Chapter Seven

 

BEEMAN ACADEMY

 

Misnomer, Gratifying and Embarrassing,

Miss Dalton, Mischief

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          It was September, 1924, when I donned my new knickers and boarded the school cart with my brothers for my first day of school at Beeman Academy up at "The Street."

 

          I did not know who Mr. Beeman was or why his name was placed in large block letters above the school's front entrance, or why a small community school could be named an Academy in contrast to public schools in surrounding communities, or how the title persisted generations after the demise of Mr. Beeman.

 

          We students favored the distinction, however, imagining that outlanders might envision a private school, spiffy uniforms and a degree of affluence.  Self-gratifying and false as these fantasies were, the title Beeman Academy on our team uniforms and programs lent us an extra ounce of pride and confidence when we competed against other schools.

 

          Sadly to say, the school burned to the ground three years after I graduated; however, those school years have stayed always fresh and renewable in my mind from the first grade through graduation.

 

          I remember it well after more than sixty years -- or perhaps just think I do.  To the right of the building, facing the street, was a grassy elm-shaded area where the younger children played at recess and during the lunch hour.

 

          On the left side were teeter boards and swings and beside the school building an outdoor basketball court with a rather uneven clay surface inclining toward the back of the school lot.  Beyond the court there had once been a tennis court, but in my memory all that remained were two posts that once supported a net.

 

          To the rear of the building was a sloping rectangular area where noontime pickup games of football and baseball were played.

 

          The elementary grades were all on the ground floor; grades one and two in the base of the extended rear of the building, grades three and four in the left wing and grades five and six in the right.  Each wing had its own clothes closet and storage room.  In my first couple of years, there were boys' and girls' outdoor privies behind the school, but chemical toilets were subsequently added at the rear of the school.

 

          Upstairs in the right wing were the seventh and eighth graders.  The rear portion was divided into two rooms used by the high school for a variety of subjects including English, foreign languages, literature, home economics and others.

 

          A portion of the basement was equipped to serve as a laboratory for chemistry and related subjects.  The laboratory was not fan-vented and I recall having fled the environs on more than one occasion when experiments, by error or design, created a smoke- and stench-filled environment.  The lab was also the area where we changed into our baseball uniforms before home games in the afternoon.  Once issued a uniform, we and our mothers were responsible season-long for its care and appearance.

 

          The remaining room on the west wing was the study hall and home room for high schoolers.  Students who were not attending classes elsewhere took seats in the back of the room while the principal, Ridley Norton, taught selected subjects in the front rows.

 

          I have never felt scholastically disadvantaged by graduating from a small country school, and a comparison of college records of my contemporaries would indicate that we had indeed been adequately served at our local school.

 

          In recalling personal memories and school events in the early grades, those that come to mind are both gratifying and embarrassing.  My proclivities at that age tended more towards situations inducing the latter rather than the former.

 

          In the fifth grade, the teacher asked each student to read a paragraph or two from a children's story.  During the reading I heard the word "flyspeck" and, always anxious to enrich my vocabulary, raised my hand and asked what "flyspeck" meant.

 

          The whole class snickered and the teacher said, "Settle down, children," and "Paul, I'll explain it to you after class."

 

          The readings continued but the laughter had caused me such indignation that I marched up to the front of the room where the big dictionary was shelved and flipped through the pages to ultimately discover that flyspecks were the excrement of flies.

 

          I knew what excrement was and many of its common synonyms, having been in its close company on the dairy farm since early childhood.  I marched back to my desk red-faced amidst the persistent snickering of the class.

 

          For days thereafter I pondered my question.  I wondered at my wonder.  We had every device known to man in those times to eradicate flies.  The barns were sprayed daily with a particularly lethal concoction designed for that purpose (I once inadvertently sent a kitten into convulsions when attempting to drive the pesky things away from him and his saucer).

 

          In the kitchen fly-hangers were suspended in numbers -- individual cylinders of sticky tape which could be extended like curly ribbons and pinned to the ceiling.  Flies would be attracted by its odor and remain stuck there.  One could hear their buzzing complaints until they finally expired.

 

          On any warm day flies would dance in the pantry and around the sugar bowl on the kitchen table and one of us boys would make frequent use of the fly swatter which hung conveniently close to the table and stove.

 

          In that environment -- I had to ask what a flyspeck was!  The embarrassment stayed with me for days.

 

          Apparently at that time in my schooling I had a proclivity for self-embarrassment.  Not possessing many of the natural attributes by which I might favorably impress others, I resorted to the use of "big words."  My extensive reading and pride in the use of them gave me some understanding of their meaning but not a clue as to their correct pronunciation.  There was no radio or television within our hearing to furnish example, so I often plunged into multisyllable words like "municipal" or "proclivity" and accented the third syllable rather than the second.  The saving element was that the teacher was kind and the other kids didn't know the difference.

 

          My interest in words for their own sake was come by honestly, however.  I heard as much in their sound as in their meaning plus implications beyond definitions.  Being slain seemed so much worse than being killed.  Was there possibly an uglier smell than that described by stink?  I hoped someday to experience caprice, whatever that might be.  And sloth -- Heaven forbid.

 

          Remember Archie Bunker?  He would bring instant quiet to a rowdy family by shouting "Stifle!"  A word of British derivation meaning to suffocate or smother.  It is the secondary implications in words that give their excitement, I believe.

 

          Everywhere and at every age, high school graduates reminisce about their favorite teachers.  I liked and was happy with most of them.  I much admired and was in some awe of our principal, Ridley Norton, who had been hired originally to bring discipline to the school.

 

          I have faint memory -- or perhaps only remembered anecdotes -- of his predecessor, Professor Hall, who had a pronounced limp and wore a tall hat which was often the target of unruly boys with snowballs.

 

          Mr. Norton had been a college athlete and played ball with us often during recess.  He was a casual but effective disciplinarian and, in my particular case, demonstrated that the occasional application of corporal punishment and isolation were helpful in establishing a  mutual appreciation of our respective places and roles in the high school.

 

          (My daughter who edited this piece wrote a note at this point: "What does this mean?  Please amplify."  I told her that the words "corporal punishment" and "isolation" certainly seemed plain enough to any reader, but she insisted on the details.  So . . .

 

          I had written two artless limericks in praise of the positive attributes of two of our young teachers.  They were intended for distribution among only my closest male companions.  As one can tell by their first two lines, their intentions were laudatory.

 

          The first:       "Clad in learning where she sits,

                                         None can equal our Miss Pitts."

 

          The second:  "Miss Albert is a charming lass,

                                         Dispensing learning in her class."

 

          The subject teachers and Mr. Norton felt that my poetic efforts were in exceedingly bad taste and he assisted me to his little office and said, "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."  He immediately belied his words by successively banging my head against his office wall.  In those days this was considered an acceptable disciplinary measure and, in all likelihood, if he hadn't done it, my father would have.

 

          His ire not completely sated, he moved my desk from the study hall to solitude in a small book room adjacent to the cloakroom where I remained except for classes for the remainder of the year.  I retained by baseball varsity status, however.)

 

          Long after we had graduated from Beeman Academy and college, we continued to seek him out in friendship.

 

          Among all teachers and educators I have encountered in life, none left an imprint comparable to that of Mary Dalton.  She was small, wiry and a spinster.  I think when young she must have been a very pretty girl for she had small features and bright intelligent eyes.  She was very strict and did not waste smiles, but when she did smile, you felt rewarded.  She had been teaching seventh and eighth grade in that same room for more years than I can tell.

 

          I know from my own brief teaching experience that students of that age constitute the greatest challenge to maintenance of order and a positive learning environment.  Each year in her beginning classes were a few overgrown farm boys who may already have repeated a grade or two before arriving in her room.  The rest of us had accepted our status for the past six years as "little kids."  She disabused us of that notion in a few days.  We were to conduct ourselves as young ladies and gentlemen and she had the talent and the will to exercise discipline and impart knowledge to such a group.

 

          As her student at that time I would not have been able to make a fair and objective evaluation of her classroom demeanor or why it was effective.  Seeking a valid explanation now, I find a near comparison in my World War II drill sergeant who had the awesome task of bringing a group of left-footed recruits to a competence level that would not shame us individually or as a unit when we finally formed on the parade ground in the uniforms of United States soldiers.

 

          We had thought him too demanding, too unsympathetic and unnecessarily tough during our training, but when we marched with precision and pride and received his smile, we realized how much better we were for his treatment.

 

          Later we would boast and lament what an SOB he was, and in a way . . . she was like that.  She booted us up into high school and we felt both relief and pride.

 

          She was determined, too, that we would acquire a few graces and manners before we left her jurisdiction.  The boys would be required to wear ties, and if you didn't own one or forgot it, she had a small supply or would make one out of paper and fasten it to your shirtfront.

 

          The dress of the girls was also scrutinized.  Issues of personal cleanliness or health were privately counseled (there were no school nurses).

 

          She would routinely address us as Mr. Poulin or Miss Doud, though in person-to-person conversations she would be informal.  She brought to her teaching a singular dedication to educating the minds of those in her care but also shaping ethical and moral standards applicable to our future relationships and conduct.

 

          As high school seniors we returned to thank her and express sincere appreciation for her example and guidance that made us better students and more aware citizens.  Many of us contrived to keep in touch with her after college and until her final days.

 

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Footnote: 

          Subsequent to writing the above, my brother, Richard Poulin, sent me a wonderful book entitled "New Haven in Vermont, 1761 - 1983."  It is by Harold Farnsworth and Robert Rodgers.  In the book I learned about Anson P. Beeman, who bequeathed $6,000 and follow-on funding for the school.

 

          I considered rewriting the first paragraphs of this story in light of my new knowledge but felt that they expressed the thoughts of the school boy at that time and were not inappropriate.

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