Glenside Elementary School

Glenside Elementary School lies just above and to the left of the pin in the graphic above. Getting to school from our home (located just above the B in Ave. B) was easy. The Warren St. Bypass shown above did not exist; in those days it was just a broad street with little traffic. We would walk up Ave. D all the the way to Warren St. and then cross the large grassy expanse to the school. Often, when going home, we would walk down Lackawana St. to Warren St. and then on to Ave. D.

I attended some weeks, how many I do not know, in kindergarten and passed to first grade. Students were required to enter through the door at the extreme right end of the building. My first grade classroom was at the other end on the left. Across from the classroom, in the hallway, were two or more tables set up most every morning with penny candy for sale. I particularly like Mary Jane and root beer barrels.

I do not remember any of my teachers (I attended kindergarten and grades 1-3 there) but I do remember the principal. Her name was Mrs. Weatherhold. She was always concerned about my chronically high temperature, which ran a consistent 101 degrees Fahrenheit, and the deeply colored bags under my eyes. She pressured my parents into having me hospitalized at least two times for two weeks to determine what was the cause. The conclusion was that I suffered from chronic sinusitis. I still do.

I like school and did very well there. I was in advanced reading because my mother had taught me to read even before entering kindergarten. I could read right side up as well as upside down. I can still do that. We read from the Dick and Jane series. I know some modern educators who believe in teaching phonics deride these books and blame them for the poor reading and language skills of today. Perhaps they are right. All I know is they did not have that effect on me.

Every morning class started with us standing and saluting the flag while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. That was followed by a reading from the Bible. When a teacher or the principal entered the classroom, all of us students would immediately stand (as a sign of respect and commanded by God; You shall rise up before the hoary head, and honor the face of the old man, and fear your God: I am the LORD. Leviticus 19:32).

 

Even though World War II had ended a few years earlier, we still bought war bonds. Each week we would buy stamps for ten cents a piece and paste them in a booklet. When the book was finished it could be redeemed at the Post Office for a $25.00 war bond. My mother still had mine up to shortly before her death in 2000.

One brutally cold winter’s day I had gone to school and was waiting for the call to line up to enter the school. I was staying in the lee of the building and wasn’t far from the wall. Some of the older students were running and sliding on the ice to see how far they could go. One student put a little to much effort into his slide and could not stop. He slammed into me and I slammed into the wall, face first. I came away a bloody mess. I had impacted with such force that the base of my nose was separated from the top of my teeth. I had a hole so large I could put my finger into my mouth through it. My nose was also broken. I was sent home, down Schuykill Avenue, without escort or having had a medical examination, bleeding profusely all the way. We had no medical insurance (if it even existed) so my dad did his best to patch me up. I suffered from unexpected and uncontrollable nose bleeds until many years later when the Navy performed a septoplasty on me.

One other unpleasantness associated with this school needs to be mentioned. World War II was still fresh in the memories of our parents and now we were fighting the Communist threat, which would soon result in the Korean War. We were given a cartoon book showing a turtle wearing a helmet take the requisite action in case of an atomic bomb attack. I had no idea of what an atomic bomb was and the description of what it could do scared the jelly beans out of me. I was terrified and endured many nightmares on account of it. At school we practiced air raid drills. Heads down, arms covering the neck, we knelt in the darkened hallway awaiting the wrath of the Russians. Nothing ever happened and eventually why we had the drills passed into the deep recesses of my mind where they would no longer constantly bother me.

The Projects

 

Sometime in late winter or early spring of 1950 my family moved from central Reading to Glenside, on the outer edge of town. There my folks had rented an apartment in what we would call “the projects.” We lived at 1120 Ave. D, which is in the building directly above the B in Ave. B.

 

The projects have changed since we lived there. The area directly below Ave. B was, for the most part, a parking lot. The buildings on the far right side of the Ave. D apartments were not there. That was an uncleared field.

Train tracks cut through the picture at the lower right. I spent many an hour walking those tracks, collecting discarded spikes, coal, and other interesting novelties that fell off the trains or were discarded by whatever means. One of my favorite pastimes was to try to identify as many railroad logos as I could. Another fun thing was to watch the hand cars (aka pump trolley) as they went up and down the tracks.

The large open space to the right of the projects provided an arena for playing cowboys and Indians, snowball fights, chasing rabbits, and general exploring. In the winter, we built large snow forts and igloos from which to conduct our snow wars.

Pigeons were a great source of amusement for some. Some of the men raised them as a hobby. There were pigeon coops everywhere. Now and then, an owner would open his coop and allow his birds to fly free. I did not understand then and still do not understand how they knew to come back and why they just didn’t fly off to freedom. The owners took great pride in their birds and competed against each other for the best looking bird as well as in aerial feats. I do not know if these birds were homing pigeons or racers, or what.

Glenside was nice. I was young and had not a care in the world. I reveled in being allowed to roam free and my imagination rejoiced in the many games it could invent and engage in.

More memories of central Reading

It was such a long time ago yet some memories are still vivid while others are so hazy I wonder if they really occurred. When writing my last blog entry I forgot to include some that have come to mind as I have reflected on my early years.

We moved from the basement apartment to a second-floor walk-up in a three story apartment building. I was only four years old at the time and do not have many memories but some still stick around with some degree of clarity.

Our apartment was on the second floor, I believe — on the right hand side. We shared a bathroom with everyone else on the floor. That arrangement was not uncommon in those days. We also shared paper-thin walls. When the neighbors argued and fought, we could enjoy every terrifying blow while listening (it was unavoidable) to every hateful word. I remember my dad yelling at the neighbors to tone it down and their responding to him.

One morning my mother called my older sister Pat and me to the kitchen. She had poured each of us a bowl of Kretschmer's wheat germ, a cereal we had never before eaten. It had a most unusual and unpleasant taste. What she did not tell us that Dad had been washing windows and had spilled the Windex into the sugar bowl. Ever thrifty, my mother did not want to throw the sugar away so Pat and I were give the pleasure of having it in our breakfast. Even though my introduction to wheat germ was a little bit sour, I enjoy eating it to this day.

Another vivid memory is that of the snow. Reading seemed to get a lot of it. Behind the apartment building was a court yard where we could play. Mom would dress us up in boots and leggings and a heavy coat with an attached hood and send us out to play in the snow. I had seen snow before, having lived in New York and on Long Island, but I do not ever recalled having been dumped in it for recreation. I remember my first playtime in the white stuff. I just stood there. I had no idea of what I should do with it.

Dad was a craftsman and believed that any job worth doing was a job worth doing well. That meant that certain tasks were never done by others. Only Dad washed the windows. Only Dad painted — except for one occasion. Dad and Mom had purchased a used crib for Bonnie. I remember them bringing it home and watching them put it together. Before Bonnie could use it, it had to be painted. Dad must have had a moment of temporary insanity because he invited me, a four-year old with no motor skills, to help him in painting the crib. I quickly tired of the effort, and I am sure Dad cleaned up my mess when I was out of sight, but it made me feel good to have helped him.

I was fascinated by an unusual man visiting someone in a neighboring building. I was not only fascinated by him, I was also afraid of him. He was unusual in two ways: he had only one arm and his apparel was strange. He was wearing a sombrero and serape and a charro suit. Mom explained that he was a Mexican and when the man waved at us and gave us a broad smile it put me at ease.

It was here and at this age that I first notice black people. Again, it wasn't that I had never seen them; I just had not paid much attention, I guess. I can remember wondering why their skin color was different than mine. One day I ventured to ask my older (my senior by one year) and wiser sister why they were so dark. She told me it was because they drank a lot of coffee or hot chocolate. That satisfied my curiosity but it did not make my mother happy when I was so bold as to ask one why they drank so much of these beverages. Mom explained to me that they were born that way and it had nothing to do with diet. I was learning, even at that young age.

Life in Central Reading

Most of my memories of living in Reading (pronounced Redding) are good. We lived there from either 1948 or 49 to 1953. I was a young child then and wasn’t aware of most of the turmoil going on at that time. Harry Truman was President, the first that I lived under. The Korean War had not yet started and the nation was doing well in its early post-WW II years. We, as a nation, were on a roll and everything seemed felicific. It certainly was for this young lad.

The first year or two we lived in central Reading. My older sister Pat went to one kindergarten and part of first grade in the nearby neighborhood school, most likely Tyson-Schoener Elementary School. I started kindergarten there, too, but sometime during the year we moved to “the projects,” a very nice housing development in Glenside, near to the airport. My mother always took us to the downtown school. One day, on the way home, I got separated from Mom. I do not know how it happened or how long it was before I realized I was alone. I did not know the route to and from school, nor did I know my address. We did not have a telephone. Few in those days did. I can remember the panic that set in. I walked up and down the block to each corner and could see no mothers, let alone mine. I decided to go to a house and ring the bell. An older woman answered the door and I told her I was lost. She must have called the police because it was not long before a patrol car came and picked me up. Somehow, my little immature mind thought it was magic, he knew where to deliver me.

That's me with my Kindergarten teacher at Tyson-Schoener

While living in central Reading we (Mom and Dad, and my sisters Pat, Margaret, and Bonnie) would go to Mt. Penn, home to Reading’s pagoda. Often we would walk up the road and visit the pagoda itself. I do not recall, however, having entered it more than once. Dad would bring peanuts and we would hold them in our hands and allow the squirrels to eat out of them. At the base of the “mountain,” which is just a glorified hill, was a large playground where we spent many happy hours. Alas, it is no longer in existence.

I liked going downtown. Mom would often allow me to accompany her there when she went shopping. I was fascinated by the oblique parking arrangement in Penn Square. On one of the corners of the square was a public water fountain named after Frances Willard, a supposed relative. I always wanted to drink from it but Mom wasn’t keen on it. She made me run the water and always admonished me to not place my lips on the spigot. Reading was also famous for its many soft pretzel vendors. No trip to Penn Square was complete without at least one pretzel - hot, moist, and covered with salt.

Even as a young child I was fascinated by the buildings in the downtown area. There were many brownstone houses in the area. Often, in the basements of these buildings, one would find businesses: a laundry, a barbershop, a milliner’s or haberdasher’s shop, even a diner or greasy spoon. I was intrigued by them all. I liked the sights and sounds of the city. All too soon we moved out to the Glenside district in Reading, where different adventures were soon to be enjoyed.

Arrival in Reading

My father must have gone on ahead of us to scout out the job prospects in Reading, Pennsylvania. He remarked many years later of sitting on his bed dripping with sweat at nine o’clock in the morning. I remember Reading as scorching hot and humid in the summer and cold with lots of snow in the winter.

I do not remember the details of our first days in Reading but it seems like we stayed in a hotel near the train station. I can remember eating at a nearby restaurant that was separated from the railroad tracks by only a sidewalk. We ate breakfast there. I was fascinated by the little boxes of cereal — Kellogg's Corn Flakes, mostly — that Mom would buy for us. The waiter always put the cereal in a bowl. I wanted to eat it out of the box, which could have been done for it was made to hold milk without leaking. When the train rumbled past the restaurant everything that was in it would shake and vibrate. That scared me, at first.

We must not have brought much with us because Margaret and Bonnie, my younger sisters, slept in dresser drawers. Where my older sister Pat and I slept I do not remember.

By and by we moved to a basement apartment in the downtown district, on South 6th Street, if my memory serves me correctly. There were a lot of those basement apartments in the 40's and 50's. Ours was a rather large apartment, or so it seemed to me, in a several stories tall apartment building. I celebrated my fourth birthday there.

I remember one summer day when my mother had gone out for something in the pouring rain. My dad was concerned for her and stood at the open door waiting for her return. I happened by and could see the pelting rain hitting the sidewalk several feet above my head. That also scared me. I thought we would flood. I was glad when she arrived home and Dad shut the door.

As my birthday approached my parents gathered up all my broken toys — many of which I had deliberately broken — and threw them away. They lectured me on how wrong it was to always be breaking stuff and told me they were getting me a special birthday gift. If I broke it, they told me, I would get nothing for Christmas but if I took care of it they would get me something special that I would truly enjoy.

When my birthday arrived early that November I was presented a Marx gas station with the Texaco logo. It came with a couple of cars which you could drive onto an elevator and lift to the second floor. I was thrilled with it and treated it with great care. At Christmas, in keeping with their word, I got an American Flyer electric train set. I had both gifts for several years and only parted with them when we left Reading for Rochester, NY several years later.

One incident that occurred shortly after my fourth birthday made an indelible impression on me. A plumber came one day to repair some item in our apartment. I saw him take out a brown bar and take a bite of it. As was my habit, I asked him for some. I thought it was candy. He told me that I would not like what he had and that if I did eat it I would get very sick. Not believing him, I persisted in pestering him for a bite. My dad finally had enough and persuaded the plumber to give me a bite of his chewing tobacco. It really tasted good but that sensation only lasted until I swallowed the juice. Then, almost as fast as it went down it came back up again. It went down brown. It came up green. I left a trail from the front door to the bedroom. Needless to say, it broke me of the habit of begging.

The Original Hippie?

Last November I wrote "Earliest Memories," in which I mentioned my first haircut. I came across a pre-haircut picture and thought I'd share it with you. Yep! That's me. Now you know why I needed a haircut. In those days my hair was platinum blond. As I grew older I became a brunet, then shortly before turning grey my hair became black. Now I am back to the platinum blond — or is that white?

Infancy

That's me in the perambulator. I am guessing this photo as well as the other two, were taken after we had moved from Brooklyn out to Long Island. It's funny how you start out fat and bald and end up the same way.

This picture is me being held by my mother's youngest sister, Betty. Mom had told me that Aunt Betty had declared me the ugliest baby she had ever seen. I imagine the yellow jaundice had something to do with that. This infant wouldn't win any beauty contests, but he's a long way from being ugly. I guess that's what fresh air and sunshine does for you.


This last photograph is of my mother and myself. It was taken in Virginia at her family home, as was the one above with my Aunt Betty.