO THE WARM MAGENTA SUNSET, LET ME SPEAK TO YOU OF A FINAL TALE. 

LAST NIGHT, THE THREE OF US WERE SITTING IN COMFORTABLE LAWN CHAIRS AT JUST ABOUT THIS SAME TIME IN THE OPEN ARCHITECTURE OF A  FRIEND'S WEST-END BEACH HOME WHEN THE CONVERSATION TURNED TO WHAT FUN IT WOULD BE  AND JUST HOW WE COULD ALL GATHER WITH THE OLD CREW OF WHS ’58 (THEIR ACKNOWLEDGED “BEST CLASS EVER”) WHEN, AFTER A MOMENTS MULLING, FANNY HOPKINS SUDDENLY BRIGHTENED, PICKED UP A SUN BLEACHED STUB-TIP OF ELK-HORN CORAL FROM A DISH OF BEACH FINDINGS AND WITH A SMILE ON HER FACE MADE A REFLEXIVE STAB INTO THE SUNSET AND SUGGESTED:

                        “LET’S USE SÉANCES!”

                                   - the end -

   Take Mr. Chase.  Mr. Chase could find humor in staring at the wiring in the old gym. Then there was Mr. Friese who had great difficulty negotiating the skewed behavior of boys approaching puberty. His class always began with a tremendous whack from a yard stick on his work bench, and it didn’t take a genius to get the message.   Mr. Jacobsen, from time to time, would dare us a whiff from a test tube of chlorophyll.  That was his way of selling seventh grade science and being topical.  Remember, chlorophyll, then, was in everything from gum to dog food.