Fern Garrison had a green thumb.
Even her name was botanical.A row of colorful African violets
lined the window sill in her classroom
at North Kirkwood Junior High.She loved to putter in the courtyard
adjacent to her room when she had
a few minutes to spare.On one occasion, Fern was so immersed
digging away, she failed to notice the
bell had rung and class had started.Being typical eighth graders, we had no
compunction to inform her of the situation.
Instead, we enjoyed a forty-five minute
free-for-all.Perhaps Fern was as bored with algebra
as we were.
Autobiographical
The Dance Of The Matador
Have you ever been to a bullfight?
I have, as part of our trip to Mexico
when I was in the sixth grade.The arena was filled with spectators.
Participants in the event entered
in a parade.The bull was released into the ring.
The matador and banderilleros
tested the bull with a large red and
gold cape, observing its behavior.Picadors on horseback stabbed the
bull with lances behind a mound of
muscle in its neck, leading to its
first loss of blood.Each of three banderilleros planted
two sharp barbed picks into
the bull’s shoulders, further weakening
the animal.The matador entered the ring alone
with a small red cape and sword.He used the cape to maneuver the bull
into position to stab it between the
shoulder blades and through the heart.Having performed especially well, the
matador was awarded one of the bull’s
ears.During this choreographed slaughter,
I spent much of the time
staring at my feet.I was conflicted throughout.
I wished no harm to come to the matador.
But I found myself quietly rooting
for the bull, who seemed to have all the cards
stacked against him.In the past three years, three Mexican
states and some parts of Spain
have banned bullfighting,
declaring it barbaric and
cruel to animals.An eleven-year-old could have
clued them into that some fifty plus years ago.
A Different World Down Below
While in Mexico City
over Christmas
vacation,
we stayed in a
high-rise hotel.Adjacent to us was
a large lot
which was essentially
empty
except for a tiny
shack
leaning up against
a wall,
which housed
a family
of meager means
by American standards.One day while gazing
out the window,
the family below
caught sight of us
and, all smiles,
waved
enthusiastically.We smiled
and waved back.Henceforth,
the waving became
part of our daily
routine.I liked to imagine
the family
owned the land,
would sell it
one day
for a pile of pesos
and move into a
bigger house.On the other hand,
they seemed
perfectly content
right where they were.At age eleven
it occurred to me
for perhaps the
first time,
possessions
are not required
to be happy
or to live richly.
Where Were You November 22, 1963?
It was exactly one week before my fifteenth birthday.
The day began in an unremarkable way.
It was off to school at Kirkwood High, where I was a sophomore.
The daily grind was underway, shuffling from class to class.
Geometry was a split period, with lunch thrown in the middle.
We had just returned from the cafeteria when the news broke.
President John F. Kennedy, making a campaign stop in Dallas,
had been shot at 12:30 p.m. as his motorcade entered Dealey Plaza.
Details were sketchy at first, with confusion escalating rapidly.
School was dismissed early. Everyone headed home to the surreal
news that JFK, shot multiple times, was pronounced dead at 1 p.m.
From that moment forward, until JFK was laid to rest at Arlington
National Cemetery on November 25th, the whole country was glued
to their television screens.
The images of the motorcade, JFK’s head thrusting backward from
the impact of the bullets, his body slumping toward Jacqueline,
her mad scramble to crawl out of the back seat and across the trunk
of the car, were seared into our collective memory, much like the
collapse of the Twin Towers on 9-11.
On November 24th, Lee Harvey Oswald, the prime suspect, was
scheduled to be transferred from police headquarters to the county jail.
He was shot at point blank range on live TV by Jack Ruby, a local
nightclub owner. The ineptness of law enforcement was like a Dragnet
episode turned Twilight Zone.
Did Oswald act alone? Was Russia behind it? Was our own government
somehow involved? Like a dog with a bone, conspiracy theorists continue
to gnaw away, decades after the fact.
The one thing I know with certainty is that when John F. Kennedy
was assassinated November 22, 1963, the innocence of my generation
died with him.
I recall nothing of celebrating my fifteenth birthday. I remember
almost every detail about JFK’s last day…as it should be.
Thou Shalt Not Steal
Wood Drug Store
was just a short walk
from our house
in Kirkwood.With a full-service
soda fountain,
a freezer full of
ice cream novelties,
the latest comic books
and baseball cards,
Bazooka gum,
Hostess Twinkies
and every other candy
imaginable,
it was a kid’s paradise.No doubt the pharmacy
dispensed drugs, too,
but that wasn’t
on our radar.One day while browsing
the school supplies
in the back corner
of the store,
my friend issued
a dare
to pilfer a few items.This was, of course,
before the advent of
surveillance cameras.Only the watchful eye
of the manager
stood between us and
the front door.With a handful of
erasers
stuffed in my jeans,
we triumphantly
exited the premises.By the next morning,
guilt
had eaten a hole
through my pocket.Off to the drug store
I went.
Quickly
I placed the erasers
back in the box
from whence they came.I breathed
a sigh of
relief.So much for
a life of crime.
When Billboards Reigned Supreme
One of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s
enduring legacies
was the development of
the Interstate Highway System.Eventually joining the two coasts
and all points in-between,
it provided a thoroughfare
to move commerce and
travelers, alike.Motels, restaurants, gas stations and
tourist attractions
sprung up at every bend in the road.And following close behind were
billboards…
the latest and greatest way
for businesses
to put their message out there…
roadside
to lure in customers.One of my favorite advertisers
was Burma-Shave,
famous for posting their message
on multiple small sequential signs
along the side of the highway.
There was always a clever
punch line:Does your husband
Misbehave
Grunt and grumble
Rant and rave
Shoot the brute some
Burma-ShavePast
Schoolhouses
Take it slow
let the little
Shavers grow
Burma-ShaveOf course, more is not always better.
Billboards proliferated like weeds
until the visual eyesore
began to obscure the countryside.Lady Bird Johnson
took the lead in applying ‘Round-Up’
to the billboard infestation
by promoting passage of the
Highway Beautification Act in 1965.While a few still remain,
their numbers continue to
dwindle
as other forms of communication
have rendered billboards
increasingly obsolete.Now, GPS navigation systems in cars
and smartphone apps
keep us informed of exactly
where we are 24/7
and what amenities and attractions
lie ahead,
without the roadside clutter.Score one for technology.
Testing…Testing…One-Two-Three
Anyone of my vintage
is well acquainted
with this iconic image
from the early days
of television.The graphic of the Indian
and each of the various
patterns on the chart
served a specific purpose.They allowed for
adjustments to cameras,
as well as studio and
home monitors.The Indian-head
test pattern
often would appear after
the formal television station
sign-off, following
the playing of the
national anthem.With the arrival of
color TV in the 1960’s,
an alternate test card
of color bars became
the one of choice.As much as I enjoy
the Hi Def, high tech
of today’s television,
I still wax nostalgic for
my Native American
friend of long ago.I can’t help but
wonder
how the chief would look
on a 55” screen.
You’re Stepping On My Toes
There was a dance studio located
in a suburb
just a few miles away
from Kirkwood.A rite of passage for preteens
involved learning
the basics of ballroom dancing,
while hopefully
picking up a few social graces
along the way.Let’s face it,
there’s nothing quite like herding
a gaggle of giggling girls
and a bevy of
bashful, bumbling boys
onto the dance floor
to go toe to toe for an hour
week after week.The roster of dance steps
included such archaic
all-time favorites as the
waltz, foxtrot, and cha-cha.In short order, it became clear
there wasn’t a future
Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers
amongst us.While the dance moves
have long faded from memory,
a slight tinge of
embarrassment
from those days
lingers still.One, two…cha-cha-cha
Three, four…find the door.
The Queen Of Grammar
Sixth grade was pivotal…
the year to lay critical groundwork
to assure a successful transition
from elementary school
to junior high and beyond.I was in good hands
with Mrs. Corrigan,
whom I consider to be
the most capable
of my teachers at Tillman.She was well versed in everything
from math and science
to art and music.Most relevant in my case
was her mastery of
and passion for
the English language.Mrs. Corrigan meticulously
addressed every aspect of
English grammar.We spent endless hours
diagramming sentences
on the blackboard, starting
with simple subject/verb
combinations and working
our way up to compound/complex
configurations.I filled my brain to the brim,
learning little if anything
of consequence
about grammar
beyond her class.Hats off to Mrs. Corrigan!
She Lost Her Way With A Map
Mrs. Clement taught fifth grade at Tillman Elementary School.
One of her standard classroom projects was creating a relief map
of the United States. It served the dual purpose of mastering
geography, while incorporating an art activity.
On a piece of Masonite, we traced around a stencil of the United States.
Then we mixed up a concoction of flour, salt and water, which was
spread on the board and molded to form mountain ranges, river valleys,
plains, etc.
This stage was beloved by students, for they managed to smear goop
all over themselves, their friends and the entire classroom. I suspect the
school custodians had a much different take on the situation.
Once the mixture dried, it was time to add color to the map to portray
varying elevations of the land and to demarcate rivers and lakes. The final
step involved applying a coat of varnish to preserve the finished masterpiece.
Throughout the project, Mrs. Clement kept herself right in the thick of
things. She busily circled the classroom, moving from student to student, refashioning mountain ranges or adjusting colors to suit her vision.
Offering unsolicited help was an engrained feature of Mrs. Clement’s
teaching style. I recall being somewhat confused and mildly irritated
by her intervention on more than one occasion while in her class.
Sadly, the project was never completely out of her hands, for she
was incapable of fully entrusting it to us. In micro managing every
step of the process, the outcome was much more hers, than ours.
Letting go can be difficult. But, unless it happens, individual initiative
and creativity never see the full light of day.
Out of My Write Mind 