Things Get Interesting -- 5th and 6th grades

After a too brief summer, we entered the fifth grade,  Mrs. Martin's classroom.  Mrs. Martin was a portly older lay woman.  She once proudly described herself as "pleasingly plump."  Her grandson, Larry Martin, was in the class behind us.

A new "threat" was Mary Gayle Comer.  I think she'd been with us all along, but became the dominant female student in terms of academic achievement.  Until she left before the eight grade, we were always the last two standing in spelling bees.

One activity that began in the fifth grade was that of "safety patrol boy".  I don't recall if girls were involved or if they had a parallel activity.  I remember performing the role after school, but I imagine we served before school.  We were supplied with a white "dough boy" plastic hat, a white plastic safety belt, and a pole with a flag on the end.  When students needed to cross the street at the corner of Bingham and Hale, we held the flag out to stop the traffic and allow the children to cross.  Someone else may remember if we worked any of the other corners near the school.



Fifth grade began what my parents thought of as my "Emergency Room" period of my childhood.  Somehow a fellow student managed to dump me on my head on the playground.  I don't remember it bothering me that much until I was at home after school that day and became nauseous (with its inevitable result) and had a headache.  I told my mother what had happened at recess, she called our pediatrician, and, thinking I might have a concussion, he admitted me to LeBonheur Children's Hospital in Memphis.  I stayed for about three hours, with my father roaming the halls, until the doctor arrived, saw me reading a comic book, and discharged me.

There was a local afternoon children's television show called "Loony Zoo", if memory serves.  It was broadcast from the studio of the local NBC affiliate, Channel 5.  It's host was a local celebrity, Trent Wood.  Schools selected children to appear as the "Safety Patrolman of the Day" on the show.

Mrs. Martin called me to her desk one day and told me she would have recommended me but for a certain nervous habit I had which she thought would not reflect well on the school.  She told me that, if I could conquer the habit, she would recommend me another time.  I did appear later in the year.  I remember being so fascinated with the studio with all the cameras, lights, and other equipment.  If any of my classmates remember whether they were selected, I encourage them to comment to the blog or the Facebook post.

This was the first year I played basketball.  Our coach was Jim "Butch" Fier.  Others on the team from our class were Sean Gillespie and Al Mulrooney.  I'm sure there were others.  There were also sixth graders on our "Peewee" team:  Ronnie Chambers and John Augustine.  Ronnie was a guard and John was a tall rough house center.  For the fifth graders, this was their first try at organized basketball.  At the beginning of the season, we practiced in the Shelby County Building on the Memphis Fairgrounds, because Blessed Sacrament was in the process of building an addition that would bring all of the classes under the same roof and provide for a combined gymnasium, auditorium, and cafeteria (called a cafetorium).

The Shelby County Building was a large open space that combined several basketball courts where schools lacking facilities would practice.  It was also a place where after school pickup games were played.  It served as the "car show" exhibit space when the Mid South Fair was held in September each year.

I was tall for my age but not tall (or good) enough to play on the first string.  I once was selected to play for John Augustine when he was ill one weekend.  I had no idea what I was doing.  I remember falling down every time I went for a rebound but failed to get the ball.  I guess I thought it would demonstrate my effort.  Coach put Al into the line up instead of me.

I recall our weekend games were played in the gyms of either Christian Brothers High School or Catholic High School.  The gym at Catholic was impressive in size with elevated stands and the slickest basketball floor you can imagine.  Catholic, as a fund raiser I guess, opened the gym for roller skating on Saturday nights.  All of those skates wore the finish down so that our basketball shoes could get no traction.  If we had to run after the ball, when we stopped, we would keep sliding and, likely as not, the referee would call us for walking.  Ah!  Those were the days!

I remember that I received a basketball goal for Christmas that year, along with my own personal basketball.  It was a while before my dad mounted the goal directly on the front of our rundown garage.  It wasn't long before it was hanging by one screw or nail and we had to take it down.  I was always out in the driveway shooting baskets.

Before the season was over, the school had completed our addition with two new classrooms, a new kitchen, and the cafetorium.  At one end was an elevated stage for school productions.  Two basketball goals were installed, one of which was right in front of the stage and could be lifted out of the way when the stage was in use.

The cafeteria tables were, I thought, so cool.  They were stored in the walls and "unfolded" during the lunch hour, along with the benches, to provide table for meals.  It was the assignment for the older students to extend them before the meals and return them to storage at the end.  I remember boys having the assignment.  Perhaps girls were asked to clean the tables.  It was a different time.

Toward the end of the year, I went out for Peewee baseball for the first time.  Our coach was Jim Hall.  I remember scratchy wool uniforms of which I was so proud.  Others on the team I recall were Sean Gillespie, Walter "Bubba" Marshall (RIP), Jack McCormick, and Ricky Wade.

I was a terrible hitter in games.  I could manage in batting practice with the coach pitching, but for some reason, with someone of my own age pitching at me, I guess I was afraid of getting hit and was always bailing out.  I was so terrible, that I didn't even touch the ball with the bat until the end of the season when I hit a foul ball.  I considered the foul ball a victory.  I struck out every time.  I was relegated to hitting 9th and playing in right field (where balls were rarely hit with everyone batting right handed).

At one game, I actually had three balls hit to me.  I caught the first two, but let the third drop.  It allowed a winning run to score; I was mortified.

It was about this time that we played a game against St. Michael's School.  A boy named Frank Ferino was the pitcher.  He was tall and threw side-armed.  One pitch started coming at me and I ducked into it.  Unfortunately, the top of my head was not protected.  (Helmets at the time were wrap around plastic affairs that left the top of the head exposed.)  It didn't knock me out, but I learned the expression "I saw stars."  The ball bounced over the backstop.  The injury didn't take me out of the game, but I got to be on base for the first time because I was hit by a pitch.  Small victories.

During the summer, an older boy on my street bought a new catcher's mitt.  I asked to try it one Saturday afternoon.  He and I tossed the ball back and forth a few times.  I asked him to throw a pop up.  He heaved the ball in the sky.  I got under it and lifted the mitt to catch it.  I missed and the ball hit me in the nose.  There was a lot of blood and I couldn't breathe through my nose.  Our doctor met us at the Emergency Room and pronounced my nose broken.

(A subsequent x-ray revealed my sinuses crushed as well.  I recall a discussion whether to "fix" my nose, but the doctor recommended against it because "he's still growing".   I would be forty-six years old before I would have the first of three head and neck surgeries to cure me of my snoring and sleep apnea caused by this childhood injury.)

 As the next school year began, we moved into one of the new schoolrooms created in the addition to our school.  Our teacher was Sister Mary Carl.  Sister Carl was the first teacher who lost my respect and I think that of some of the rest of the class.  I'm not sure why. We did like the new classroom though.  Shiny aluminum railed chalk boards to replace the oak trimmed chalk boards.

I remember her getting into arguments with some of my classmates, angry shouting matches that usually resulted in the classmate being sent to the principal's office.

Just before Christmas, Sister Carl tried to teach us to sing "The Little Drummer Boy."  She began by writing the words on the chalk board:  "Come they told me...."  So far so good.  "Pa rum pa pum pum."  I imagine if she had tried to sing it for us first and explain that those syllables represented a drum being beaten.  But she didn't do that.  She kept on writing and the more those syllable appeared the funnier it seemed to many of us.  Soon we were laughing uncontrollably and she was turning red in the face.  Eventually, she erased the board and gave up on that project.

I guess we were studying geography when we learned about Mount Vesuvius.  I'd never heard of the volcano before, but I was excited to report to my parents about the class and the mountain blowing up.  But I pronounced it just as Sister Carl had:  Ve-su-vee'-us.  My mother's face blanched.  She said, "I think it's pronounced Ve-soo'-vi-us."  "No, Mom.  Sister said."  ("Sister said" was always a dispute ender in our family.  It became funny after awhile.)  That's was the first time that I learned a teacher could be wrong.

 It was about this time that I made another trip to the ER or doctor because of some stupid injury.  Remember those skating nights at the Catholic High gym?  One night, I was with my friends the Ryans and we started that game where you line up abreast, the inside person drops back and attempts to catch up to the outside position while the whole group continues circling the floor.  On one of my attempts, I fell and, with my hand outstretched, this guy who weighed about two hundred pounds rolled over it.  He crashed to the floor as well.  

My pinkie and ring finger were broken.  That made for a brief hiatus of piano lessons and practice.  Good news.  Bad news.

It was in grade six that all of the Catholic boys learned to be altar boys, the term we used for serving at Mass.  We had to learn all of the Latin responses for the Mass (this was before Vatican II).  We had to learn all sorts of movement and skills:  helping the priest before Mass, processing into the church before him, moving the lectionary from the Epistle side to the Gospel side, lighting candles, pouring wine and water, and holding the paten under communicants' chins so no crumbs from the wafer fell on the floor.

I remember one day when Sister had all of us in the sanctuary, going over the routine.  While she was taking two of us through the steps, the others became bored.  One of them was seated in the "priest's" chair and decided to see how high he could bounce in the air.  In retrospect, I guess I feel sorry for Sister having been saddled with such a group.

In those days, the church scheduled two masses on weekdays:  6:30 am and 8:00 am when the school attended.  You really did not want to be scheduled for 6:30.  That meant you had to get up extra early and parents would drive us to church so that we could serve.  Parents weren't that wild about 6:30 either, especially if, like my mom, she had to get two other children ready for school.  In fairness, though, my dad was really good about helping us get out the door.

At first, we were assigned with two older boys to break us into the ministry of serving at the altar.  Eventually we could be assigned on our own and, later, to supervise younger ones coming up.

I may be getting ahead of myself here, but sometime in the early '60s, Memphis experienced a couple of monster snowfalls (by Midsouth standards).  Snow was twelve or more inches deep.  Memphis was at a standstill.  Schools were closed, but I remember trying to walk in that snow to church for one of those 6:30 masses.  I was probably accompanied by Terry Ryan since we lived close together.  As luck would have it, some older boys, two of the Ragghianti brothers, were being taken to their paper route by their father.  He saw us somewhere on Hollywood Street struggling through the drifts.  He picked us up and took us to church.  It may seem cruel that we were sent by our parents to church that way, but most cars were not making it.  On foot was the only way to make it.  I guess Mr. Ragghianti had special chains on his tires or something.  There were no 4x4 SUVs then.

Sometime around the sixth grade, Ricky Hester was introduced to our class.  I think he might have been a little older than us.  He was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was one of the meanest.  I'm not sure if there was a plan to Sister Carl's seating arrangement, but at one point both Ricky and I were seated at the back of our respective rows, about two or three rows apart.  I'm not sure whether Ricky was trying to annoy Sister or just bully me, but when Sister's back was turned, he would slip off his shoes and stealthily creep over to my desk and try to kick me out with his stockinged foot, and then run back to his seat before the movement could be detected.  I couldn't complain because that would have bought me a whole new batch of trouble.  Ricky was big, strong, and always looking for trouble.

I played basketball again in the 6th grade, coached by my dad, also Jim Coleman.  We actually won a tournament that year and were glad to display our trophy for the benefit of the older junior team.  I played first string for the first time that year, along with Sean, Al, and a fourth grader named Stotz Thoda.  Stotz was a natural at basketball and baseball, even though he was two years behind us.

One final note about how we dressed at school.  Boys were expected to wear shirts with collars and no jeans and definitely no tennis shoes, although we probably called then "sneakers" at the time.  For the girls, uniforms were mandatory.  As I recall, there were two options.  The first was a uniform jumper (blue and white check) with a white blouse underneath.  The other was a uniform skirt and a white blouse.  I guess flats or saddle oxfords formed the shoe wardrobe.

In church, it was required that the girls wear something on their heads.  These could be uniform "beanies" or something that looked like a doily.  That was a church and school rule, long since abandoned.

My daughters who went to school at St. Mary's Episcopal School in Memphis would probably be surprised if not appalled.  St. Mary's had its standards but it allowed the girls to wear slacks and running shoes.  Somewhere along the line, common sense prevailed.