Dear Ray,
How the hell did the tough, hardboiled little fart I knew
at Oxford more than 45 years ago become such a touchy-feelly, purple-prosed
poet? I always regarded you as the toughest guy I knew at Oxford. You were
never a bully, but to me you were the very icon of meanness, strength,
and unsentimental ruggedness. Now, look at you! Why, you're nothing
more than a sentimental old sap. A lot
like me, except that no one would ever have mistaken
me for a tough guy--then or now.
Now, I'm not angry with you Ray (I say nervously, still
not wanting to get on your bad side), but you've just let most of the air
out of my tires. For several weeks, as Jim, Mara, and I have been swapping
recollections and working on the Oxford web site, I've been building up
to getting my own Oxford memories in shape for distribution. I've got about
4,000 words on my computer and a dozen pages of raw notes. Now, it all
looks like sappy mush, and I'm feeling numbed and inarticulate. Why? Because
I can't think of a thing to say that could come close to your terrifically
evocative stuff. Your recollections brought a few tears to my old eyes,
and, believe me, that takes some doing. Thanks for helping to bring our
Oxford days so richly to life.
There are so many things about your recollections
that I like, I don't know where to begin. I do, however, especially like
some of the small touches, such as your description of headlights dancing
across the ceiling of Jimmy Dean's bedroom that night you lay awake before
going fishing at the pier. In my mind's eye I can see Jimmy's ground-floor
room on that busy intersection, which must have seemed so alien to you,
a boy whose own bedroom towered about three stories above twisty, sleepy
upper Oxford street. I'll be you never saw a headlight touch your house.
I can easily visualize the two of you standing cold and perhaps feeling a bit forlorn at the pier that dark morning. So, Jimmy's mother really just dropped you off and left you there alone? Was Berkeley really that safe? (Can any of us imagine leaving our own children alone at a place like that these days!) I went to the pier with my father and brother enough times to visualize that scene, and I can flesh out every detail of the adventure you described. I especially remember the sight of stingrays on the walkway of the pier, with their dangerous tails cut off, and the long wire lines with as many as a dozen baited hooks used to catch smelt. I haven't thought much about the pier over the years, except when I've revisited Berkeley and eaten in its waterfront restaurants, but your memories make me realize what a special place it was. Think of it! How many towns have something like a pier more than a mile long? By the way ... what was it doing there? Why was it built? Why wasn't it torn down? (I used to know the answers to these questions, but that sort of stuff doesn't stick as well as it used to.)
The name "Mr. Kazdan" is one I don't think I've heard since the '50s, but the moment I saw it in your letter, I knew it was right (even if we can't remember how to spell it). I even have a vague picture in my mind of the man. Was he dark-haired, thin, and about medium height? (Or, am I merely thinking of a Fred Astaire clone?) More importantly, who was he and what did he have to do with Oxford when he wasn't teaching us dancing? Was he a classroom teacher, or did he go from school to school to teach dancing? Did he work with a female partner at our dance lessons?
Did we pay for the lessons? If we did, they must have been damned cheap. Otherwise, I can't imagine my parents ponying up. (I wanted to take trumpet lessons at Oxford, but my father balked at the nominal charge for renting an instrument.)
One dance lesson I remember vividly was the "bop." When I say "vividly," I don't necessarily mean "accurately," but what I remember is this: we alternated turning one knee in and lifting the foot on the opposite leg just below it. I found the maneuver impossibly awkward and never mastered the step, but it remained ever afterward etched in my mind as one of the basic components of bop.
Those afternoon dance classes in the Oxford auditorium were somehow connected with evening dances in the much larger and finer auditorium at Hillside School. I remember the big open dance floor, ringed with nicely dressed girls sitting on folding chairs and boys standing with their arms folded. Did any of us actually dance? I suppose we must have, but I can't remember it.
Ray, your story about Mr. Kazdan's putting you on the spot by ordering you to be the first boy to ask a girl to dance moved me deeply. I don't remember that incident, but it certainly rings true, and I can share your embarrassment after all these years. The feelings we (as boys) had about girls in those days confused the hell out of us. I'll bet that most of us were scared to death of the thought that anyone else would learn which girls we liked best. That was the kind of information we were hesitant to share even with our best friends, who, being boys, might turn into jerks without warning and use the information against us.
After we started going to those dances at Hillside, I developed a huge crush on a Hillside girl named Mary Ellen Meriam. Until now, I've never told anyone what I felt for her. I certainly never told her. (The only way she could have guessed about my feelings at the time would have been through such tell-tale signs as the fact that I never asked her to dance, never spoke to her, and never looked in her direction if there was a chance she would see me doing it.
Here's another, similar incident that you may remember. When we were in the sixth grade, the traffic boys "hosted" a movie in the cafeteria to which we invited the girls. In their idiocy, the adults who organized the affair issued us two candy bars apiece and instructed each of us to invite a girl. This was even more embarrassing than having to ask a girl to dance, as it seemed like we were asking the girls on real "dates." Not only did each boy have to select a girl, he had to do it in full view of the entire class.
(The only other experience I've had in my life that compares with that one occurred in Coast Guard bootcamp, when all the recruits were ordered to pair off with each other for practice in mouth- to-mouth resuscitation. You can be sure that a lot of nervous eyes darted around that day. Happily, when we got down to actual practice, it was simulated. Still, I wasn't sorry I had brushed my teeth first.)
Back to the traffic boys movie, which was probably my first "dating" experience ... I recall agonizing over making my choice. The pressure was really on: I knew that if I waited too long, I would have no choice at all. I moved quickly and picked Melody Meyers, who graciously accepted. The perfect choice, she was cute, but even more important, she was someone I felt comfortable with. (If you're reading these lines, Melody, thank you for making my first date a success. P.S., Can I have my traffic boy ring back?)
Singing
Thanks, Ray, for putting into words the importance of music at Oxford. I've thought a lot about my musical experiences at the school, but only in isolated memories. Music was important there in all the classes, but most especially in Mrs. Rutherford's sixth grade class. She took music damned seriously, and I've never forgotten how important it was to her that we correctly articulate every syllable that we sang. Remember having to sing "We wishhh [not wiss!] you a merry Christmas" over and over until we got it right, or Mrs. Rutherford couldn't stand listening to us any longer? Ray, your description of your role in songfests is more poignant to me than you might imagine, for I have always thought of you and me as having been soul mates, of sorts, because of our similar experiences in music at Oxford. When the Christmas songfest was coming up in 1954, Mrs. Rutherford took our class to the auditorium and tested our singing voices, one at a time. Another great chance for public humiliation: singing solo in front of the entire class! Mrs. Rutherford would play a few bars on the piano while each child sang, make some decision in her mind, and then send the child to the other side of the room.
After I warbled my few barely audible bars, she relegated me to a corner of the room far from the rest of the class and told me to sit and wait. It was humliliating to be set apart like that, but my embarrassment was eased considerably because you were waiting for me in that same remote corner. Since you were universally recognized as a cool guy, I knew my banishment was not the badge of shame it might otherwise have been.
Later, while the rest of our classmates practiced singing for the show, you and I were given special featured speaking jobs. Thus, instead of feeling like rejects, we felt like stars. In fact, we even opened the show. One of us recited a poem, the other a prose piece (I don't remember who did which). We wore white flowing robes (old bedsheets?). I recall overhearing a parent say, "My, doesn't he look like an angel!" I don't remember which of us that remark referred to, but if it was you, Ray, I'm sure I was struck by the incongruity of the description. No way could Ray Wootten look like an angel. However, I wasn't particularly eager to look like one myself. I wasn't that much of a wuss.
After we finished our recitations, you sat down in at far end of the front row, with the parents, and I went over to the piano, where I turned the sheet music for the player (Jimmy's mother? I'm not sure, but I know it wasn't Mrs. Rutherford). I recall holding my hands together (angelically?) between page-turnings, feeling like a big shot, while you stretched out your legs and looked bored. I'm sure the mean thought went through my head, that everyone knew I wasn't in the choir because I had something more important to do, while you weren't in it because you couldn't sing. Of course, I wasn't any damned good at turning the pages, either. Here's something I don't think I knew until my brother, Mervyn, told me very recently: When he was in Mrs. Rutherford's class, three years ahead of us, the same thing happened to him: He auditioned and was banished to the tin-ear brigade. (I wonder if I recited the same poem or prose that he did.) I must ask my younger sister, Janice, what happened to her in the sixth grade. I guess musical talent doesn't run in our family. My dad played the accordion. It all fits together.
Bruce Duncan
Ray, I especially want to thank you for your joyous remembrance of Bruce Duncan, who I have, in my maturity, come to regard as the most remarkable person our class produced. Jimmy and I have been sharing a lot of memories of Bruce, and I think he agrees with me on this point. I actually got up this morning with the intention of writing a note about Bruce that would be suitable to put on the web page we created for him, but I'm not sure if I have anything important to add to what you have written. You're right about Bruce; he truly was a genius.
I can add one quick recollection, however. Remember how we passed around valentines to classmates every year? In the fifth grade, Bruce drew me a special valentine card. On the front it said,
Dear Valentine,
I'm tired of those phony hearts that everyone puts on valentine cards, so I've drawn you a real one.
Inside the card was his hand-drawn picture of a pulsating human heart, with blood spurting out of its severed arteries. A typical Bruce creation. I hope I've saved it somewhere ... perhaps in my parents' attic, which hasn't changed much in 50 years.
Mortadella
I don't recall ever swapping sandwiches with Billy Stallone, but I do recall turning down other offers to swap lunch items. I never did it, as I was very protective of the bag lunches that my mother prepared for me. However, that was probably a mistake. My mother made boring sandwiches. If I complained about getting the same kind of plain bologna sandwich every day for months, she would do something like switch to plain peanut butter sandwiches every day for the rest of the year. Here's a cafeteria memory that I'll bet few can match: In my six years at Oxford (first through sixth grades), I never bought a cafeteria lunch. (I never bought a cafeteria lunch at Berkeley High, either, but I did buy one at Garfield Junior High. I wonder what that occasion was.)
Assorted Memories
Thanks, Ray, for bringing back my fond memory of the Conner twins performing the "Me and My Shadow" routine. I can still picture them in my mind: One (the "me") wore a white suit and hat, the other (the "shadow") a black suit and top hat. Here's a tough question: Which brother wore the white suit? My faint recollection is that it was Walter. He's three minutes older than Ralph, and always liked to pull rank by virtue of his seniority. (He still does, apparently.)
I think one of the things that makes their performance stick in my mind is that I used the occasion to study how closely they actually resembled each other. I knew they were "twins," but I was a little fuzzy on the difference between identical and fraternal twins in those days, and they didn't seem to be quite the perfect "Me and My Shadow" match that I expected. But, thank god for that! I don't think I would have liked them as much as I did, had they been identical. Still, they did look a lot alike.
Speaking of twins, I think the Wentworth brothers at Garfield were probably the first identical twins I ever knew. (They were identical, weren't they?)
Ray, we had two custodians while we were at Oxford. The first one was named Jones. He had been there more than twenty years and was a big hero of my brother's. I don't remember the name of his successor, but I recall that he was a younger man, an African American. I've got a photo of Mr. Jones that I'll scan so Jimmy can put it on the web site.
On that white paste that we used ... did you ever hear Woody Allen's joke about being so square when he was young that he sniffed library paste? I always think of the paste we used at Oxford when I hear that joke (I think it's in ANNIE HALL). That stuff was hard to use. It lumped up easily, and all we had to apply it was stubby little brushes.
Ballpoint pens I think it was in Miss Swain's fourth grade class that we first got ballpoint pens--long black things with no caps, just as you described them. I thought they were wonderful. Recognizing the advantages of ballpoints over liquid ink pens was probably my earliest awareness of the importance of invention and the forward march of technology. I recall thrilling to subsequent advances in ballpoint pens, and I can still remember this ditty:
Up to 70,000 words without refilling
The gleaming new Papermate pen is thrilling!
So buy a Papermate
and you'll say it's great
When you write with a Papermate pen!
I think I've always been a Papermate loyalist because of my fourth-grade enthusiasm for ballpoints. I seemed to have been very future-oriented in those days. While we were in that same fourth grade class, I consciously wondered if human beings would ever go to the moon. (Think of it! I had that thought only 16 years before the first moon landing, and that landing is now 32 years behind us.)
Mexican food Ray, I don't remember going to a Mexican restaurant on University Avenue in Miss Swain's class, but I do recall having an ersatz Mexican lunch in the classroom. I can still picture a cold corn tortilla lying on my bare desktop, with shredded cheese and lettuce on it. No meat. I wasn't impressed with Mexican food then, but I could live on the stuff now.
Football Finally, please tell us more about the school's football team. I recall going to Thousand Oaks School to watch a game, but I think I was generally oblivious to the very existence of school teams. Was Dick Bruhney a playground superintendent? Who selected the teams? Thanks again, Ray. Your memories are really special, and I'm looking forward to seeing you in Berkeley in three weeks.
P.S. My full name is "R. Kent Rasmussen." I'll bet that you never knew what the "R" stands for. Maybe we are brothers.