Moving on up to the North Building for more Life Lessons

Fourth grade: “I am free at last!” My sister has moved on to Junior High so I can walk uphill to school without her feeling obligated to tell me how to do it! Likewise, I will have to be completely responsible for my coat, gloves and galoshes. For my friends in the latest generation, galoshes were rubber boats that you put over your shoes so that you could walk through blizzard like weather conditions and we liked it. Of course, the lessons of life continued to unfold. One lesson is that you can make anything scary if you give your mind enough freedom. After leaving the house in the morning I would cut over to Oak street so that I could avoid walking through the high school grounds. About four blocks from my house was what we referred to as the Peyton mansion. While the style of the home was unique within itself, the original owners had molded concrete into what appeared to be petrified wood that was intertwined around the property. On the top floor of the property one could see what looked like a look out post. Stories would swirl and magnify themselves about the mansion. My pace would always quicken when I passed the property. Once I made it to the school grounds spirits were usually high and in the fourth grade the deeper matters of world affairs were left to the outside word. We were very honored to have a member of our class who was without a doubt the fastest runner in the world. I will save her the embarrassment, but she could run faster than a BB. I know for a fact that she did allow herself to slow down because years later she permitted a boy with a fast Mustang to catch her and I double dated with them on one of my rare dates in high school. For the most part as 4^th graders we had moved away from the big slide and merry go round but on occasion we would lose ourselves on the swings as we soared to greater heights and then bailing out to return to earth. The big event that still weighs on my mind from that period of time was the fact that I made a B in spelling. I really thought I had it down. You know, i before e except after c and the other rules that had been formulated over the centuries of literary composition. To others my grade would be a blessing but, in my mind, it created a lifetime of doubt and the need for auto correct.

Fifth grade: “All Politics is Local”. These were confusing times for a ten-year-old. Earlier in 1960, a U2 spy plane had been shot down over Russia and tensions between the two great powers grew each day. As kids we would hear estimates of how many times the world could be destroyed during an attack by the Soviet Union. While it was impossible to imagine the devastation of that type of war, awareness of the danger was brought to small town America. Dad was the Civil Defense Director for Clayton and he conducted surveys of buildings in the area to try to determine the best possible shelters for the community. Strangely enough our house, due to the two-foot-thick adobe walls and it’s lead roof, was deemed one of the safest places in the area. Since the likelihood of a direct attack was remote, the presence of the weather station at the airport gave Dad a way to calculate time windows for potential fallout. Yes, we did talk about things like this and my imagination contributed to my concern.  

In other ways 1960 was a pivotal year for me. This was the first Presidential election that I really remember. Vice President Nixon was running as the Republican nominee and Senator Kennedy represented the Democrats. Politics had always been a part of our family life. We were Democrats and it was not unusual to attend a party pot luck supper at the airport. The candidates from all across the state would descend on Clayton and rub elbows with the locals. Dad always told us that he had only voted a straight party ticket one time in his life and that was in 1932. Otherwise, he tried to vote for the candidate rather than the party. Just as in the nation the Presidential race was extremely close in New Mexico. While Union and Bernalillo (Albuquerque) Counties went to Nixon, the state was won by Kennedy. I learned several valuable political lessons that year. First, if you want to know how the parents feel about a candidate, ask their children. The children will parrot almost word for word what they heard at home. Second, political opinions are rarely based on real issues but rather on emotions. To demonstrate this point, I remember several fights broke out on the playground over who would win the election. Third, a stump speech from one candidate sounds a lot like a stump speech from another. Fourth, in a primary you can say just about anything you want about the opposition but when the primary is over you become the best of friends. For example, one day I could accuse you of being a cannibal but at the end of the week and after I had won, we would both agree that you were really just eating your hat.

Sixth grade: “Words are more powerful than swords”. In the sixth grade I actually had a teacher who was not a woman. That certainly thru charm and flattery out the window. After being one step behind the Soviet Union in the space race the United States successfully sent Alan Shephard into space. This just fueled my infatuation with rockets. Initially I sent compressed air missiles into the sky followed by solid fuel Estes rockets and then I built my own using vinegar and baking soda to create the thrust necessary to leave the confines of this earthly plane. Meanwhile back in school I was presented with a tremendous learning lesson. It was the policy in our classroom, that if you made less than a 60 on any exam you were punished with a pop from a ruler for every point less than the minimum acceptable grade. God had blessed me with the ability to stay above that mark but we had one kid in our class who just couldn’t make it. Consequently, after every exam you knew what was going to happen next. This really bothered me to the point that I felt a need to take a stand against what I considered an injustice. For several days I worked on a speech that outlined my position. I did not tell the teacher the reason nor the subject, but I asked if I could make a speech to the class. He said that I could have the floor that afternoon. Needless to say, I was a bundle of nerves by the time the afternoon rolled around. It was a rather short speech, but I stated that I felt that any punishment for a bad grade was simply wrong and that should never be used as a measure of a persons worth. I acknowledged that it certainly wasn’t my decision whether the practice continued but that if the teacher felt a need to pop someone for a bad grade that I would offer my posterior as a substitute. The speech was over, and you could have heard a pin drop. After what seemed like an eternity the class resumed. At the end of the day the teacher asked me to stay. I really didn’t know what was going to happen, but he was quick and to the point. He said that he had really thought about what I had said and that he believed that I was right. The practice stopped, and I believe it marked a turning point in my life. I learned that the power of words can be astronomical, and that admitting fault can end up being a virtue. My respect for my 6^th grade teacher continues today.