Elementary School: Wits and Twits

KINDERGARTEN

1

School 90

I have a confession to make. Although the following initial vignettes will showcase my sometime malfunctional early life, I actually had a slight advantage over my perceived competitive compatriots, at least at the beginning, such as in kindergarten. I was born in a large city in western New York State, to Estonian immigrant parents that had met and married in the U.S. My father was educated stateside, as a civil engineer, after dropping out of art school. Although a talented artist from his home country, traditional art was no longer in vogue in America by the late ‘50s. If you weren’t a controversial Andy Warhol clone or Picasso adherent, there were no good paying jobs available. So, begrudgingly and sadly, he quit the bizarre, artsy-fartsy world, became educated as a menschy civil engineer and glumly went to work. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, at the time. We lived in an upstairs apartment in a small urban house that we three shared with my paternal grandparents, also relatively recent immigrants. It was a strained and stressful relationship between the extended kinsfolk with domineering male Chieftains and perceived as docile, female Indians, and me. However, lots of people in my neighborhood had the same familial dysfunctional dynamics but they chose to live like that, to save money and keep things in the family, so to speak. Our immediate street was immaculate and composed mainly of eastern European and Slavic families, all jumbled together, living in nearly touching homes on narrow and congested streets. Every Sunday afternoon the menfolk would mow their patches of lawn with manual, sickle push-mowers, trim the hedges, and wash their Oldsmobiles, Buicks and Chevys. Each spoke his/her own language at home and broken English out in the streets. The native born youngsters (like me) had no accents, of course, and were real Americans, so we naively thought. Hey, we all religiously watched Captain Kangaroo, Popeye, The Three Stooges and Looney Tunes on T.V. We kind of looked the same, had similar haircuts, and felt comfortable and safe. In addition, there were adjacent streets that were TRULY homogenous. There was the German town, Little Italy, the Irish zone, the Chinese section, the Polish district, etc. Ours was more of a hodgepodge of Europeans, but we all got along. ALL the men worked, while the mostly kerchiefed women gossiped rancorously, while hanging laundry, across fences separating the miniscule backyards. The huge Broadway indoor/outdoor market attracted mainly the newcomers, with food and deli selections that would be considered foreign to most locals. I loved going there. Fresh herring from the fishmonger, newly ground Polish sausage, sweets from Latvia, bread so tasty it didn’t need butter. Those were the days. We were all Christian by denomination and would dutifully meander to our own respective churches on most Sundays mornings. However, it was more of a social gathering than fire and brimstone, as the immigrants fiercely tried to keep their cultures and languages alive, for as long as possible. Church sermons were in the mother tongue; eligible and marriageable parishioners probably eyeballed each other for dating and mating purposes. That’s how things were and, most likely, going to be in my life as well. However, by 1963 things in my household started to change. My mom had taken it upon herself to homeschool me and I could read at an early age. Then, while other mothers were still immersed in their cloistered cultures, mine took a brave step and enrolled me that fall into a bona fide, coed preschool half-day program at the elementary school called School 90, which was directly across the street from our house. This was a blasphemous move, however. There would be typical American white kids present, and only English would be spoken. Holy Hell! But I fit in fine and recognized a few of my street friends there as well. Miss Silsky was my extremely attractive teacher. She was no babooshka. Long brown hair, big brown eyes, tall, svelte, a silky voice and leather boots up to her knees. How could you not fall in love with her as a three-year-old? I was loving school, socializing well with those real Americans, and not getting any knots in my shoelaces. Miss Silsky had a special fork she used to untie stubborn knots with. I think some boys purposely tied knots just to have the lovely teacher fondle their feet while trying to undo the mess they made. We also learned how to socialize, how to figure out simple problems and skill games, and continued to read, read and read. I would be more than ready for kindergarten, Miss S. assured my mom, and it turned out to be true. However, about this time there were grumblings at my house. My paternal grandmother had passed away, my grandfather was restless, and my father was unhappy with his job. Things became quickly unsettled just as I was happily settling into life. My previously verbose, confident and manly dad needed a change. To make a long story shorter, my mom found an advertisement in a local newspaper about an available professorship at a junior Ag and Tech college in upstate New York. On a whim, my pop applied, drove through a blinding snowstorm in his ’54 rear wheel drive Nash Rambler for an interview, but failed to secure the position. However, the benevolent university then directed him to another two-year college slightly farther south, that had a similar vacant and tenured position available and, this one he nailed. He was hired as an assistant professor of civil engineering, for the spring semester, and enthusiastically phoned my mother with the good news. But he was six hours away from home, in the boonies, with deer, bears, wolves and coyotes lurking along the barren roadways. He was from the city. Where was he now? Back on a rural farm in Estonia? Suddenly my mom was afraid, as she told me later. Were there any churches in town? Was there a school for little Izzy? Where would we live? All of those questions, and more, my pop couldn’t answer at the time. He had taken a big chance and a big pay cut to become an untested and greenhorn professor but the bennies were great and a pension was in store if you taught for at least 20 years. There was one traffic light in the small village, one motel, a hospital, a public high school with a ritzy sounding name, one police officer, a county sheriff, and one jail cell. He was warned by the hiring vice dean of academic affairs that the inbred townspeople were on the rough side and didn’t relish mingling with the intellectual and diverse college community up on the hill. And what was up with the purple-colored soil that protruded among the snow piles in town? He phoned my mom once more and they made up their minds to move. My grandpa was sad, my mom excited, and me? What had just happened? Welcome to Bumfuck, N.Y., bucko, where the dirt was weird, the suspicious natives were even weirder, and where I would grow up. Who knew?

2

Trikes and Fire Trucks

Being the firstborn and only child thus far, I handsomely raked it in when my birthday rolled around. Turning three proved to be no exception. Among the many toys I received that October were a handsome tricycle and a pedal-driven, all metal, fire truck with tiny yellow ladders, a working bell and squeezable horn. I was in heaven. My city-living driveway was miniscule but perfect for me. I was a tiny tyke, remember? I rode my trike and fire truck daily until the snow flew. Neighborhood kids would come over and pretend to play with me, only to ride my prize possessions. I liked the adulation, but it was for my toys, not me. My mom would readily evict them if she saw me just standing there being ignored, watching friends play with MY stuff. Not everyone had TWO rubber-wheeled vehicles at such a young age. The tricycle was eventually given to a relative, but the fire truck remained in my family until my baby sister outgrew it, years after we had moved away from the city and into the country. She had loved it as much as I had. The wheels fell off, the body rusted out, and the wooden ladders were long gone when my father finally trashed it. During my last year of high school, I remember my driver education instructor being somewhat stupefied at my excellent parallel parking and backing up skills while learning how to drive. On numerous occasions he would accuse me of already knowing how to operate an automobile and berate me for it. He didn’t like being duped by a wise-ass student looking for an easy A, especially a senior. Finally, I relented and told him and the other students present that I learned how to drive thanks to my fire truck, long ago. You see, I didn’t just pedal push that toy car around. Even as a toddler, I set up small cones, backed it up, and parallel parked it one-handed, just like I was doing in his class. Mr. K. just stared at me in disbelief before thinking hard about what I had said. I could see the wheels turning as a grin broke over his face. He never said another word to me as I expertly and one-handedly maneuvered the driver ed’s light blue, four-door Pontiac Bonneville forwards and backwards. I even received the driver education award at graduation. All that because of a little red fire engine and a three-year-old that loved to drive.

3

Zoo or Nursing Home?

The one-eyed lion, the one-eared polar bear, the one-legged penguin, the one-tusked male walrus. Come on, it was true I tell you. The local zoo was close by and most weekends found my mom, pop and me on a quick jaunt through it. Why not? What else could you do on a Saturday, in the crowded city, with a three-year-old? It was almost free and I got to see a multitude of banged up animals up close for at least an hour, before we headed home. We usually arrived at feeding time, and watched the caged and mangy relics of once noble beasts devour their meaty vittles. I threw candy to the bears even though you weren’t supposed to. Everyone else did; what did I know at that age? Plus I had my token hot dog and ice cream bar, which I looked forward to eating. Many, many years later, on a planned vacation trip to Niagara Falls, my family convinced me to revisit the zoo, after hearing years of insulting comments about it from me. Okay, then. I would show my children the hellhole and repository for disabled creatures, large and small. THEY wanted to witness and laugh at the crapped-up animules, firsthand. I parked the minivan, started chuckling, paid the exorbitant entrance fees and we entered. I suddenly realized that the zoo of yesteryear was merely on a low-budget holding pattern with a dilapidated infrastructure and obviously deranged, near death animals. The zoo of the early sixties was a shameful mess; the updated version, that we were now in, was a pristine animal garden with fully functional and lively carnivores as well as content looking megavegetarians. And, all the critters had legs, paws and fins! I was shocked. My family called me a liar as I stared bug-eyed at the wonderful scene in front of me. No amount of excuses mollified my wife and kids. Nevertheless, it was a pleasure to stroll through the beautiful enclosures with my own family, buy them hot dogs and then the obligatory ice cream bars. It was well worth the price of admission. What a difference four decades made.

4

The Escape

It was the Beverly Hillbillies’ moving experience, but in reverse. Although relatively recent immigrants, my old-world folks had picked up enough big city savvy to MAKE it, regardless where that place was. It would have been hard to punk them back then. They were young, ready for an unexpected homesteading adventure, and eager to challenge themselves in a new frontier, albeit a possibly hostile one. Even if there had been Indians in the picture, they still would have gone. But no, they were only moving across the state to a miniscule village that had one popular greasy spoon diner and a primitive party-line telephone system. So, things were not so dire, after all. Or, were they? Housing, food, education, medical treatment, and an orthodox church were on the list when we arrived in town on a Saturday in early February for an exploratory visit, in early ’64. My mother was pregnant with my baby sister, and needed comfort and rest. Of course they lodged in the only motel in town, which was next to the rural hospital. Mom thought the mattress was stuffed with manure, but then she noticed that a window in their room had been left open. Ah, FRESH country air! But at least now they knew there was a medical facility present, which meant doctors, nurses, and at least a drugstore, somewhere. And look, there was a magnificently perched, old-style, Roman-columned high school up on the hill across from the hospital. My folks crossed two things off their list. Next was housing. The college had provided my dad with a very incomplete and cursory list of potentially available rental situations. Being a small town with few streets, my pop whizzed the car around and within two hours had talked to many townies on that list, and even to their nosy neighbors, about renting to us. No dice. Why? The knock on the door was perfect and my handsome father got smiled at, but every time he opened his accent laden pie hole, the homeowner would recoil. Who the hell were these olive-skinned people? My old man sounded like those despicable Soviets that were constantly mentioned on T.V. What? The U.S.S.R., baby! The Russians were invading a one-horse town. And no matter how much my father pleaded and tried to convince the locals that he was indeed a college professor, was married and had a son, it was the same old answer. Outsiders, especially those damn Russkies, were not welcome. This was the height of the Cold War, remember? What if we had been sent by the Kremlin disguised as intelligence moles? Holy shit. No one wanted to harbor spies. When my father mentioned the word Estonia to one owner/renter, it sounded like he said he was stoned and the homeowner swore at him and slammed the door in his face. It had been a bad day, thus far. We had one last home to check out and it did not look promising from the outside. It was hopelessly small, with weathered blue clapboards and a new Cadillac parked in the driveway. And it had a rental apartment? How? However, before he steeled himself for yet another rejection, pop drove us to the other diner in town, at the foot of the college, one that he was told was more open-minded toward strangers. College students frequented that place so the owners saw their fair share of strangeness. We were politely served lunch, paid up, used the facilities, and quickly went back to that last potential rental on the list. It had started snowing now and my dad had an idea. All three of us would approach the would-be renter and plead our case in unison. Maybe he/she would take pity on a pitiful looking boy? Retired math teacher Mrs. Arbuckle opened the door and immediately invited us in, out of the snowy sleet. This time my mom spoke up first, with me playing the role of the woebegone waif. Mr. Arbuckle came by, sized us up, listened to our spiel, showed us the puny two-bedroom apartment upstairs, and shook hands with my old man. There was no lease. Just a gentleman’s agreement for a year. We had a place to live and could move in at any time. $60 per month included everything, even the phone service. I think my mother started to cry in gratitude. But there was no real market in town. At least not the gigantic kind she was used to. Farmer’s markets and organic foodstuffs were in our distant future unless you lived on a farm. Those were plentiful; seemingly all around us. But for we proper village dwellers though, there were two supermarkets on Main Street, Grand Union and Victory, as well as a few mom-and-pop shops. Oh, there was a failing butcher in town as well. And it wasn’t the local dentist! Anyway, the list was tossed and we drove to the elementary school up the hill from the majestic high school, parked the car and admired the Catskills from our high vantage point. My artistic father remarked that he had never seen such beauty in all his life. The air was clean, there was no city noise, and the snow-covered trees resembled scenes on a postcard. My mom mumbled that she was glad to get out from under the dictatorial thumb of her father-in-law, who remained behind in the city. She also smiled and chuckled that of the ten churches they had passed by, none were Christian Orthodox. The village believers were Methodists, Episcopalians, Catholics, Baptists, Lutherans, Evangelicals, Presbyterians, and Christian Scientists. Oh, well. I had already been baptized Estonian Orthodox, so I was good to go. No church, no problem. My parents tended to lean toward the agnostic anyway, so no one panicked. I spoke next. I love this place, I remember saying out loud. Did I though? Was I merely parroting my parents’ optimistic utterings to fit in? I would be leaving friends, Miss Silsky and my home, to live in this silent and prejudiced township. But as my parents seemed thrilled I didn’t buck the trend. The next week found us moving in for real, with old Mr. Arbuckle helping us unload the moving truck of our meager possessions. I had quit preschool and began homeschooling