At the Flatlander picnic a few weeks ago, my friend Hank, who divides his
time between Philly and Ellenton Mountain, presented me with a list of
questions. If you were at the picnic, he's the guy who bears a resemblance
to actor James Gandolfini, only better looking. (Someone actually asked me
where I got the Tony Soprano look a like). The questions all pertained to
my childhood days on Rugby Street, and were questions that he could not
possibly nave thought of by himself since he never knew me back then. "Do
you remember Miss Barton, Mrs. Carten and Veronica R. Michaels?" he asked.
Indeed, I did. But what puzzle me was how did he know about them? It seems
that he knows a family who knew me when. All three of these women were very
high profile and influential to impressionable little boys. Miss Barton was
my sixth grade teacher for the first half of the year, and then she retired,
leaving us at the mercy of Mrs. Pabst. (I'd rather not dicuss Mrs. Pabst at
this time, as I try to keep these columns light-hearted and humorous, two
words that do not apply to her). Mrs. Carten was a very "arty" person. I
never had her as a regular teacher, one that taught the three R's, but I
always wished that I had. Statuesque and graceful, she had the appearance
of a Spanish flaminco dancer, or a Gypsy. Her long, jet-black hair was
pulled back in a bun, accented by her large, gold hoop earrings. She
overdid her make-up a bit, and her blood red fingernails must have been an
inch long, all of which intrigued us boys who had seen pictures of such
women in Esquire. And as for her dresses, let's just say that they fit well
in all of the right places. Aside from her appearance, (which would have
distracted me to no end had she been my teacher) and the fact that she
occasionally would give a kid a kiss on the cheek, I wished that I'd been in
her class because she was big on dramatics. She and her class put on the
greatest productions, as good as any high school class could do. And she
was hip to the culture of the younger generation, working into her musical
productions some tunes by the Coasters, and other popular groups of the day.
By the fifth grade I finally got close to her. No, I wasn't in her class,
but she sponsored one of the in-school clubs which all fifth and sixth
graders were required to join. You had to pick two. There was a limit as
to how many kids could be in each club and you got your chance to pick
alphabetically according to your last name. Naturally, by the time they got
to the letter "R" all of the good stuff was taken. Such prized clubs as the
Garden Club (where you got to dig in the dirt) and the Science Club (where
you got to blow things up) were filled by the time they reached the letter
"G", much less "R". So, for me what remained was the Poetry Club and the
Dance Club. My pal, Eddie joined me in the Poetry Club every Thursday
afternoon. He felt that it might help improve his technique at making
clever, but naughty, rhymes. The sponsor, Mrs. Keeney, was a real wiseacre,
which made the hour more enjoyable. But as for the Dance Club, Eddie wanted
no part of it. I, however, didn't mind because it was run by Mrs. Carten.
As a 10 year old I didn't relish the idea of dancing with 10-year-old girls
(which I had to do). It was the thought of dancing with the teacher that
kept me interested. In fact, I played dumb when it came to learning the
steps just so she would have to instruct me personally. There she was in
her slinky, black dress, head and shoulders above me, my right hand in hers,
my left around her waist, as she attempted to teach me the Rumba, the
Meringue and the Tango. And if I got it right, a quick kiss on the cheek.
Eddie, old pal, you'll never know what you missed. But, as for Miss Barton
and Miss Michaels, they were the incarnations of the boogieman to every
child that entered Pennypacker Elementary School. Veronica R. Michaels was
the principal who ruled with an iron fist. She was a little white haired
lady with an Irish brogue, very similar to my paternal granmother. But
that's where the similarity ended. Stern and cranky, she was a strict
disciplinarian, the kind who wouldn't be allowed to work in the public
schools today. She's the one who suspended my brother from Kindergarten for
picking the sprig of forsytia off the school lawn. She chewed me out for
returning to school after hours one day to pick up a book I'd forgotten to
take home earlier. She swatted the back of my head with her hand and said
that she was going to nail my head to my shoulders so that I wouldn't lost
it. Miss Michaaels had no time for Mrs. Carten and all of her music,
dancing and flashy appearance. On more than one occasion she was heard to
refer to the popular teacher as "Queen Carten". But Miss Michaels was not a
Philistine when it came to art. She did appreciate the classic sculptures
of Michaelangelo and August Rodin, and she decorated the halls and staircase
landings with scaled down plaster reproductions. She also had prints of
famous paintings such as Gainesborough's Blue Boy hanging in the halls and
classrooms. But her preferred masterpieces were the ones by Raphael which
had sacred themes. All throughout Miss Michael's tenure as principal, from
1930 to 1957, I'd wager the Pennypacker Elementary School displayed more
pictures of the Madonana and Child, and the adult Jesus, than nearby St.
Athanasius' or St. Raymond's Schools. Of course, all of that changaed in
Stpember of '57 with the arrival of our new principal, Israel Lerner. How
well I remember Miss MIchael's retirement. Our class presented her with a
bunch of carnations, and someone read a sappy, syrupy poem, which concluded
with the lines, "Carnations are for Mothers' Day, and you've been like a
mother all the way." (Please, Lord, spare me. I don't want to lose my lunch
right here on stage.) Even my Mom got into the act. She sang with the
Pennypacker Mother's Chorus and they wrote new lyrics to June is Bustin' Out
all Over, something like "Ronnie's on her way a-goin'" which they performed.
Miss Michael's forced a smile, but we could tell that she took exception
to the use of the nickname, Ronnie. She was Veronica. Like a mother
indeed! More like the central character in Mommie Dearest. Come to think
of it, in the gutter language of the inner city she certainly was a mother.
Now, as for Miss Barton, she taught sixth grade, never any lower grades. I
think it's because that it took the maturity and wisdom of an eleven or
twelve year old to tolerate, and even appreciate, her peculiar personality.
Talk about stone face, this gal couldn't crack a smile if her life depended
on it. But that didn't make her a bad person. Have any of you ever seen
the film Amadeus? You know the guy who played the part of Mozart's
stern-faced father? Well, Miss Barton could have been his twin. Honestly,
she had the same eyes, nose, mouth and countenance and stood about six feet
tall. It was no wonder that Miss Michaels appointed her head of the Safety
Patrol. As head of the Safety Patrol she had the dubious honor of punishing
jaywalkers, hallway runners, snowball throwers and anyone else whom the
Safety wanted to report for some nebulous infraction of the rules. The
words, "Go to room 309!" became the most dreaded phrase in the English
language, for you knew that "Her Honor" would show no clemency. At best,
you'd have a detention in her room and have the menacing mug stare at you
all the while. At worst, she'd remand you over to Chiref Justice Michaels
for suspension. You know the saying, "You can run, but you can't hide?"
That's the way it was. If you defied the arresting officer (who was just a
kid himself) and ran for it, he would get permission to search every
classroom. "Let me see your boys!", he'd blurt out to the teacher, without
a please or thank you, as he barged into the room and interrupted the
lesson. The boys would all stand, and the half-pint Heinrich Himmler would
examine them closely. If the offender was in the class he'd by yanked out
and shipped off to 309 for further abuse. It's hard to believe that a
decade after the fall of Nazie Germany a remnant of the Third Reich had
planted itself in the City of Brotherly Love, Meanwhile, in assembly, we
sang "Where in the world, but in America, can you sing true freedom's song?"
When Mr. Lerner took over the front office he put a stop to such Gestapo
tactics. He also relieved Miss Barton of her position as head of the Safety
Patrol, replacing her with none other than Mrs. Carten. The serious
lawbreakers were still punished, but the penny ante nonsense fell by the
way-side. My brother had Miss Barton in the sixth grade, and said how great
it was whenever she had to deal with discipling a kid on report. She always
forgot to give the class homework. He also told me how funny she really
was,even though she wasn't trying to be, and how her bark was worse than her
bite. She checked fingernails first thing each day, checking for
cleanliness as well as nail biting. "AAAAAUGH!!", she would yell, 'DON'T
BITE YOUR NAILS! I read where this woman went to the hospital for an
operation, and they found a huge ball of chewed fingernails in her stomach".
Another of her oft-repeated sayings was, 'DON'T YOU DARE wear a dark
sweater into my classrom. They're germ carriers!". And change your
underwear every day!" (Why? Are you gonna check that too?). She also had
the habit of calling all of the girls Tillie and all of the boys Magee. but
she was a darn good teacher and I'm glad that I had her, even if for only
half a year. While working a funeral at Goldstein's one day in walked Mrs.
Carten Yeah, she must have been pushing 80, but I'd know her anwhere. She
walked with a cane, so I doubted that she still did the Tango. Her
jet-black hair (obviously dyed) was pulled back in a bun. She wore her
trademark gold hoop earrings, heavy on the eye shadow,inch long red nails
and still looked good in a slinky black dress. After a few minutes she
remembered who I was a gave me a kiss on the cheek. Hey, thanks again, Hank
for stirring my memory.