CAN YOU REMEMBER SCHOOL? [M, 8-5-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Memories of an Old Man—CAN YOU REMEMBER SCHOOL? [M, 8-5-24]

 

School starts here this week. Much too early. You’re supposed to start school after Labor Day, the way the Bible says. I wonder how much those kids will remember from these hot school days. Isn’t that the point of school, to remember what we learn? If so, my school days were useless. I remember nothing.

I saw Jimmy Kimmel interview actor Sean Penn recently. Penn is now only a couple of years short of Social Security eligibility, but he still has that brooding, potentially-explosive, bad boy vibe. But he remembered school so well, and so positively. His real school, not Ridgemont High.

He said that his academic record was straight D, except for one year. In his freshman year of high school, his GPA was A. More than A, since he took extra work. It was, of course, because of a teacher.

Penn said [my paraphrase because I don’t have the exact quote], “He taught history and social science, but he turned us on to learning in general. Once you get on a roll, it’s easy to be smart in everything. For one year, I could do math.”

I think he called the teacher Mr. Vincent, but I can’t remember for sure. That is not surprising, because I don’t remember any of my own school stuff, either.

I need to qualify that. I don’t remember the academic part of school. I remember quite well the friends and games and laughter and songs. I remember the teachers. I remember the classrooms and lunch time. But I don’t remember any algebra or chemistry or Latin.

I remember people and stories. I remember people because they ARE stories.

I remember the name of every teacher and every student in my class and most of the kids in the classes 2 and 3 years ahead of me, and those in classes one or two years behind me.

Because names are a short form of story. When I say Darrel Guimond or Carolyn Wilder or Mr. Morrow, I hear their stories.

There were stories in classrooms, of course. Mrs. VanMeter, my teacher for the first quarter of fifth grade, read aloud a new chapter from a book each day after lunch. It was the day’s pinnacle.

Mr. Cato, our algebra teacher and basketball coach and class sponsor, told the story of how former student Bill Rosenbloom was the most popular boy in school but he always asked the least popular girls to dance. Since I was class president, I figured he was aiming that at me, which was a problem, because I wanted to dance with the popular girls.

Mr. Kell, our principal, told of how Tommy Skelton collapsed on the basketball floor at the conclusion of our school’s only Sectional basketball championship. He had played so hard, they had to carry him off. I figured that was aimed at me, too. [1]

I remember most from school the learning from which I was banned. Mr. Barrett taught biology to the freshman boys and Miss Iva Jane McCrarey to the girls. We were divided by gender because there was a two-day section on “human reproduction.” The problem, I was in the girls’ class.

I was a mid-year student who wanted to be in everything, including music. Mid-year was bad enough. We entered high school in January. We could not take two-semester subjects that started in September, but only one-semester subjects. Music was a big deal at Oakland City High School. Band took a class period. So did orchestra. So did chorus. And I was in all of them. There were not enough one-semester subject periods left over for me, so I was placed in the second semester of Commercial Arithmetic, with the junior girls, and in the girl’s biology class, since I was otherwise engaged during the period of the boys class. I figured it was a good deal. I got to hang out not only with the girls of my class, but with the older women of the junior class.

I have no memory of a great teacher, one in particular who inspired me. But they all expected me to do well. They trusted me with their stories. I remember their names and faces. I had great classmates. They expected me to do well. They trusted me with their stories. I remember their names and faces.

Yes, I remember school.

John Robert McFarland

1] Marlin Kell was an excellent principal, but he believed in personal discipline. Kenny Liniger once told at a class reunion how Mr. Kell had called him and Don Falls into the office and told them to buckle down. “You two will never amount to anything,” he told them. Kenny added, “I think it was just a lucky guess.”