School Daze

For the most part, I enjoyed school. I remember my very first day in Kindergarten in Pioneer Elementary School, Compton, California. I was not yet five years of age. It was September of 1952, and I was still an only child. We lived on S. Cairn Ave. west of Central and south of Rosecrans.

The school was located at 1104 E. 148th St., just around the corner from my home. It's now called Harriet Tubman Continuation High School. It is still exactly as I remember it except for the name. Good internet investigation revealed all this.

My teacher was a beautiful young lady about 22 years of age. Her name was Miss Miller. I fell in love with her. She lived a couple of streets west of our house, as I recall, with her parents. I remember telling my mother I wanted to buy her a nice gift, a “nice slip, or something". I think I even said I would like to marry her. What a cad I was at only 5 years of age.

Her assistant was old enough to be my grandma, or so I remember thinking. Well, next to Miss Miller, anyone looked old! (Except my mother who was probably the same age).

I remember the assistant telling us at naptime if we didn't be still; she would be cross with us. It puzzled me by what it meant to be cross with anyone. How did you do that, I wondered? Was she going to lay down on me across my chest thus making a cross? Funny the way kids think, huh? I had never heard of that terminology before.

Just after I turned five our school had a costume parade for Halloween. I dress in a costume that had a plastic face mask with some character painted on it. I think I was Raggedy Andy. Anyway, the mask got twisted, so the eye-holes shifted and I was walking blind.

It didn't take long for me to run off course and I began to stumble over the folding chairs that were set up around the play yard we were marching in. I must have been a spectacle because everyone began laughing at me. I am not sure if I even knew why I was blind! All I remember was my mother coming to my rescue and asking me why I didn't adjust the mask before I started to crash into things. That's easy! I couldn't see, I told her! DUH! I was mortified! I remember crying.

One day my dad came home with sad news. His employer, Grant Apparel, was closing down. (My dad worked in the garment industry in downtown Los Angeles). We were selling our house and moving to Riverside, California. I was never so sad, and really never recovered from the disappointment of having to leave our beautiful home and neighborhood, and my Miss Miller.

I finished Kindergarten in a rural community called Mira Loma. In one felled swoop I had changed from a city slicker to a country bumpkin. Life was never the same for me after that.

The school was Troth Street Elementary School. The teacher was Miss Morgan. Miss Morgan was the opposite of my beloved Miss Miller. She was so obese she had folds of skin hanging from her elbows. Every morning during roll call when our name was called, we had to stand up and answer, "Good morning, Miss Morgan". I fell ill one day in class and Miss Morgan confidently announced that I had the measles. She was right. I spent the next two or three weeks at home sick as a dog.

We lived there in Mira Loma for only a few months as I recall, and moved in late August to another Podunk neighborhood in another rural community called Glen Avon, only a few miles away. My parents had found and bought a house with a huge half-acre lot on Avon Street.

Since this is about school, I will refrain from telling any other details or events about my life in Mira Loma or Glen Avon.

Glen Avon Elementary school was pretty much a nice school for me. My first grade teacher was Miss Salter. (I thought that was funny that Miss Salter taught the first grade and Miss Pepper taught Kinder there.)

Miss Salter was a very nice teacher. She was young, but not too young. I did well under her tutelage. I quickly became an outstanding reader, which really amazed a lot of adults, for some reason. I got excellent report cards from her.

In second grade my teacher was Mrs. Woodard. She was a sweet old lady of small stature, and had a squeaky old lady's voice. I can't recall too many things from her class.

Third grade was Mrs. Thaller. Now Misses Thaller was an enigma to me. She had dark hair and spoke with an odd accent. She was in her late forties, I guessed or maybe early fifties. She knew a lot about the Mexican culture and the missions of California which were established by the Catholic priests way back when California was a Spanish possession. She wore her glasses around her neck on a string of beads, which distracted me for some reason.

Each morning after the Pledge of Allegiance/Flag Salute was repeated, she would drag out a large easel with The Lord's Prayer printed on a large paper or cardboard. She would then lead us as we repeated it. I soon memorized it.

Now, you just cannot get away with things like that in any school these days. I don't know who in our class was catholic, but I do not remember anyone refusing to participate in repeating the prayer. About the only thing about it I do remember was I repeated it at home one day at the dinner table to my mom and dad. My mother said that it was not a correct rendition of the prayer as it was contained in the King James Bible.

After some investigating, my mother eventually told me that the version I was repeating was from the Catholic Bible, and was, therefore, different. But, I was never forbidden to continue the daily prayer in Mrs. Thaller's class. I was taught the correct rendition from the KJV, and it was left at that.

As a Mormon boy I certainly don't remember any religious confusion or pressure wrought on me by these experiences. I didn't lose any sleep, I didn't abandon my religious convictions, and I certainly didn't suffer undue stress. I knew what I believed, and that was that.

My parents didn't rush to the school to lodge a complaint, or run to the court to file a petition. Confident that they had taught me well, they left these things alone. As Joseph Smith once said, "I teach them correct principles, and they govern themselves." Times were certainly simpler back then. Our court's judges must have been very bored.

Speaking of the Pledge of Allegiance, I remember one girl named Sandra who never participated. She would stand up but never put her hand over her heart, or say the pledge. This went on for years, and one day I finally asked her why not. She said her parents said she didn't have to because it was idol worship.

It turns out that was a lie they had to concoct. The truth was she was a Jehovah's Witness who don't believe in honoring or pledging allegiance to any earthly government, or serving in the armed forces. Remember, we were baby-boomers; children of WWII veterans, and not saluting the flag was tantamount to spitting in the face of those who served and died for that flag. So, the idol worship thing was a safer ruse. In later years, Sandra admitted the truth, and explained she was a JW as if that announcement cleared it all up. I didn't know JW's didn't recognize any governments.

Years later I was able to identify Misses Thaller's accent as Hispanic. She was also a Catholic, hence our daily repetition of the Lord's Prayer, (Catholic version), and the excellent lessons on California Missions. She had apparently married someone of European decent.

In Fourth grade, my world was turned upside-down. I had a mean teacher whose name was Miss Marietta. Miss Marietta was not young, but it was stressed by her that she was a miss to us. She was a stern woman who never smiled or laughed. Her look was cold, and she struck fear into my heart. She wore her hair short, wore black-rimmed glasses, and never ever seemed like she had any compassion. Miss Marietta was also Catholic, and to top it off, she was a retired nun who used to teach in catholic schools. Bingo! (No pun intended)

Although she never made us repeat any prayers, she did bring one thing over from her teaching in catholic school. It was called a yardstick, and I had seen her use it many times on 'slow' boy students. Either all the girls in class were good students, or she disliked boys intensely. The girls never tasted the wooden rule.

I did manage to win her over one day, however, in an unplanned moment of wit. She was seated at her desk doing whatever in a book while we were all silently doing some kind of class study or test. The peace was shattered when she looked up from her books and caught a boy student staring at her. "What are you staring at!?!?" she demanded in a loud voice. (I think the boy peed his pants). Anyway, where the courage came from I know not, but I blurted out, "Maybe he's staring at you because he thinks you are beautiful, Miss Marietta!" Realizing I had just spoken out of turn, which you just didn't do in her class, I almost peed my pants. I waited for the dreaded stick.


To my utter amazement, I could see Miss Marietta's face brighten, if but for a moment. I actually had flattered the old stern woman, and I think for a moment she enjoyed it. I wasn't even scolded! I remember she said something after that which was akin to an agreement. I know for a fact this left an impression on her. A few weeks later she shared that moment with my parents during a teacher-parents conference.

Our class motto was the Golden Rule: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". No doubt a remnant of Miss Marietta's Catholic school days. It was printed on a gold colored poster made to look like a ruler hence: Golden Rule. She kept it pinned all year to one of the cork boards on the room's south wall. We had to know it, explain it, and live by it. Too bad it didn't apply to her and that wooden rule.

Speaking of that, I will never forget the day when one of my boy classmates, Steven Anders, was punished for his stupidity. Just not able to get it, even after Miss Marietta just explained it to him, (whatever that was) she whacked him over the back with her infamous stick. I recoiled in shock, pain and sympathy for Steve, almost before I saw an amazing thing. The yardstick splintered into pieces, like a major league bat! I had to suppress a cheer! The tyranny was over! (Not!)

Oh, my grades in Miss Marietta's were the best ever: All A's and B's. Goes to show what a great motivator fear is.

The fear was real, not just on my part, but on others as well. I remember one friend, Tommy Smith, who was an in-active LDS boy (which I never knew until he started going to church when I was in High School), who was also intimidated by her. In Miss Marietta's class you just never ever raised your hand in class to be excused unless you wanted the wrath of God to rain down upon you, and be humiliated by her.

So, Tommy didn't. Instead, he quietly, (and I am sure, humiliatingly), wet his pants and sat in it until we left. I remember looking down on the floor behind the desk Tommy was sitting at and seeing a large puddle of urine spread as it spilled from his seat. Poor Tommy. He and I never spoke of that day, ever. I really knew what he had gone through. He didn't come to school the next day.

In the Fifth grade my teacher was another elderly woman. Unlike Miss Marietta, Misses England was a grandmotherly figure who exuded maturity. She had silvery-gray hair which she wore twisted up on her head in a bun. She stored her pencil in the bun, too. Misses England was an adored schoolmarm in the truest sense. She was in her mid 60's, and dressed just like my grandmother right down to the plain black pumps the older women wore.

In the sixth grade I had my first experience with a male teacher, Mr. Green. He was about 33 years old and single, and had served four years in the navy. He was raised in Riverside on a citrus ranch. Mr. Green was odd. It wasn't anything I could identify at my age but later learned what it was.

All I knew was when he spoke he sounded strange and blinked slowly as he did so. When he walked he rocked on his feet as if he were trying to keep a book balanced on his head. He had dark red hair, and adored Cadillac’s.

He asked us to give him a birthday party on his birthday, which we did in his classroom. He relished the attention. I later learned Mr. Green was gay, or maybe even a pedophile.

He had challenged a friend of mine named Dean K. (I'll not mention his surname here) to meet him behind the backstop after class was over at the end of the day. I think he said he was going to pants Dean for some reason and Dean bet he couldn't do it. Dean didn't come back to school for the next four or six weeks. No explanation was ever given by anyone. When he finally did return, he was a different boy from then on. Mr. Green never teased him or conversed with him after that as he was wont to do previously.

Later, when I was about 18 or so, Dean and I met up when he was a clerk at a local liquor store where I bought my HOT ROD magazines. He confirmed Mr. Green had molested him. It was hard for Dean to even mention it, so I never got into why Mr. Green wasn't fired. I found out from other male students older than I that Green was a queer, in the jargon of the day.

In Mr. Green's class I won the spelling Bee, and was the class hero with the boys, as it was a boys vs. girls event, so to speak. No doubt a theme dubbed by Mr. Green.

All through my years at Glen Avon, I attended school with various ethnicities. We had Mexican-American students, who didn't live in large barrios, but right up the street from each other and amongst us, and we had Japanese-American students as well. Needless to say the Japanese-American students were serious in their education, and worked hard after school in their family truck farms. I admired them.

I was infatuated with a young Mexican-American girl named Gloria Sanchez. Gloria had beautiful brown skin and long black hair. She had features for her age that other girls envied, and brought a lot of attention from the boys. In later years I saw her get into a fight with another girl. She was a scrapper. End of infatuation.

Her face was cherubic, with sparkling brown eyes. Years later, looking at old class photographs, I was surprised to see that Gloria wasn't lean. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't fat, it's just that by today's standards she would not be considered attractive. Today's standards are out of whack with reality, I hasten to add.

In school we used to have annual Christmas programs where we all sang Christmas Carols in a chorus led by our music teacher Mrs. Wheeler. (Mrs. Wheeler was the music teacher my entire time at Glen Avon school.)

Every year before Christmas, Mrs. Wheeler would come to our class and do try-outs for the school's Christmas program. She would stoop at our desks and ask us to repeat a part of a song or carol she would sing for us. Try as I might, I couldn't sing it the way Mrs. Wheeler wanted. My friend, Jimmy Wyly, got the part every time. So, he got to play one of the Three Kings and sing on stage while I had to be content to sing anonymously in the chorus.

We did the whole thing with the Wise Men, and Baby Jesus, and the search for an inn by Mary and Joseph. It made Christmas, well- Christmas! On the night of the program, all the students and parents would gather and watch the show. Try that these days. Tell me our nation hasn't lost its moral compass.

Our school had a cafeteria where the tables and benches would fold up into the walls. During lunch hour we filed into the lunchroom, the brown-baggers in one line, and the kids who bought theirs in another. We sat segregated with the brown-baggers on one side and those who bought lunches on the other. In my early years I carried my lunch to school in a Red-Ryder lunch box with a Red Ryder thermos of milk. Every school year I got a new lunch box. I am sorry to say I cannot remember what all of them were like. I only remember we all had different ones according to who our hero of the year was. Davey Crockett, Red Ryder, and so on.

I always thought the ones who had to bring a lunch were poor while those who ate lunches purchased at the cafeteria were rich. And it was the same ones year after year. There were the ones whose dads were airline pilots, or business executives, or the like that bought their lunches, while those of us whose dads were steel mill workers, or mechanics, and other blue collar stuff ate what we brought from home.

To look on the bright side, those who ate out of the cafeteria all ate the same meals, while we who brought our own lunches all ate different things and different desserts. But even there I was different. My desserts just didn't seem to have the appeal the other brown-bagger's had. Every day my friends would pull out Hostess Twinkies, or Hostess Cupcakes, or Mallow Pies, etc. On the other hand, I had to eat my mother's homemade cakes, or cupcakes, or graham crackers with frosting on them. What is it about kids who prefer crap to good ol' home cookin'?

On a rare occasion, I got to buy my lunch, and became an interloper among the higher in society. I felt so out of place with my home sewn shirt, and old brown shoes. It was a dead give-away I didn't belong. But I pretended I did belong and enjoyed the moment as long as it lasted.

Home sewn shirts? Oh, yeah. Didn't I mention my mom was a seamstress schooled also in the homemaking arts as were all LDS women of the day? Every so often she would lay out the materials and pin shirt patterns to them and make me a new batch of shirts. I thought she did this because we were poor. But, the truth was, aside from the fact money, indeed, didn't grow on trees, (as my father would always remind me), my mother loved to sew for us.

At school one day, while in the first grade, I was sent to the cafeteria to bring back the class's milk for snack time. The women working in the cafeteria fawned over my home-sewn duds, amazed that my mother was so talented. I never knew it took talent to do those things.

Speaking of my mother, there were occasions, and I can't remember why, she attended my class just to observe, I guess. I remember she came exquisitely dressed, and all made up. She didn't stay very long, perhaps an hour or two, but when she left all the girls in the classroom had to know who she was. "She's my mother" I explained. "Oh, she's so beautiful!" they said. I think, too, some were surprised to learn she was my mother and not my big sister.

When it came time to leave Glen Avon Elementary, it was tough. I was leaving behind my whole youth; it seemed, with all its memories. From the fire-drills when we got to go outside and pretend we were fleeing a disaster, to our 'duck-and-cover' exercises where we would toss ourselves under our desks to protect ourselves from the effects of an atomic blast. From the Safety contests to the Essay Contests; from P.E. with Mr. Seeger, to the Square Dance lessons from him, too.

From Arbor day, when we planted a tree near the school office, to Valentine's Day when we all brought silly little "BE MY VALENTINE" cards and distributed them to all in the classroom.

Yes, those were the real school days!