When I had just turned fourteen, we had our first high school dance. A dance in an all girls country day and boarding school, I hear you ask? Yes, complete with decorated gym. And since I didn't know anyone, my roommate, whose mother had friends in the area, arranged for a blind date. He was a nice boy.
I don't really remember the dance or what I wore, it was the after party I remember. We were transported via the pregnant pumpkin . . . our name for the plump little sawed off yellow school bus used to move the boarders en masse when needed. The after party was held in the basement of a huge old homestead. My eyes went wild when I realized it was one big make-out fest. Should I mention at this point, how sheltered I was . . . or that boys were my best friends and playmates . . . not someone I wanted to be glued to . . . mouth to mouth, in someones darkened playroom. And to make matters worse, we were late and seating was at a premium. I was forced to sit on his lap. Not a parent in sight. Could I please just be swallowed by the earth now!!! And so he and I kissed. The earth still did not move.
Later back at the dorm, we were rehashing our evening. No one else it seems was the least freaked out . . . except me. And then my roommate mentioned that it was indeed possible to get pregnant with your clothes on - her brother having impregnated his girl friend while using a pair of undies for contraception. And so my brain started to reel. I had after all, sat on his lap . . . with our clothes firmly attached, but still. Huge tears rolled down my face. I was 14 and pregnant in 1963. Life was at an end. My friends all looked at me in such sorrow, not a one being any better informed about the birds and the bees. Apparently I began to sob because a housemother arrived and then the headmistress. She being the kindly soul that she was, managed to put two and two together and assure me that I was indeed not pregnant and that life could go on, but not before the housemother had called my father . . . In retrospect, I wonder how hard he chuckled.
Showing posts with label boarding school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boarding school. Show all posts
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, April 11, 2009
snooping the net . . . .
I admit it. I spend way too much time snooping around on the net. But once in a while I find a gem or two that either cracks me up or takes me back down memory lane. Yesterday, I found both. This little goodie comes from an online version of The Handbook of Private Schools, 1920 edition.
STAMBERG: Yeah. No electricity in the cabin, no running water in the cabin. They were cabins, and when it rained, you pulled a canvas curtain across the windows and you had to go down a little boardwalk to the facilities, and you brought in pitchers filled with water and poured them in basins in order to brush your teeth. So it was pretty rugged.
Trekking down to the latrine in the dead of night, in the rain, was not one of my most favorite memories. (We soon discovered it was easier, if not less sanitary, to sort of balance our bottoms out the windows.) Nor was, come to think of it, the poison ivy . . . a favorite memory. But it was the summer camp my mother had attended and so, that summer after her death, I too attended Camp Po-ne-mah. It closed down some 25 years ago. I was not responsible. For all that I didn't like and for all the homesickness, they had horses. Put me and a horse in the same sentence and I was, as they say, a happy camper.
My mother (on the right), as a happy camper . . . I don't think her butt ever hung out a window . . .
See the notorious windows????
And here I am circa 1962
All I need to complete the ensemble is an over sized pocketbook with a huge can of hair spray and a tube of white lipstick hanging out and I'd be the epitome of Jersey Girl style. In case you didn't catch it, I'm the tall, skinny, slouching one, second from the left with her mother's cankles.
Then, I found this guy's description of his drive around the lake where I grew up:
". . . I think I should take it once more around the lake. Then I think, no, that may not be a good idea. Let's be more specific about why it's called the Rust Bucket. The tires are cracked, under inflated. The chassis is sagging from rust. . . . So, I get in, and I'm off. Decide to head toward the bridge first. I figure if it's gonna melt down, it'll be after a ways, so I better get over the bridge early. Shouldn't clog up the bridge for my neighbors. That wouldn't be good."
Insert: The bridge is a single lane "road" running across the top of the damn at the end of the lake. Very narrow and very creepy. Water on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
"Well, over the bridge and off past West Beach, head poking out of the little thing like George Jetson. . . . Then it's off up around the bend, through the woop-dee-do over by Columbo's house. With thirty-five year old shock absorbers and tires maybe nearly as old, let me tell you, it was one heck of a woop-dee-do. Roller coaster class. Then down around the north shore. There it is, Indian road. I come to a stop and consider whether I should venture out onto a main road. Should I stay or should I go. The car is unregistered, uninsured and no plates. A wise man would have turned around and gone back the same way rather than keep going. I am not a wise man. I look both ways, then onto Indian Road for the 900 feet before I can get off onto the east side of the lake for the rest of the trip around. I should be worried, but I'm not. Wisdom is a burden. Stupid people are happier. I'm smiling my way down Indian Road like a bobble-head doll in a Tonka truck.
Then it's off Indian, back onto Pines Lake Drive, past a couple more walkers, a dog with a man on a leash, a nice old lady out picking weeds. Up the hill towards the school. Come on lil' Red, you can do it. Drop it to second. Fingers on the choke. But red puffs his way to the top without the need for extra oxygen. Past Pines Lake school. Then down the hill. This part could get tricky. Needs brakes. Real ones. There's a turn at the bottom. Oh boy, and there are cars parked on either side for someone's barbeque. This'll really make it interesting. Obstacle course. Well, I'm all in. Pop it into third. Head down the hill. Tap the brakes to make sure they're there. WeeeeeEEEeeeee!!! Lil' Red's tail is swingin' around like the town hussy at church, headed for a communion wafer and a sip of wine, knockin' down chairs on both sides of the aisle . . . Whew. Made it through the gauntlet. All parked cars intact. Then a nice leisurely spin down along the park to the Vale road entrance and safety in the driveway . . . . "
Excerpt from Jim Buonocore's blog "QBaroque". I finally found some one more loquacious than I. . . . wish he had more posts on his blog.
Did you catch his mention of the turn at the bottom of the hill? It was that hill, with my sister riding shotgun, that I first realized, at age 17, that braking was a requirement to successfully navigate that corner alive. It is also the hill I got called out for in the middle of 4th grade social studies for riding without hands on the handle bars. We all rode that way?!?!?!
And one last blog called: The Pines Lake Redhead:
"Growing up in Pines Lake was truly the perfect childhood for me. I couldn’t have been happier and I have only the fondest memories. Everything in Pines Lake revolved around The Lake. The social hub was South Beach. No, not that South Beach. During the summer there was every possible activity to do outside! Swimming, diving, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, windsurfing (does anyone do that anymore?), fishing, tennis, frog & turtle catching, basketball, gossiping, picnics, parades, arts & crafts, knock-hockey (anyone know what that is?), and summer jobs. In the winter, if we were lucky, we got black ice and could ice skate, play hockey, and ice fish."
"Needless to say, I was very active. I was out the door from sun-up to sundown. In the spring and the fall we played in the woods and I would come home with leaves and twigs in my hair. When the weather got warm and The Lake wasn’t officially open yet (open season was Memorial Day to Labor Day) we would go down to The Glen. We had to climb down a rock-face wall to get down there and no, we weren’t allowed to go down there. But it was so much cooler down there in the shade! We would catch crayfish and just dangle our feet in the ice cold stream. Looking back through the eyes of motherhood, I would have killed my kids if they hadn’t fallen and broken their necks first."
"There were two drawbacks to being the Pines Lake Redhead. First, I was the Pines Lake Redhead! There were two redheaded brothers that were a few years older than me. But as far as I can remember, I was the only redheaded girl my age. I was my family’s calling card. People wouldn’t have any idea of my parents’ names but they knew that they belonged to me. I could have never have misbehaved and gotten away with it. Well, at least it forced me to keep my nose clean." Boy can I relate to this!!!!
"Then there’s the obvious problem with being a redhead and spending so much time in the sun. I may not have tanned but I sure did freckle! Not much could have been done about it though. SPF 15 didn’t even hit the shelves until I was in high school and lifeguarding. Yes, lifeguarding. I’m in my 30s now and I’ve already had one piece of skin cancer removed and several other pre-cancerous spots."
The Glen:
What's truly weird about her blog as I read through it, is that not only do we both have red hair and grew up at Pines Lake, but we're both shooting with Canon D series cameras, have migrated to Florida and ruined our skin. Things that make you go hummmmm.
Anyway, that is Katie, me and the 10TS a couple of years back. I dragged them down to the Glen since we were up that way. That's the brook and the rock face behind them. Sweet huh?
No wonder I love snooping the net.
KENT PLACE, Summit, N.J. A School for Girls. Mrs. SARAH WOODMAN PAUL, A.B., Wellesley. Miss ANNA SOPHIA WOODMAN, A.B., Wellesley.
Kent Place is a home school and a working school, providing an attractive home life and sound academic training from primary through college-preparatory work. There is individual attention and close contact between girls and teachers.
There are now on the ten acres of grounds four buildings,— the House, the Gables, the Gymnasium, and the School House,— with earth tennis courts, a hockey field, a basket-ball field, and adequate room for other out-of-door sports.
The Gymnasium is modern and well equipped. The School House was built in 1913. Especial attention was given to providing in the best possible way for the four important requisites: space, heat, light, and ventilation.
The House is devoted exclusively to the home and has room for thirty-five girls. The Gables, a modern private house opened in the fall of 1918 to meet the needs of the growing school, provides a home for ten of the older girls and contains an isolated infirmary under the immediate care of the registered nurse.
The school offers a college preparatory course preparing for the comprehensive and old-style examinations, and a general course which is largely elective and may include work in the Home-making Department.
Write Mr. Sargent, 14 Beacon Street, Boston—See pace 767.
MAY FESTIVAL IN THE SCHOOL GROUNDS
Here I am, some 47 years later . . . it's a graduation ritual.
Don't I look thrilled??? Not. Definitely, a "I think you had to be there" item but it made me chuckle. And just as a note, our class did them in. They closed the boarding department that summer. The day school is alive and well.
STAMBERG: Yeah. No electricity in the cabin, no running water in the cabin. They were cabins, and when it rained, you pulled a canvas curtain across the windows and you had to go down a little boardwalk to the facilities, and you brought in pitchers filled with water and poured them in basins in order to brush your teeth. So it was pretty rugged.
Trekking down to the latrine in the dead of night, in the rain, was not one of my most favorite memories. (We soon discovered it was easier, if not less sanitary, to sort of balance our bottoms out the windows.) Nor was, come to think of it, the poison ivy . . . a favorite memory. But it was the summer camp my mother had attended and so, that summer after her death, I too attended Camp Po-ne-mah. It closed down some 25 years ago. I was not responsible. For all that I didn't like and for all the homesickness, they had horses. Put me and a horse in the same sentence and I was, as they say, a happy camper.
My mother (on the right), as a happy camper . . . I don't think her butt ever hung out a window . . .
See the notorious windows????
And here I am circa 1962
All I need to complete the ensemble is an over sized pocketbook with a huge can of hair spray and a tube of white lipstick hanging out and I'd be the epitome of Jersey Girl style. In case you didn't catch it, I'm the tall, skinny, slouching one, second from the left with her mother's cankles.
Then, I found this guy's description of his drive around the lake where I grew up:
". . . I think I should take it once more around the lake. Then I think, no, that may not be a good idea. Let's be more specific about why it's called the Rust Bucket. The tires are cracked, under inflated. The chassis is sagging from rust. . . . So, I get in, and I'm off. Decide to head toward the bridge first. I figure if it's gonna melt down, it'll be after a ways, so I better get over the bridge early. Shouldn't clog up the bridge for my neighbors. That wouldn't be good."
Insert: The bridge is a single lane "road" running across the top of the damn at the end of the lake. Very narrow and very creepy. Water on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
"Well, over the bridge and off past West Beach, head poking out of the little thing like George Jetson. . . . Then it's off up around the bend, through the woop-dee-do over by Columbo's house. With thirty-five year old shock absorbers and tires maybe nearly as old, let me tell you, it was one heck of a woop-dee-do. Roller coaster class. Then down around the north shore. There it is, Indian road. I come to a stop and consider whether I should venture out onto a main road. Should I stay or should I go. The car is unregistered, uninsured and no plates. A wise man would have turned around and gone back the same way rather than keep going. I am not a wise man. I look both ways, then onto Indian Road for the 900 feet before I can get off onto the east side of the lake for the rest of the trip around. I should be worried, but I'm not. Wisdom is a burden. Stupid people are happier. I'm smiling my way down Indian Road like a bobble-head doll in a Tonka truck.
Then it's off Indian, back onto Pines Lake Drive, past a couple more walkers, a dog with a man on a leash, a nice old lady out picking weeds. Up the hill towards the school. Come on lil' Red, you can do it. Drop it to second. Fingers on the choke. But red puffs his way to the top without the need for extra oxygen. Past Pines Lake school. Then down the hill. This part could get tricky. Needs brakes. Real ones. There's a turn at the bottom. Oh boy, and there are cars parked on either side for someone's barbeque. This'll really make it interesting. Obstacle course. Well, I'm all in. Pop it into third. Head down the hill. Tap the brakes to make sure they're there. WeeeeeEEEeeeee!!! Lil' Red's tail is swingin' around like the town hussy at church, headed for a communion wafer and a sip of wine, knockin' down chairs on both sides of the aisle . . . Whew. Made it through the gauntlet. All parked cars intact. Then a nice leisurely spin down along the park to the Vale road entrance and safety in the driveway . . . . "
Excerpt from Jim Buonocore's blog "QBaroque". I finally found some one more loquacious than I. . . . wish he had more posts on his blog.
Did you catch his mention of the turn at the bottom of the hill? It was that hill, with my sister riding shotgun, that I first realized, at age 17, that braking was a requirement to successfully navigate that corner alive. It is also the hill I got called out for in the middle of 4th grade social studies for riding without hands on the handle bars. We all rode that way?!?!?!
And one last blog called: The Pines Lake Redhead:
"Growing up in Pines Lake was truly the perfect childhood for me. I couldn’t have been happier and I have only the fondest memories. Everything in Pines Lake revolved around The Lake. The social hub was South Beach. No, not that South Beach. During the summer there was every possible activity to do outside! Swimming, diving, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, windsurfing (does anyone do that anymore?), fishing, tennis, frog & turtle catching, basketball, gossiping, picnics, parades, arts & crafts, knock-hockey (anyone know what that is?), and summer jobs. In the winter, if we were lucky, we got black ice and could ice skate, play hockey, and ice fish."
"Needless to say, I was very active. I was out the door from sun-up to sundown. In the spring and the fall we played in the woods and I would come home with leaves and twigs in my hair. When the weather got warm and The Lake wasn’t officially open yet (open season was Memorial Day to Labor Day) we would go down to The Glen. We had to climb down a rock-face wall to get down there and no, we weren’t allowed to go down there. But it was so much cooler down there in the shade! We would catch crayfish and just dangle our feet in the ice cold stream. Looking back through the eyes of motherhood, I would have killed my kids if they hadn’t fallen and broken their necks first."
"There were two drawbacks to being the Pines Lake Redhead. First, I was the Pines Lake Redhead! There were two redheaded brothers that were a few years older than me. But as far as I can remember, I was the only redheaded girl my age. I was my family’s calling card. People wouldn’t have any idea of my parents’ names but they knew that they belonged to me. I could have never have misbehaved and gotten away with it. Well, at least it forced me to keep my nose clean." Boy can I relate to this!!!!
"Then there’s the obvious problem with being a redhead and spending so much time in the sun. I may not have tanned but I sure did freckle! Not much could have been done about it though. SPF 15 didn’t even hit the shelves until I was in high school and lifeguarding. Yes, lifeguarding. I’m in my 30s now and I’ve already had one piece of skin cancer removed and several other pre-cancerous spots."
The Glen:
What's truly weird about her blog as I read through it, is that not only do we both have red hair and grew up at Pines Lake, but we're both shooting with Canon D series cameras, have migrated to Florida and ruined our skin. Things that make you go hummmmm.
Anyway, that is Katie, me and the 10TS a couple of years back. I dragged them down to the Glen since we were up that way. That's the brook and the rock face behind them. Sweet huh?
No wonder I love snooping the net.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
expulsion and other idiosyncrasies . . .
There is yet another Internet questionnaire floating around . . . this time a survey about high school. The question that stopped me in my tracks . . . "Were you ever expelled?" So long ago I should not remember but I do . . . and the answer is yes, indeed I was.
Because my mother died when I was 14, it was decided that boarding school would be the most viable option. I started in the fall of 1963. When you are young and the rules and restrictions are crushing, well, from the beginning it was difficult to tow the line. I was used to running free . . . . being shut in a dorm was a difficult adjustment . . . I was not alone, several of us longed to explore off campus. But the first two years we behaved ourselves rather than have our beloved headmistress think less of us. Returning to school the beginning of our junior year, we were devastated to learn that Miss Wolf and Miss Wilcox, the rudders of the school had retired. In their stead, a new regime was at the helm . . . a headmaster and his protegee. While he occupied himself with the machinations of the school and took seemly little interest in the small enclave of boarding students, she on the other hand decided to make us her priority. She and I . . . well, our relationship was doomed from the beginning. There was bound to be seepage.
Now lest you think we were never allowed out, let me back up a tad. On Saturday mornings, we were allowed to hop the bus to the Short Hills mall . . . accompanied by an upper class man . . . and had to be back in the dorm by 4:00 to get ready for vespers and dinner. By the time we were juniors, we were on our own. We were also allowed downtown to the laundromat located just this side of the train station, if needed. Once our animosity for our assistant head mistress grew in direct proportion to our fading memories of our beloved leaders, we no longer felt the compunction to follow the rules. We often signed out of the dorm . . . carted our laundry bags to the laundromat and sidestepping to the train station, rode our way into NYC. The freedom to wander the city was heady and always started with a jaw defying hamburger at The Dugout down in the village. We were careful to be back in time, clean laundry in hand.
The first real rift between us came senior year while I was dating, such as it were, the brother of one of the day students. Dick had called one Sunday afternoon to say he was coming for a visit and bringing Phoebe along. "Phoebe who?", I asked as my hackles raised those jealous hairs on the back of my neck. Dick, looking furtively around - he not being allowed on campus - pulled off to the side of the dorm entrance and began to unload Phoebe from the back of the family station wagon. Phoebe was a goat. No wonder I adored this boy. While we chatted about all things important to 17 year old's back in the mid 60's, we forgot to keep on eye on Phoebe nor did we notice the imminent approach of "she who must be obeyed". It was the strangled scream escaping her throat that brought us back to this world. Phoebe, it seems, was happily munching on her prize roses. I was never sure if she was more perturbed about my illegal visitor or her roses, but things were never the same.
Then came the issue of church. Sunday morning attendance was mandatory. There being no Dutch Reformed churches in the area, I tried attending Temple with my roommate. After being told that was no longer an option for a Christian - I liked Temple . . . they fed us well - I went to whatever church tweaked my fancy. I wasn't keen on the Methodist church up on the corner, it being chosen by its close proximity, after the minister likened God's reliability to that of a TV set. Nixed the Episcopalian church after Pammy fainted from the many ups and downs, sending her kneeling bench skittering up three rows. And so it went until I arrived at the Catholic church. I loved the rhythm of the Latin words, the response from the congregation. What I didn't count on was that SHE was a parishioner and was incensed that I was an interloper. I was invited to never return. And so with my options dwindling and my friends as up for a change as I, we took to signing out for church, dodging down side streets, crossing the railroad tracks and sneaking into the town's greasy spoon: The Greek Diner. How we loved it there. We dawdled our allotted time swilling richly brewed coffee, smoking Parliament cigarettes and learning Greek phrases from the proprietor. That is until one Sunday when one of the under class girls, thinking to join the fun, walked right down the main street of town with a teacher on her tail. We were busted. You could almost hear HER chortle with glee as she pronounced our fate that fall afternoon. Phone calls were made, discussions with parent had . . . and in the end, there were too many of us and the charges deemed too frivolous by those who paid the bills. We were, much to her great frustration, reinstated. War, of course, had been declared and continued through graduation day. And when we packed up our trunks that very last sad spring day, the boarding department was closed forever. We were the last of the last.
Because my mother died when I was 14, it was decided that boarding school would be the most viable option. I started in the fall of 1963. When you are young and the rules and restrictions are crushing, well, from the beginning it was difficult to tow the line. I was used to running free . . . . being shut in a dorm was a difficult adjustment . . . I was not alone, several of us longed to explore off campus. But the first two years we behaved ourselves rather than have our beloved headmistress think less of us. Returning to school the beginning of our junior year, we were devastated to learn that Miss Wolf and Miss Wilcox, the rudders of the school had retired. In their stead, a new regime was at the helm . . . a headmaster and his protegee. While he occupied himself with the machinations of the school and took seemly little interest in the small enclave of boarding students, she on the other hand decided to make us her priority. She and I . . . well, our relationship was doomed from the beginning. There was bound to be seepage.
Now lest you think we were never allowed out, let me back up a tad. On Saturday mornings, we were allowed to hop the bus to the Short Hills mall . . . accompanied by an upper class man . . . and had to be back in the dorm by 4:00 to get ready for vespers and dinner. By the time we were juniors, we were on our own. We were also allowed downtown to the laundromat located just this side of the train station, if needed. Once our animosity for our assistant head mistress grew in direct proportion to our fading memories of our beloved leaders, we no longer felt the compunction to follow the rules. We often signed out of the dorm . . . carted our laundry bags to the laundromat and sidestepping to the train station, rode our way into NYC. The freedom to wander the city was heady and always started with a jaw defying hamburger at The Dugout down in the village. We were careful to be back in time, clean laundry in hand.
The first real rift between us came senior year while I was dating, such as it were, the brother of one of the day students. Dick had called one Sunday afternoon to say he was coming for a visit and bringing Phoebe along. "Phoebe who?", I asked as my hackles raised those jealous hairs on the back of my neck. Dick, looking furtively around - he not being allowed on campus - pulled off to the side of the dorm entrance and began to unload Phoebe from the back of the family station wagon. Phoebe was a goat. No wonder I adored this boy. While we chatted about all things important to 17 year old's back in the mid 60's, we forgot to keep on eye on Phoebe nor did we notice the imminent approach of "she who must be obeyed". It was the strangled scream escaping her throat that brought us back to this world. Phoebe, it seems, was happily munching on her prize roses. I was never sure if she was more perturbed about my illegal visitor or her roses, but things were never the same.
Then came the issue of church. Sunday morning attendance was mandatory. There being no Dutch Reformed churches in the area, I tried attending Temple with my roommate. After being told that was no longer an option for a Christian - I liked Temple . . . they fed us well - I went to whatever church tweaked my fancy. I wasn't keen on the Methodist church up on the corner, it being chosen by its close proximity, after the minister likened God's reliability to that of a TV set. Nixed the Episcopalian church after Pammy fainted from the many ups and downs, sending her kneeling bench skittering up three rows. And so it went until I arrived at the Catholic church. I loved the rhythm of the Latin words, the response from the congregation. What I didn't count on was that SHE was a parishioner and was incensed that I was an interloper. I was invited to never return. And so with my options dwindling and my friends as up for a change as I, we took to signing out for church, dodging down side streets, crossing the railroad tracks and sneaking into the town's greasy spoon: The Greek Diner. How we loved it there. We dawdled our allotted time swilling richly brewed coffee, smoking Parliament cigarettes and learning Greek phrases from the proprietor. That is until one Sunday when one of the under class girls, thinking to join the fun, walked right down the main street of town with a teacher on her tail. We were busted. You could almost hear HER chortle with glee as she pronounced our fate that fall afternoon. Phone calls were made, discussions with parent had . . . and in the end, there were too many of us and the charges deemed too frivolous by those who paid the bills. We were, much to her great frustration, reinstated. War, of course, had been declared and continued through graduation day. And when we packed up our trunks that very last sad spring day, the boarding department was closed forever. We were the last of the last.
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