School Daze
School Days
By Eileen Creeger
Just like stores bring out the Halloween candy in August, back-to-school sales start July 5.
As I recall, my parents didn’t spend a lot of money on school clothes and supplies. In elementary school, everyone wore saddle shoes. And we only got new shoes when they were too small, not because a new school year was beginning.
Today, kids put all their “earthly possessions” into a backpack. Some of the backpacks weigh more than the kids! In my day, elementary school students used satchels. Junior high and high school kids carried their books. Satchels weren’t cool.
Teachers didn’t hand out lists of 20+ school supply items each student needed in order to learn! In elementary school we had #2 pencils, black and white composition books and as we got older, a ballpoint pen. I think I remember a “machberet” – a special small, notebook for writing Hebrew. In middle school, we ditched the composition books for looseleaf binders, usually covered in a blue fabric. And we needed looseleaf paper, which in turn meant we needed glued-on reinforcements that kept the holes together once they were torn.
Looseleaf binders also required individual dividers with a tab, usually attached to a heavy, yellow paper. The tabs were multi-colored and were staggered so you could easily find the needed sections – English, math, science, etc.
Worst of all, textbooks had to be covered. Why, I don’t know. The reasoning must have been that a covered book would not get as beat up as an uncovered one. The “lucky kids” got fancy book covers – usually made out of shiny paper with pictures or designs. My sisters and I had to made book covers out of brown paper bags. We’d cut down the seam of the bag, then cut out the bottom, flatten the bag and fit it around the book. My mom was an expert. Her book covers always had sharp creases and looked great. Mine, not so much. One advantage of a brown paper book cover was that you could doodle all over it.
Read more by Eileen Creeger.
Not-So-Fond Memories of Elementary School
By Holli Friedland
It was my first week of the third grade and already I had forgotten my lunch money, 35¢. I had to go to the principal’s office… again.
Miss Thomas was a tall, very thin woman who could make even the bravest child quake in her boots. And I was no brave child. She had brown curly hair that was carefully set in pin curls. She wore huge fake pearl earrings that looked even bigger next to her thin face. Unfortunately, I had to go to see her a couple of times a week. I was always forgetting my lunch money or bus tokens (we rode the city bus). And then the next day, I was in her office again to return the money I borrowed.
Miss Thomas reached into the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a tiny change purse jammed full of coins and tokens. Her bony fingers dug out a quarter and a dime. She slid the coins across her desk.
She wrote my name on her calendar blotter with her fancy pen. Carefully, I picked up the two coins and promised, as I always did, that I would repay the debt the next day. Miss Thomas would precisely cross my name off her calendar once she was paid back.
I went into the cafeteria and got my lunch. Every child was given a tiny 8 oz. carton of milk with lunch. I hated milk. For some reason, my parents never told the school that I didn’t have to drink the milk. So I was forced to drink it even though I found milk repulsive.
I would drink about half of it every day. A kid from the student council would shake the milk cartons as we emptied our trash into big trash cans. A shake of my milk would inevitably reveal the fact that I had only drunk a small sip of milk. The student council kid would point to the “bad people’s table.” I would have to sit there with all of the delinquents and finish the milk, which was quite warm by then. That made it taste even worse.
Every day I would say a little spell I made up, trying to turn my milk into chocolate milk and thereby making it more palatable. This is chocolate milk. This is chocolate milk! And every day it didn’t work.
One day, my mom said I should take Nestle’s chocolate milk powder to school with me and put that in my milk. She gave it to me in a little pill vial. I tried it once and got away with it. Yes! I had this whole milk thing figured out. On day two, I got sent to Miss Thomas, and my mother was called.
“No chocolate powder is allowed!” the grumpy old woman told my mom. I was crestfallen and went back to my spells. I would wave my red and white paper straw over my milk and think, This is chocolate milk. This is chocolate milk!
That happened throughout the six years I spent at Columbia Street School (now an apartment building). Every day, I was relegated to the “bad people’s table.” Every day, I would experiment with how much milk I could leave without having to go back and finish it. Occasionally, I would spill some of it on the tray, but sadly, I couldn’t get away with spilling much of it. I tried everything!
On Fridays, we had fish sticks. I don’t eat fish because I don’t like fish. I would drown them in tartar sauce, a huge blob of it. The spells didn’t work on the fish either. They weren’t as picky with not finishing the fish, especially when the blob of tartar sauce that was left on my plate would also conceal some hidden pieces of fish. Tartar sauce isn’t so great either, but better than fish. I tried flipping the fish onto the floor once and my fish was kindly replaced by a teacher. Why didn’t my mom pack my lunch on Fridays?
Every idea I had was squashed by the student council, the teachers or the frightening Miss Thomas herself.
And don’t get me started on the “pizza.” I think it was a piece of white bread with sauce and a tiny sprinkle of powdered cheese on top. It didn’t taste like any other pizza I’ve ever had. It was awful.
I had a preview of how terrible the food was at that school. As a kindergartner, I had a visitation day and got paired with an elementary school kid who showed us the ropes. At lunch that day, they served meatloaf. It was disgusting. I was five years old at the time and couldn’t believe how horrible that meatloaf was. I don’t think I ever had meatloaf before then, and it was loaded with onions (not my favorite). My mom came to pick me up at the end of the day, and I had a big lump in my cheek. “What happened to you?” Mom asked with horror. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s meatloaf.”
“Did you keep that in your cheek all day?”
“Can I spit it out?”
“Of course!” She handed me a tissue.
No teacher asked what was wrong with my cheek. That first day I think I got away with not drinking my milk. And I kept that meatloaf in my cheek the whole afternoon. My cheek was so sore and stretched. My Mom got a good laugh out of it, but I never forgot that awful meatloaf. All through elementary school, I had that meatloaf often. It never tasted any better.
I sure hope kids get better food today.
Read more by Holli Friedland.
Trials and Tribulations of Third Grade
By Marlene Wolff Solomon
A very difficult time for me in school was when my family moved from Baltimore City to Baltimore County.
I was in the middle of third grade at Liberty School Number 54. My friends remained there and I was transferred to Wellwood Elementary on Smith Avenue.
It was hard for me because I did not know anyone. How does an 8-year old girl make friends in a totally new environment? And, to make matters worse, I was placed in the lowest level of all the third grade classes.
A friend of my mom’s said, “Aren’t you upset that Marlene was placed in the lowest level?”
My mom replied, “No, not at all! She is coming from a different school, and they will reassess her as time goes on. They need to see what reading level she is at, as well as where she places in the rest of her subjects.”
I feel my mom did the right thing. Gradually, I was moved up to a higher level while in third grade.
Eventually, I did make friends. Many of my classmates from the city also moved out to Baltimore County, and I was easily able to reconnect with them!
More info about Liberty School 54. In 1958, it was an active elementary school. The building, completed in 1910, was in the Colonial Revival or Georgian Revival Style. Currently, the school is no longer in operating condition, but the building still stands and is known as the Louisa May Alcott School.
Read more by Marlene Wolff Solomon.
My Year in Pax Hill
By Felicia Graber
Pax Hill, Peace Hill, the former home of Lord Baden Powel, founder of the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides Associations, became a boarding school for girls after being sold in 1953.
I was then attending a German high school in Frankfurt, Germany. I was miserable. We were only two Jewish students among a thousand. I felt I was in enemy territory.
In 1955, I was entering my sophomore year, and my mother decided to take me to a Jewish boarding school in England, hoping I would be happy and thrive there. However, this did not work out because the facilities were inferior. I am not sure how Mother found Pax Hill, an international girls’ boarding school. We visited the place and were very impressed by the accommodations and the principles.
It was not a regular school, strictly speaking. There were no grades, and each girl had a different curriculum suited to her needs. Some who had already graduated from High School were there to learn English, while others, including me, wanted to work towards a high school diploma.
Most girls came from influential families—diplomats, government officials, or the very wealthy —who sought an English education and language to find prominent marriage prospects for their daughters.
There were girls from India, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Greece, Germany, Austria, England, Singapore, the Netherlands, Hong Kong, Turkey and the USA. Here, I was not the outsider; we were all different and got along. Of course, there were arguments and quarrels, but they were settled peacefully.
My best friends were from Saudi Arabia, Singapore and India. I kept in touch with a couple of them for a long time. Rosie from India, sent me her wedding picture.
I felt very sorry for Aisha from Saudi Arabia. She was a brilliant young woman destined for an arranged marriage with no rights of her own. Sometimes I wondered if her parents did her a favor by letting her experience the freedom of the Western world. Her parents had stringent orders for the principals regarding what she could not do or where she could go. She was never allowed to go out alone.
To receive an English high school diploma, you needed to pass five subjects, two of which had to be at the advanced level.
Initially, I was supposed to spend one year learning English and a second year working on my diploma. However, I found this English for foreigners’ class a waste of time and money and convinced the principal to allow me to attend the regular courses geared toward graduation.
I took English, Latin and Math for the Ordinary Level and History and French for the Advanced Level. The classes consisted of two to five students. The faculty was made up of Oxford professors. I still remember the Latin teacher, who loved to retell all his adventures while in the army. One of my classmates, who was not academically inclined, would make it a habit of asking him about army life. That meant the end of the day’s lesson. Somehow, we got through the curriculum in all subjects.
At the end of the year, we were tested by Oxford University professors. Passing meant that we earned the right to apply to that institution.
I passed all five of my subjects. According to the congratulatory letter from the principal, I was the only one who passed all her subjects.
That year was one of my happiest school experiences. I was not an outsider; I was involved with intelligent young women from all over the world. I loved my classes and learned what I loved—French literature and history.
After all these years, I still remember some of “The Achievements of Henry VIII” from my history class. I surely remember some of my friends and sometimes wonder what became of them – especially Rosie from India, whose father was a prominent figure in some African country. I am also wondering about Aisha from Saudi Arabia. How did she go back to being “just a wife?”
I do not worry about my very good friend from Greece. She had her life planned out. She said, “I will marry a wealthy man, and in my country, once you are married, you can do what you want.”
Read more by Felicia Graber.
I Hated Gym Class
By Eileen Creeger
High school gym class was the worst, something I had to endure for four years. Our gym suits were so ugly. How can I describe the color? Dirty, faded yellow might be the best description. They had skirts that came down mid-though with bloomers underneath for “modesty.” Then, we had to endure “the showers” after class, even if we hadn’t worked up a sweat. Most of the time we ran in and out as quickly as possible, trying to cover our bodies with the provided too-small towels. Of course, you were excused if you had your period, which many of us had every two weeks!
It was also humiliating to dress and undress in front of frenemies – you know, the cool girls who tolerated you with half a smile.
The lady gym teachers were nothing to write home about. Most, if you pardon the expression, were a bit masculine. We all had a few chuckles behind their backs at their expense.
For me, the most dreaded gym course was gymnastics. There was no way I could
- climb a rope,
- walk on a balance beam without breaking my neck
- do the uneven bars
I did a vault or two, badly, but that was about the extent of my prowess in gymnastics. Therefore, during the class I’d hide behind another student, hoping to avoid the gym teacher and not getting called upon. Somehow, even though I earned an “F” in gymnastics, I managed to get a “C” in gym class on my report card.
However, one year I made a basket in basketball! Now that was something to crow about!
The worst gym teacher we had in either 10th or 11th grade was Mrs. N. All of us hated her. She was mean, with no sense of humor. Maybe she didn’t like her job; she certainly didn’t seem to like us.
That school year, when a few of us gathered at Linda C’s house, someone came up with the idea of putting a hex on Mrs. N. Five or six girls gathered in Linda’s basement. We sat in a circle on the linoleum floor in the dark. Someone lit a candle and summoned the spirits. I don’t remember what we asked the spirits to do, but we had fun. Did it work? Nah, but we didn’t care.
Thanks to former classmate and current blogger Marlene for the gym suit memories.
Read more by Eileen Creeger.