A Homeroom

{Sigh. Here we go again: another room in my Lenten series of essays, mostly just personal ramblings posted publicly about “room(s).” Let’s go back to high school.}

When I was in high school, the fortress-like building held three grades. Ninth grade had been lodged in something called “junior high school,” and the actual “high” school was grades 10-12. Today, I write of my senior year at Union-Endicott High. And my homeroom.

Union-Endicott HS as it was in my senior year

Frankly, it’s the only homeroom I can remember in high school. I have only a vary vague memory of of the previous homerooms where I found myself earlier. Maybe I remember the last one because I took photos of it. Mr. Gallagher (Bill was his never-spoken first name) was only in his second year at U-E as a speech/drama teacher when he anchored our homeroom. Most of us in room 212 had been together in previous homerooms since the school liked to keep us organized by last names; thus, I was in with the H-M crowd. (Only guessing the actual alphabet here; maybe it was J through L? It was a very long time ago.)

I never had Mr. Gallagher for class, just as our homeroom teacher. So, absolutely no drama day by day. I remember him as being a fairly serious guy, with rare smiles, yet friendly enough. I think my most personal interaction with him was in the senior play, a theatrical production that the senior class starred in, a comedy entitled “Are Teachers Human?” Mr. Gallagher was the director, and I played “against type,” a football coach! I remember my “costume,” a heavy black U-E letter sweater that had long since lost its letters. But it made me look bulkier than I was back then.

The room itself was not nearly as important as the students who gathered there each morning and regathered by day’s end. I still remember some of their names. Recent 50 and 60 year reunions helped re-connect a few of us. Many, of course, are gone, and their permanent records more permanent than ever. Viet Nam took a couple of guys, I suspect. But I’m still in touch with a handful. That comes from retiring back close to where my life started, near my hometown. Plus, Facebook helps. I had two terrific cousins in my senior class, John and Linda. But the alphabet kept us from being in the same homeroom. John’s no longer with us, but Linda and I feel a real loving kinship (as we should as cousins) though miles apart.

Mom ready for the U-E band 1936

I should note that the sweater had originally belonged to either my Dad or his older sister Vivian! Never did get the story straight. But the main thing is that I was attending the same school my parents and their siblings had attended a generation earlier. In fact, some of their teachers were still on the faculty.

I needn’t go into much detail about a homeroom and its ambiance since you probably have your own stories about that time in your life. The desks still had inkwells; the crackly PA speaker produced the morning announcements made by both the principal Mr. Bortnick and a student named Neal Hale, and bells rung to send us off to class after class. An ancient black Bakelite telephone intercom provided a communication link to the school office. Bakelite? You may know it by its more popular name: poly­oxy­benzyl­methylene­glycol­anhydride.

David Jones in Room 212. Looks posed, but I caught him at a reflective moment.

Here’s the main thing that I think about when reminiscing about Room 212: of those who remain in this earthy life, what’s life like for them? Did they live up to their yearbook prognostications or scribbled notes over their senior pictures? Are some still good friends? I know many in our class married. How many moved away and never came back? What vocations did they pursue? How’d that work out for them? One, Richie Karl, was on the U-E golf team and became a pro, winning a PGA tour event, the B.C. Open, …in his hometown! And then he taught golf. So, that story I know, because it was public. But most stories of my classmates were more personal and private.

When I moved back here near my hometown, I had hoped to reconnect with Harry Komar, Mike D’Aloisio (the car salesman, not the noted Elmira coach by the same name), and Jack Mastro. But they died before I got around to contacting them. They had been some of my closer friends, and it was very sad that I took it for granted that we’d have plenty of time…

Girl friends? I know you are wondering. Look, I had a job. I didn’t have much of a personality, and I didn’t fill out that letter sweater with muscles. And I was introverted. And insecure. Get the picture? I did date for the bigger events, and took a couple of girls to movies. Even parked up on Round Top, the hilltop overlooking the village. You know, submarine races on the Susquehanna. My main girlfriend wasn’t a classmate, however. She was in our church youth group and attended the rival high school just across the river. So, she came to my prom and I went to hers. Plus lots of dates. We were still a couple well into college years, though on two separate vocational tracks in two different states. Then, I met Joan. I majored in her in college, married her in seminary, and she is currently making me dinner.

I had lots of friends in high school, though I wasn’t close to many of them. I wasn’t an athlete, nor a musican, and I didn’t make it into Key Club. But my friends came from many of those circles, quite a well-rounded cadre of pals and gals. (That sounds quaint, doesn’t it?) I was primarily known as the class photographer, so being on the athletic fields with players who liked seeing their pictures in the weekly U-E newspaper got me some good buddies on the teams. And being in the band color guard (back when real men carried those rifles and flags!) got me into the good graces of band members, plus good seats at football games. My grades were only adequate. Plus there was that personality thing. That kept me out of Key Club. (When I half-kiddingly whined about that at our 50th class reunion, the one time Key Club official Peter Pazzaglini proclaimed me an honorary member of Key Club. But there was no jacket.)

I wonder now and then how I am remembered by my classmates? Nice guy? Geek? Maybe not at all? And I think about how I made far more of myself in the years that led into and well past adulthood than even I would have thought. Did anyone catch me on TV last Sunday and think, “Gee, his name sounds familiar.” Or…

Time now for the question of the day for you. How well do you remember those years of high school drama and comedy? How were you shaped by the experiences of those late adolescent years? What do you still celebrate? Or, regret. When I was producing “Celebration Rock,” I paired two popular songs about teenage angst, and helped listeners reflect on their feelings long beyond high school days. One was Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen.” The other, Rod Stewart’s “I Was Only Joking.” I guess we could add Stewart’s cover of Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” to the mix. You can find your way to them on the ‘net to refresh your memory. Or, just think back. And thank God you survived it all, maybe with a smile.

Homeroom 212, top floor, on the right

 

My Place 60 Years Ago

{I always begin these Lenten 2022 entries with some italicized intro, just in case someone happens onto this “Peace, Grace, and Jazz” blog and wonders what’s going on. And that’s all the time we have for today’s intro. Carry on.}

I realized a short time ago that my 50th high school reunion was a decade ago. I was invited to be on the planning committee and became reacquainted with some classmates I hadn’t seen since graduation. I had moved away to college, seminary, and work in Virginia and Vermont, while others on the committee had stayed put in Endicott (NY) and vicinity. Some of them had stayed in touch through the years, but the only one I kept up with was my cousin Linda. (We and her brother John were all in the class of 1962.)

As far as I know, there are no plans for a 60th reunion. At least no one told me. But it does seem appropriate to write a few lines about the place I spent three years of my life, and my parents three years of theirs almost a quarter century earlier. So, here we are back at Union-Endicott High School in the early 1960s.

Union-Endicott High School, c. 1960

Back then, in our school system ninth grade was still taught at what we called “junior high schools.” So high school started with tenth grade. The village’s two junior highs merged classes into our one high school, so as we began at U-E we were surrounded by classmates from our previous school, but also found new kids there from another part of town. Introverted, I wasn’t quick to make new friends, but found my small circle. The high school had 1200 students, so our class size must have been around four hundred. See how easily the math comes to me? I had been OK in math until that last year in junior high when things got more complicated than simple division. On to geometry…

Upon seeing my early geometry grades, my Dad confessed that he had flunked the course at U-E. Twice. This was not encouraging. I was lousy at memorizing theorems and postulates. Homework was Ok, because I could peek in the back of the text for right directions toward solutions, but the exams? No one had heard of open book exams back in the dark ages. And just as bad was the classroom practice of “going to the board” with chalk in hand to work out problems in public for all classmates to see. Long story short: I flunked. But unlike my father, I passed the course when I retook it in summer school.

That was a challenging summer. Since I was already spending a summer morning in class, I figured I’d take typing too. Touch typing. My boss at the drug store where I worked after school said he was still using the “Christopher Columbus” typing method: “Discover a key and land on it.” I learned to type enough letters fast enough to pass, but a hint as to how successful I was — I am looking at my keyborad [sic] right now.

Senior Day, 1962 — note the orange Thesaurus Yearbooks

I hasten to add that I did get some good grades, especially in “English.” Mrs. Vogelsang liked my imaginative writing (imagine that), and history grades were OK too. I got a strong B (see, for me that was good grade) in “Political Science” because Mr. Ellis liked my essay on my picking up Radio Moscow on my shortwave radio. As for the sciences? Biology was fine. I even won the “Quiz and Slogan” contest sponsored by the local dental association. Apparently, I was able to correctly count the number of teeth in my mouth for one answer (math again!) and got the rest of the answers right. And my slogan? I remember it to this day because it was so good. “It’s better to pay $5 for a checkup than $25 for a check out.” “Check out” meaning extraction, you see. Well, the local dentists got it, or at least got enough of a chuckle out of it that I won some kind of prize. Maybe $5. Dentistry was one of my vocational choices — until my math and science grades plummeted the next year.

One afternoon when I had to stay after school to meet with my chemistry teacher due to a D in a test, he looked at me and the four others who joined me and offered advice. To the others, it was academic guidance. Then he turned to me and, somehow knowing I was considering the ministry as a vocation, gave me theological guidance. “Jeff, you just remember what the Good Book says: The Lord helps those who help themselves.” Dr. Kaslowskas didn’t get his doctorate in Bible apparently, because that quotation isn’t in there.

I pay tribute here to a teacher I thanked later in life. Mrs. Woodard taught a sinister course called “Fusion Math” in 11th grade. It was the last math course I would ever take. Ever. But bless her heart, she did all she could for me and for the others encountering this fusion of algebra and trig. She came to school early each day so we who were uncertain about the previous day’s homework could check it out with her before the embarrassment of class. In the class hour itself, she’d stop teaching a little early so we could get a start on homework and go to her desk for any questions we had. And then, she’d remain after school for those of us who needed/wanted extra help. Of all my high school teachers, she was the most dedicated and helpful. She was also on my paper route. I should have given her a complimentary subscription!

My Band Uniform- (I was in the color guard)

Extracurriculars? I took photos for the newspaper and yearbook. I sang in the choir. I played one intermural basketball game. (Not one season; one game.) I was in the Color Guard of the marching band. And I was in Latin Club. Anyone who chose to take four years of Latin should have at least one toga party. My after-school activities were admittedly limited by my after-school job at the Union Pharmacy where I learned to neatly wrap feminine hygiene products in blue paper with white string, the theory being that women could leave the store with their Kotex box hidden from public view. Of course, everyone knew that the only thing we wrapped in blue paper and tied up with white string was a feminine product.

I also learned, a bit later in life than my male classmates, what Shieks were. One day at the store a man whispered to me that he wanted a dozen sheets. Pardon? A dozen sheets. Still too quiet to hear and too naive to understand, I explained that we didn’t sell sheets. Exasperated, the man headed toward the pharmacist and asked him. When he’d left with a tiny box of something, the pharmacist quietly led me back into the storeroom where the Trojans and Shieks were stacked up. “Jeff, you do know what these are, right?” he asked gently.

“Oh, sure. I just didn’t understand about Shieks.” Trojans I knew. Shieks? Not so much. Those were the days such products were not on open display. At least I never had to wrap them in blue paper.

I wasn’t in any cliques. Not being an athlete nor a musician, I moved in a wide circle that included both, plus the student publication staff, and some neighborhood and church friends. I never made Key Club, though at our 50th anniversary banquet the Key Club Class of ’62 president, learning of my disappointment with not getting in, as well as my outstanding successes since (!) proclaimed me an honorary member. I still smile at that. I guess some class members thought I was a nerd decades ahead of my time, thanks to the camera constantly around my neck. Others thought I was the typical “nice guy,” and I may well have been. I wasn’t close to many classmates, didn’t go to parties or skip school, or even leave the building for lunch at the diner across the street. But my memories of high school are mostly positive, and I’m thankful for the connections we’ve renewed with my being back in this area after being away so long.

At work at the Union Pharmacy

I go now to occasional football games, so thankful that the school has a winning team (it didn’t when I was a student), but disappointed that the marching band is a shadow of its former self. As I watch the band enter the stadium, I imagine my Dad as a drummer and my Mom playing sax, as they did when they were in school there. I’m so thankful for such good roots.

To consider: have you ever thanked a past teacher for their help in your education? Can you think of a couple of favorite teachers? What made them special to you?