In the last few days of September a new book by Frank McCourt was published. The New York Times Sunday Magazine ran an excerpt from it. It is as good as “Angela’s Ashes”. It is the continued story of his life after arriving in America. The last word in the book “Angela’s Ashes” was ‘Tis’. That is this book’s title. The excerpt that appeared is about his first teaching job in a Staten Island Vocational High School, and the first day on the job. It brought back memories for me of my first day of teaching in high school. I noted that in the next week’s New York Time’s magazine a number of letters to the Editor praising the excerpt, and saying the same thing, i.e., how it reminded the letter writers of their first day and later of teaching in high school. So I was not alone in the memory of that frightening day. McCourt’s language makes you feel the fear and trembling with which one approached such a task. He talks about how should he act? “Should I be like Robert Donat in ‘Good Bye Mr. Chips’ or Glenn Ford in ‘Blackboard Jungle’. Should I swagger into the classroom like James Cagney or march in like an Irish schoolmaster with a stick, a strap, and a roar?” I can’t recall my making any comparisons. I did have one thing in common with his experience. He went expecting to start in maybe a week and then found himself starting the next day. That happened because the teacher, who taught the class upon learning that there was someone ready to replace her, decided to leave immediately. No turning over of notes, ideas, or passing the baton she just went. I went, believing I was starting because the sister who had taught the class had taken ill. I learned on the day I was to start that the ‘illness’ was a nervous breakdown brought on, allegedly, by these young ninth graders I was about to face. I still can feel a chill even now over 48 years later. The other thing I remember feeling was, “I am the boss”. This is a parochial high school, and all the teachers I had made me believe that the ‘Teacher is the Boss!’ I had the authority that McCourt did not have and it bolstered my confidence. I also had one class, in one room, all day, with all subjects but religion. I cannot for the life of me now recall how I managed. The other strong memory was handling the wise guys. We had all boys. It was an annex to Roman Catholic High school at 2nd and Girard Avenue in, I believe, St. Michael’s Parish. The Sister’s nervous breakdown put me on guard as to what I might expect. I found it in a few smart alecks and we soon had them kneeling in the aisles with their arms extended, where they remained until the warden-teacher felt they had repented sufficiently and would sin no more.
The opportunity to teach occurred in the last semester of my fourth year of college. It was required by the State that prior to obtaining a certificate, or license, to teach, a practice period had to be fulfilled. It was something akin to the preceptor ship in the law, which required 6 months of practice under a qualified lawyer before the admission to the bar. I was excused from completing my last semester in order to undertake this teaching. My good friend and teacher Bill Walsh then the head of the Education Department at St. Joe’s arranged this all. I have mentioned Bill before in these pages since it was his deadly auto accident some 10 years later that brought me in personal contact with his brother (or stepbrother) in law, John Rogers Carroll. John was the founder of the Philadelphia Lawyers’ AA unit. Later the same Bill Walsh would give me an opportunity to teach in the St Joseph’s Night School. I think in 1959 or ’60.
The fondest memory I have of those high school teaching days actually occurred three years later when I was a third year law student at Penn. I was selling programs on Saturdays at Franklin Field for the football games. I was approached by one of the young men who had been in that class. He said hello and asked how I was doing. He then brought a group of his classmates over to renew our acquaintance under admittedly different circumstances. I must say I was happily impressed that among them were some of the “smart alecks”, I had made kneel until forgiven, and they seemed to have forgotten all about it. It was nice to know we could still be friends!
I was back on a University campus last Saturday (Oct. 9th). I went to the Florida State Neighborhoods Conference on the grounds of the University of Southern Florida here in St. Petersburg. A number of workshops were held on how to organize, run, and use an association to better your neighborhood. I met one of the officers of the Shore Acres Civic Association there. We split up in the morning to different workshops, I went to learn how to increase your membership and she went to the one on grants. We were guests for a lunch and taken on a tour by the Roser Park Civic Association. Roser Park in South St. Petersburg is a Historic Park and was the first so designated in St. Petersburg both locally and nationally. It is now called Historic Roser Park and it is in effect an Outdoor Museum. It is made up of old homes along a winding creek, called Booker Creek, through large oak trees and hills. The hills are the remains of Indian burial grounds. It was like finding a pearl on the beach. It looks so unlike the Florida we know and more like parts of the Wissahickon Trail in Philadelphia that we ran through.
Charles Roser, for whom the park and area is named, came here in the early nineteen hundred teens. He sold his famous Fig Newton Cookies Company to National Biscuit Company so the neighborhood is often called the ‘Neighborhood a Cookie Built.’ It first became famous in the ’20’s through post cards. The area was highly photographed since at the time it was considered one of the most attractive residential developments in all of Florida. “Stately royal palms and regal old oaks are mixed in with a variety of lush tropical vegetation. August block streets and hex block sidewalks add to the historic feel of the district (August blocks are a darker clay brick than we see today). The ancient rusticated block retaining walls are another period feature of the district” It now has the added distinction of a famous Children’s Hospital on it edges and one of the largest McDonalds House’s in the country.
Prior to my visit to the conference and the tour of Roser Park June and I had spent four days and three nights at St. Pete’s Beach. We had been the beneficiaries of a great gift from June’s children, and certificate to stay at the “Don CeSar” beach resort. It is a four star rated resort and dominate the skyline of St. Pete’s beach with it pink Moroccan towers. The main hotel has a “Beach House” about four or five blocks away. It is cheaper at the Beach House so in order to get the most for our (?) money we chose to stay there. It was terrific! The so-called “room” is an apartment. The apartment has a porch, which has a table and four chairs and lounge and looks out to the Gulf. There was a full kitchen including a dishwasher, microwave, a full bath including washer and dryer, and the bedroom had a door, i.e., in effect, a separate “room”. We have changed our minds now about the Sirata, where we stayed in July and previously, and are sold on the DonCeSar Beach house. We had great weather and enjoyed once again a number of good walks on the beach and to and from our evening meal. The icing on the cake was having breakfast over looking the Gulf, which lay like a glistening lake beyond a snow-white beach, which could be seen through swaying palm trees. I can just hear some our grandchildren saying: “Wow…just like the movies!”
It is a first! October 8th saw June come with me to a Golf Tournament. Well, I really can’t say, “She came with me”, since she came as part of the crew who were working the LCC’s fund raising golf tourney. She got to ride in a golf cart and got soaking wet in the rain. She saved the church hundreds of dollars by pointing out it was a church. The church is a charity exempt from taxes they were imposing on our payment. She was a busy bee the whole day and was relieved to return to the nest with a confirmed conviction to never do it again! But my feeling is she still has such talent that she will be called upon again, and probably fail to say no. Until next time keep well, and remember: Growing old is mandatory; Growing up is optional!