"When I was a Child"
There was a time when life was simple. We had nothing but then, we expected nothing. We were poor but we didn't know that because everyone I knew was living under the same conditions. Those that had shared with the less fortunate and there was no shame in receiving. It was a true communal existence where neighbors looked out for each other. We may have been economically disadvantaged but we were happy in our ignorance and life was good.
My introduction to formal education came with my enrollment at P.S. 17, a primary school, where Mrs Noonan, the principal, was more of a mother than an educator. She was kind and
compassionate and had an uncanny eye for a troubled child. It was a small school and she knew each of us by our given name and approached us as a friend. When a child needed hugging, she was there with an empathetic touch but when we were disciplined, we knew exactly why.
We started each day with an assembly period as Mrs Noonan would read a passage from the bible. We would then pledge allegiance to the flag, sing the national anthem and segue into an old favorite by Steven Foster. We were not at all, concerned that what we were doing was politically incorrect, nor were our parents. We were happy children. The ACLU was not hovering over our head dictating cultural and curricular ideology. We had no liberal, political extremists polluting our collective brains. We had no far out radical groups pushing their own private agenda into the impressionable minds of unsuspecting children. Mad Madelyn O' Hair was still a devout Roman Catholic. We had teachers who were more like elderly aunts who really believed in what they taught..We were there to learn the three R's and we did so in an intimate, friendly
atmosphere. Our clothing may have been patched but it was clean and the respect we had for our teachers was not born of fear but of admiration I can still remember, with remarkable clarity, old Mrs Crowshaw reciting the "Ballad of Barbara Fritche" with tears streaming down her ancient face. It was she who first put me in touch with myself an taught me to not be afraid. I had a small talent for drawing and she would keep me after school to draw historical scenes on the blackboard. Now most folks would look upon this as detention but I would look forward to these sessions alone with this remarkable woman. She also gave me my first present that I did not have to share with my siblings. It was a Waterman fountain pen with a transparent ink reservoir. I treasured that pen, not so much for it's intrinsic value but because she thought enough of me to trust me with it. I carried that pen with me from that day forward until I lost it on the beach in France. It was Mrs Rosenberg who taught me that good music need not have a beat accompanied by lyrics. Each Friday afternoon we would spend an hour listening to Walter Damrosch (?) And the NBC symphony orchestra play excerpts from light opera to Ferdie Groffe's Grand Canyon Suite. Mr Micelli, the janitor, whose job it was to distribute those little bottle of milk during recess, always made sure every child got one whether or not they had the five cents cost. At war's end, I returned to old PS 17 to visit with Mrs Crowshaw but found that this dear old woman who abhorred killing at any level or in any form had died during the worst killing spree ever visited upon mankind.
Overall, I don't think this generation turned out to badly. As a matter of fact, Tom Brokaw thought so much of this period in time that he honored us in print. Unfortunately, I believe, this book fell way short of it's mark. He had an excellent opportunity to write a hallmark testimony to an outstanding chapter in the history of this country. The end result was a soporific compilation of superficial caricatures of a fringe element in a core society.
I remember when November 11 was still known as Armistice Day, at which time, Mrs Noonan would invite two World War I fighter pilots to speak to us. How grand these men were, resplendent in their neatly pressed uniforms with colorful campaign ribbons adorning their manly chests. I was in total awe of these giants among men who flew those magnificent airplanes and shot down the evil enemy. Each year, I looked forward to their visits with the mounting anticipation of a child. As the time approached, I was beside myself with escalating excitement. These two men epitomized the personification of the heroes of "Dawn Patrol" and "Wings". In those days,with so little to call our own, everybody had an idol or hero and a dream world into which he could escape. These two men were my conduit out of reality to a place entirely my own where no one else could intrude. Then, in the final year, they did not come and Mrs Noonan had the sorry task of informing us that one of these gentlemen had expired due to wounds he had suffered during the great war. I was crushed. How could he have died? He was a legend, he was bigger than life, he was my hero,he was immortal. This was my first experience with the fallibility and mortality of life. I felt cheated and deprived. My heroes had feet of clay. Yet, these men remained in my conscious memory and I would imagine myself flying those ancient Sopwith Camels and Spads. I always regretted having been born a generation too late.
A note in passing. When World War II broke out, I quite naturally, applied to join the Army Air Force but was turned down because of my third degree flat feet. With this condition, no branch of any of the services would have me so I signed a waiver freeing the military of any responsibility for my flat feet. I still have difficulty rationalizing why the Air Force that does most of it's fighting in a seated position rejected me and the Army that does most of it's fighting on it's feet allowed me to join. But, can you imagine anyone signing a waiver to get INTO the Army.