sixth grade--Railroad Blessman and the beating

Richard Robert Blessman was my sixth grade teacher. He had a buzz haircut and wore a dark suit and tie every day to school. RR was retired Navy and ran our classroom like a military unit. He made the mistake of telling our class about his nickname in college--Railroad Blessman. His friends called him that because his first and middle names both began with R. We had fun with it when he wasn't around. It was the only humorous thing about the man.

We had lots of rules in our class, but the biggest deal was that we were not allowed to say the word "ain't." To keep us from it we each had an index card called the Ain't Card which RR kept in a box on the corner of his desk. Each time we slipped up and said that nasty word it was marked on our card and we were docked points on our grammar grade. His methods of changing our grammar only made it a game for each of us to sneak to say the dreaded "ain't" behind his back. Sometimes, in September, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, if you listen closely you can still hear the echoes of a bunch of silly sixth-graders mocking old Railroad Blessman.

"OOOOHH. Ain't, ain't, ain't, ain't."

One term I got creative with my handwriting and wrote backhand instead of in the Palmer method--you know the kind of loopy and slanted to the right way most of us use now. Even writing backhanded, I was very neat. It just didn't look like it was supposed to look, so I got a D in handwriting that grading period. I thought my mother was going to explode. When she questioned Mr Blessman about it he made her even madder by saying, "No student ever deserves an A." She told me I'd better do exactly what he wanted me to do in class because she didn't want anymore Ds on my report card, so I abandoned my evil, creative ways and joined the herd once more.

I was a Safety Patrol that same year. My post was at the corner of Mapledale and Vassar. I was very proud to have the responsibility of helping kids across the street. There never was much traffic but it didn't matter to me. I was a patrol. Donna Rudnik and Mickey McMasters were also safety patrols on streets in my area but further out from the school. I'd only known Mickey since fifth grade, but I had known Donna since third grade when I moved to Hazel Park. I thought Donna was my friend. I'd been to her house many times after school. We'd gone shopping together with her mom. I went to church with her once. We laughed. We talked. I liked Donna. I liked Mickey. I thought they were my friends. Then one afternoon they both came to my post and started laughing and acting silly.

"Here. Hold her arm."

"OK."

Donna grabbed one arm and Mickey grabbed my other one.

"Now hit her with your patrol belt."

With one on either side of me holding my arms, they both began swinging their rolled up patrol belts against my bare legs, metal buckle and all. It wasn't funny at all but they both laughed as they wailed on me over and over again.

It hurt.

"Hey you guys. Let me go!"

"Aw c'mon. You're a Safety Patrol. It doesn't really hurt."

They each kept a tight grip on my arms and kept swinging.

"Stop it! Let me go!"

I struggled against them twisting and turning until I broke loose. They both laughed like fools as they watched me run home to safety. When I got there Mom could tell something was wrong even though I wasn't crying. I think it was the welts on my legs from the "goofing around" that my friends had just done that gave me away.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"What in the world happened to your legs?"

"Oh, Donna and Mickey were just goofing around."

But my mother didn't buy my simplistic explanation and grilled me until I told her exactly how they were 'goofing around.' She called the school immediately to tell Miss Morris what had happened. The next day all three of us were called into her office. Miss Morris was an imposing figure. She was a large elderly woman with gray hair, black glasses, a stern look, and a withered arm. We were all scared to death of her.

Miss Morris told Donna and Mickey she knew about what had happened the day before and lectured them on responsibility and setting an example for the younger students. She took away their Safety Patrol posts and belts and required them to apologize to me. Which they did right then and there.

They had to or they would die.

As we left Miss Morris' office together to go back to class, Donna asked,

"What did you tell on us for?"

"I didn't. My mom did. I didn't want you guys to get into trouble."

If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never completely understand why I didn't want them to get into trouble. I didn't get mad at them but I was puzzled about why they'd doubled up on me and hurt me. In spite of everything that happened to me that day, I still thought of them as my friends. Especially Donna. She couldn't have meant to hurt me. They were just goofing. Weren't they? Surely they didn't mean to be hateful and rotten to me. Friends just sometimes make mistakes. Friends don't hurt you like that. Do they?

So, I let it go, and I never got mad or ever became their victim for the spur of the moment beating they gave me on the corner of Mapledale and Vassar one fall afternoon on a Friday in Hazel Park, Michigan.

a few potatoes

My mother used to send me to Bob's Produce Market once in a while when she was cooking supper. She'd tell me to go buy her a few potatoes. Why couldn't she just say, "Suzanne, go buy me 6 large potatoes," or "7 medium ones." Something specific. Not just a few.

I was only 11 years old. I didn't know! I'd beg her to tell me,

"Mama, how many is that anyway?"

But that's all she'd say. A few. So I'd hop on my big blue bike and ride the 3 blocks to dear old Bob's.

I loved how the produce market smelled. Apples, carrots, potatoes, pomegranates--we called them Indian Apples--and cantaloupes and corn. It smelled fresh, sweet and good for you, but as good as it smelled, I didn't like going in there. Bob was about 60 years old and not a friendly guy. I don't think he liked kids in his store.

I don't think he liked kids. Period.

When I opened the door to go inside, the little bells on the door handle jingled. There were never any other customers in there. Maybe he was unfriendly to everyone. He sat at the back of the one room market in his chair and never said a word to me. When I got about halfway into the store, he slowly stood up and moseyed a few steps toward me--still not speaking. I got all nervous and spoke because he wouldn't.

"My mom wants a few potatoes."

He stopped dead in his tracks and then he just looked at me.

Now what? Was I supposed to get a paper sack and pick them out myself? I didn't know. He still didn't say anything to me so I spoke again just to break the silence.

"Just a few."

That's when he figured out that I was waiting for him to pick them out for me. He moved silently over to the unwashed white potatoes and started placing them in the paper bag. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five potatoes. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine medium potatoes. A few? Then he walked slowly over to the hanging scale and placed the bag carefully into the pan to weigh them. I now wonder just how much all the dirt on those potatoes weighed.

"55 cents."

I handed him the money, folded the top of the bag down and hurried out of the store. There was no "Thank you." No, "Come again." No, "Kiss my foot."

Silence.

I was so glad to be out of there I could have shouted. The good smell of the store was just not worth the misery of doing business with silent, old Bob.

I wrapped the top of the bag over the handlebar and placed my hand over it to get my treasures home because there was no basket on my bike. Off I went. That's when it started to sprinkle rain. I'd only gone one block, just up from Frankie Polito's house, when my bag started getting weak from the water. I hoped it would let me get home before it disintegrated.

It didn't.

One potato fell out. Two fell out. They all fell out. I had dirty, little potatoes all over the ground, and a soggy mess of a holey paper bag wrapped around my handlebar. It couldn't get any worse.

Then it really started raining.

The thought never entered my mind to simply leave them there and go home. I was too responsible to do that. I needed those potatoes. Mama needed those potatoes. Besides, she would kill me if I left them there and I surely couldn't hold them with one hand. There were too many of them.

Now what was I going to do? I was stuck.

So I arm wrestled with muddy potatoes in the rain. I put a couple in the crook of my arm, one under my arm, I held one in my hand and shoved two under my chin...I had potatoes everywhere. Then I tried to ride my bicycle. What a fiasco! I'd go 2 feet and drop 2 potatoes. At that rate I'd never get home.

Then I heard my name.

"Suz-ay-anne!"

My Aunt Polly was visiting us from Tennessee and Mama had sent her to look for me because I'd been gone so long.

"My bag broke. I can't get the potatoes home!"

"Well, let's see what we can do."

She tried carrying them, but it seems a few potatoes is too many for anyone to carry without a bag. Rain was still coming down. We were too far from the store to go back for another bag and still 2 blocks from home. We were soaked and now both of us don't know what to do. That's when I had a brainstorm. The light bulb came on. It was an epiphany.

I was wearing a yellow, flowered sunsuit. Remember those? One piece play suits with string ties at the shoulders? Elastic at the waist and at each leg? Why not put the potatoes in my sunsuit? Drop the muddy little suckers down the front and back of my top. I'd sit down and ride my bike home so they wouldn't fall out the legs and we could at least get them home to Mama.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Aunt Polly hesitated for a split second but she knew there was no other solution, and finally gave in. As I sat on my bicycle seat, she loaded me up, front and back with wet, dirty potatoes. We both laughed at the sight of my lumpy, muddy rain soaked sunsuit. She told me to go ahead and ride and she'd catch up with me, but I rode slowly so she wouldn't have to walk home in the rain alone. I wasn't going to leave her. She had rescued me. We were filthy and soaked to the bone by the time went the 2 remaining blocks home.

We crashed triumphantly and noisily through the back door, laughing loudly at the ridiculousness of the whole mess. We were ecstatic. We had succeeded. We had scaled the mountain. We had overcome our adversity. We had brought home the bacon...er, potatoes!

As Aunt Polly unloaded my dirty sunsuit of its cargo at the kitchen table, we spilled out our whole sordid story for Mama. She listened calmly like a disinterested bystander and then matter-of-factly said,

"Well, why'd you get so many? I told you just a few.

fifth grade--The Malinowski Baseball Incident of 1963

After reading my posts and noticing my negative happenings, a friend asked me, "Did you ever have a good year in school?" Sure, I had some good times each year but there seemed to be one thing or another every year that was dramatic for me. Fifth grade was one of those years.

I think my teacher was Mrs Fain the school's Spanish teacher. At least I had her for part of the year. She was OK. No problems there. See? It was OK so I don't remember much about it. Uncle Bill always said if nothing ever goes wrong, you'll never remember it. Well, I don't remember much about fifth grade except for the day I sent Eugene Malinowski to the hospital.

Yep. I did. We were outside at recess and on this particular day we were playing an organized game. Baseball. Everything was going along all right. I wasn't very athletic as a girl, much like I am now as a grown up. I didn't like to be in the spotlight but it was my turn to bat. I wasn't optimistic enough to think I'd hit the ball, I was just hoping I wouldn't swing so hard and miss that I'd screw myself into the ground.

I was up. Holding the bat at ready. Here comes the pitch. I closed my eyes and swung the bat. Whap! I connected. I couldn't believe it! I HIT THE BALL! Now I had to run. RUN, SUZANNE! I slung my bat backwards to give myself momentum. I forgot that poor Eugene was stooping down behind me playing catcher. I took off toward first base. About halfway there, the cheers telling me to "Run," stopped and I slowed down. As I got to first base, there there was no cheering. In fact no one was paying me any attention. Everyone was now gathered around poor Eugene. He was sitting up and our teacher was holding a bloody handkerchief over his forehead. What happened? Who'd hurt Eugene? Then someone told me that I'd clobbered the kid.

I felt awful. First, because I'd put in all that effort batting and running for nothing. Second, because I was so stupid I didn't know not to throw the bat and I'd hurt an innocent kid. They called Mrs Malinowski and maybe an ambulance. I'm not sure.

We all headed back to class and Eugene with his broken head went to the doctor for stitches. School went on as usual although the mood in our classroom was somber. None of us had much experience with accidents like this. We didn't even know if he was going to live. No one fussed at me. My classmates didn't ostracize me or get mad because I'd hurt our classmate. Later that afternoon our teacher told us Eugene was fine and only had to have a few stitches. I was very sad about the whole thing.

What I didn't know was that the principal, Miss Morris, had also called my mother. I went home as usual that afternoon never telling my mother what had happened. After a few minutes at home, she asked,

"How was school today?"

"OK."

"Did anything unusual happen?"

"No."

"The school called."

That's when the dam burst. I broke into tears and confessed to Mom that I'd almost killed a kid. Why not confess? She already knew anyway.

After a good cry, some consoling and reassurance from my mother that Eugene really was going to be all right, my mother had me call Eugene at home to apologize for the accident. Life went back to normal. He was out of school for a day or so but came back almost good as new. Neither one of us ever mentioned it again.

Maybe we had them but I don't ever remember another baseball game for the fifth graders at Longfellow Elementary. I never played baseball in school again for fear of a repeat of the Malinowski Baseball Incident of 1963.

fourth grade--Charlotte Surdaki and the loss of grace

Miss Charlotte Surdaki was my fourth grade teacher. She was not a young woman. She was perhaps in her early 40's and was swift to politely correct any student who called her Mrs Surdaki.

"I am Miss Surdaki, not Mrs Surdaki."

Her white porcelain skin was impeccably made up with deep red lips to accent her exotic beauty. Her hair was jet black which she wore completely off her face in a classic chignon at the back of her neck. She wore tailored clothes which matched her cool, calm and collected personality. Our class loved her. I loved her. She treated us with respect and we felt as though she enjoyed teaching us.

Miss Surdaki made our classroom fun in an orderly way. We worked hard on our regular schoolwork, but she also gave us little bits of fun information to hold our interest. She told us we would be losing our teeth at a quickening pace and not to worry. We were not actually falling apart.

Miss Surdaki also encouraged us to stand tall and proud when we recited the Pledge of Allegiance and to sing loudly and clearly our national anthem. She's the one who told us the national anthem's "sweet land of liberty," was not, "sweet land of liverty," and had nothing to do with our liver. Her enthusiasm for us and our class was uplifting and I just knew this would be the best school year I'd ever had.

Then one day, all was not well in Mudville. I cried when she told us she wouldn't be our teacher anymore. It was a blow to the gut that I will never forget. My classroom in paradise was gone.

Miss Surdaki's mother had become ill and it fell her responsibility to take care of her. After the Christmas break our class was given to Mrs Arnold who was already teaching her own fifth grade class. We were moved into her classroom with the fifth graders for the second half of the school year and taught in one room school house style.

What a difference a day makes. Everything changed. Mrs Arnold was a longtime, no nonsense school teacher who didn't have a fun bone in her body. She wasn't impolite to us, she just wasn't as polite and as graceful as Miss Surdaki had been. Her motto seemed to be,

"School is work. Do it"

There was no charm. There was no beauty. There was just the business of learning. Our job. So we worked joylessly and even though I was glad when that school year ended with Mrs Arnold, I took with me the joy of learning I had gotten from Miss Surdaki. She had made school as beautiful and as exotic as she was.

third grade--I was the Spirit of Christmas

Our family moved from Madison Heights to Hazel Park in 1960 at the start of my third grade in school. My new teacher at Longfellow Elementary School was Mrs McWaters. I think she must have been in her forties as far as age goes and she was such a nice lady! In an area where most of the teachers and children were Michigan born and bred and Catholic, it was a lovely thing for me to have a Southern woman who went to the Baptist Church as my teacher. It was familiar and comfortable.

I met Rose in Mrs McWaters class along with many other classmates I would keep through the ninth grade until we moved away. I remember bits and pieces about that school year. At Longfellow we went home for lunch everyday. It was only about a block from my house so we'd leave around 11am and have to be back at noon. Seems funny to me now and makes me feel a little sad that most children won't know the joy of coming home for lunch and seeing their mom in the middle of the day as I did. Mom always fixed a hot lunch like Chicken Noodle Soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or Chef Boyardee Ravioli and a sandwich with a glass of milk to wash it down. We'd eat and then head back to school for three more hours till we were out for the day.

Since we didn't have a lunchroom at our school our PTA would host hot dog sales every month or so. On the Monday of hot dog sale week, we'd place our order and pay for our hot dogs and milk. Then on Friday Mom would pack a sack with goodies for me to eat along with my hot dog. There'd be a small bag of chips, some cookies and maybe some celery and carrot sticks. Because we could only order our hot dogs plain, or with mustard or ketchup, I'd cut up an onion and wrap it in waxed paper for mine. I LOVED mustard and onion on my hot dog! Our sacks went under our desks until lunch time and as the morning rolled on, my onions smelled stronger and stronger! At first it embarrassed me but Linda Lee told me how good my onions smelled and she started bringing them too. We were the only ones who brought them but at least we weren't alone! After lunch we all filed into the gym and sat on the floor to watch a movie. Hot dog day was a great change from the usual and the PTA made a little money too.

This same year I was chosen to play the Spirit of Christmas in the school play. The dress I wore was beautiful red velvet with white lace hearts all over it. It had been used as a Valentine's Day dress but it was going to do double duty as a Christmas dress for the play. I think Mrs McWaters really chose me because she liked me but there was some controversy about it because I was the new girl. A mother or two thought Mrs McWaters should choose someone who'd been at the school a longer time. She defended her choice but finally used the argument that I was the best fit for the dress. So much for being well-liked.

I worked hard to learn my lines and I didn't really care how I'd gotten the part. I was chosen. The only line I still remember is the first one. I said it strongly and surely. "I am the Spirit of Christmas." For those few moments in the spotlight on that stage in our elementary school gymnasium I felt as though I really were the Spirit of Christmas!

There were no paddlings, no yelling at me, no trouble with Mrs McWaters in the third grade. I was a happy camper at Longfellow Elementary in 1960/61. It was a very good year.

second grade--paddles and hula hoops

Mrs Kazarian was my second grade teacher and our classroom was on the second floor of the school. And, will wonders never cease, I got into trouble in her class, too.

It was a gorgeous spring day and our school was having a hula hoop contest for the fifth and sixth graders. The contest was held outside on the school's front lawn but only fifth and sixth graders were allowed to watch it. We younger ones missed out on all the excitement.

The teachers across the hall, whose classrooms overlooked the front lawn, opened their windows and allowed their students to watch the festivities from their own classroom. As Mrs Kazarian stepped across the hall to also watch, she looked back into our classroom and said sternly,

"Do not leave your seats. I'll be right back."

Sounds like clear instruction to me.

I got up, peeked out the door with several others and decided I'd make a run for it and blend in with the other students to watch out the windows. I'd never be noticed in the crowd and then I'd get back to my desk before my teacher came back, or at best she'd never really be mad because she'd understand I just wanted to see all the fun.

Boy, was I wrong.

I maneuvered my way through the other kids and got up to the window. I saw the hula hoopers going to town swinging those hips round and round. It looked like fun for the moment, but after a while it was just hula hoopers swinging their hips round and round.

I got bored.

So did Mrs Kazarian.

She noticed her students mixed in with the others.

"Get back to class."

I was a dead woman.

We got back to class and she was very upset that a some of us didn't obey her and stay in our room. We got the ultimate punishment. A paddling in front of the class. Good grief! I wasn't expecting a whipping. It was first grade all over again! Maybe some yelling. Extra work. Writing sentences. Not that! Anything but that!

Mrs Kazarian lined us up in front of all our classmates--four terrified children, boys first. Rebel that I was, I was the only girl--and then she proceeded to paddle our behinds with a ping pong paddle.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Swoosh!

There was a definite advantage to wearing a dress to school. The paddle stung a little but the full skirt of my dress deflected most of the momentum of that deadly weapon. We all left the front rubbing our backsides. That would be a lesson to us--and to the whole class.

We should always obey Mrs Kazarian.

Mrs Kazarian was a good teacher. She was very fair and I certainly don't harbor any hard feelings toward her. She did me great favor by nipping this little girl's rebellion in the bud.

Maybe the time in our culture for corporal punishment in our schools has passed. I don't know. I do know that not every teacher is emotionally fit enough to wield a paddle, but I also believe that sometimes strict discipline and corporal punishment have a place. I deserved getting into trouble for my offense and because of the swift carriage of justice by my teacher I never directly disobeyed a teacher of mine again.

My inner rebel surrendered.

first grade--too much trouble

I must have had a magnetic personality when it came to my elementary school teachers. My first grade teacher, Miss Arnett, was a real charmer. Kinda like a snake. That woman was mean--at least she was mean to me.

I wanted to like her. I really did. After all, she was young and attractive. She dressed nicely. I wanted to look up to her and fall in love with my teacher. But it just wasn't happening. She didn't like me at all.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't the perfect student. At least for back then. I was noisy sometimes. For instance, during silent reading time, I was looking at my Dr Seuss book. Books were VERY important to me. I wanted to be sure and get everything out of this book that I could so I started at the inner cover illustration. It was of a huge traffic jam with Dr Seuss characters. I loved them. They were whimsical creatures that had great personalities and style. While I was looking at the cover, at this great traffic jam, I started thinking about how the jam would sound.

I let down my guard. I got lost in this book and I immersed my thoughts in these covers. I'd have been OK if I'd only thought of what it sounded like, but I started doing sound effects and saying all the things in this jumbled jam of traffic. This was supposed to be silent reading.

"Beep, beep!"

"Honk, honk!"

"Hey you, get out of the way!"

"LOOK OUT!"

"CRASH!"

Miss Arnett heard the commotion and asked, "Who is making all that noise?" I didn't hear her and I kept on going.

I was stuck in traffic.

She found out who was the noisy one and jolted me back into reality.

"SUZANNE! Be quiet! This is silent reading. Put down your book and lay your head on your desk! You will be quiet!" (Thinking back on it now she sort of sounded like Colonel Klink!)

OH NO! I didn't want to lay my head down and stop reading! This was a terrible thing! Then Miss Arnett came to my desk and took my book away.

I was done. I was humiliated and done.

During my first grade year I got paddled a time or two and yelled at a lot but my mother was my champion. I got into trouble so much that Mama finally told Miss Arnett that if she laid one more hand on her daughter she'd come up there to that school and tear her up!

She would have, too.

After Mama threatened her, Miss Arnett still never liked me, but she did lighten up on me and the unfair punishment.

That battle would have been something to behold wouldn't it?

The Tennessee Wildcat Protecting Her Baby vs Miss Arnett, Yankee School Teacher Who's Too Big for Her Britches.