1959 - Spring Bluff

1959 – Spring Bluff Grade School

Spring Bluff Grade School. Kirkwood Avenue. Winthrop Harbor, Illinois.

Where I learned to read and to write and where I...first got sent to the office for fighting.

There were a couple of people, besides classmates, at Spring Bluff that I clearly remember.

During my 5th grade year the single Winthrop Harbor school was re-named Spring Bluff to differentiate it from the new school- Westfield. Spring bluff was the original name of our little town when initially established. Mr. Plavick was the principle of Spring Bluff Grade School and although well liked by a majority of his students and their parents had his share of controversy during his tenure. He had a practical sense of what kind of discipline worked with which student. For instance one day during lunch recess he smelled the distinct odor of cigarette smoke. It was coming through his single window which looked out over the alcove that was formed when the new school extension was added to the old school. It was a wide area with 2 stairs, 1 heading up to the classroom area and an emergency-exit stairway which led down to the basement restrooms, coatroom, nurses office, etc. This down-stair was directly beneath his office window so when he peered out he immediately spied 2 well-recognized students. Both of these youngsters had sent enough time in his waiting room that he knew their history and had a fairly good inkling of what was needed to ameliorate the smoking situation.

After sending a teacher out to intercept the boys they soon appeared in the door of his office. Perhaps I should mention here that I am only repeating what I heard as I was not one of the miscreants. Mr. Plavick asked them into the office, instructing them to close the door behind them. “Have a seat, boys.” They sat down in the wooden chairs in front of his desk. As they were 8-year olds they fit easily in the big chairs built to the dimensions of someone much bigger. Their legs stuck straight out before them as they sat back in the chairs putting as much space between themselves and Mr. Plavick. Their short legs didn’t allow a bend at the knee so they sat in certain discomfort awaiting their fate. “Well, boys,” said Mr. Plavick, “I see you’ve decided it’s time for you to start smoking. I enjoy a good smoke myself now and then so I understand how much satisfaction you got out of those cigarettes but, if you’re going to be real men who smoke you should really understand the full pleasure of good tobacco.” He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out two thick black cigars. As the norm in those days there was no wrapper and they had been open to the air from the time they were first acquired. “I got these after Mr. White’s baby was born last year. These are really good cigars. I’ve got one for each of you. Here boys.” He held the cigars out prompting them again. “Here, boys. Take them!” They looked at each other in confusion and apprehension. Slowly reaching out they each took a cigar. “Ok, here what you do, boys. First pull the label off and bite a little bit of the end off. They obeyed holding the wad of tobacco in their mouths. “Spit it out, boys! Don’t swallow!” He held out the waste can so they could spit the end out. “Careful, tobacco could make you sick if you swallow it like that. There, now you can really enjoy a good smoke. Here.” He held out his Zippo and lit the ends. “Take a couple of good puffs on those for a minute. You’ll really begin to know what it’s like to be a real man pretty soon, now.” They each took a tentative puff. “Come on take a good long pull on those. It’s a little breezy in here isn’t it?” He stood and closed the window without awaiting an answer.

The boys sat and puffed on their cigars. Eventually they began to relax. Perhaps Mr. Plavick wasn’t so bad after all. He talked to them about this and that keeping off the subject of school or smoking. He discussed his children, now mostly grown, and how they were always pushing the envelope at home until they learned that all things come in their own time. “I guess this is your time, boys. Today you’re one step closer to being men.” As they talked the boys began taking on a slightly green tint. They were a bit less than 1/3 through their cigars when they began feeling a little dizzy and asked Mr. Plavick if they could please go. “No, boys! You’re just getting to the good part.” The room was full of smoke and their eyes began to water. “Guess it’s getting a little close in here. I’ll re-open the window.” He glanced in their direction noticing their eyes were barely in focus. They did not look very happy. “Here boys, come on over here and get a breath of air.” They both jumped to their feet and both immediately felt worse than they previously had. As they stood the blood began pumping and their blood pressure became slightly elevated from the exertion, a fresh blast of nicotine hit their system. Boy #1 held tightly to the arm of the chair...looked up with unfocused eyes and wavered in place…then he threw up. This was quickly followed by boy #2 throwing up. “Come on, boys. What’s this? Not feeling so good? I guess maybe you weren’t ready for this after all. Let me call Mrs. Evans and you can rest in the nurses office for awhile.” Mrs. Evans arrived and took charge of the boys. The janitor was right behind her.

At the next PTA meeting Mr. Plavick actions were questioned after comments from the boys parents. Consequently this lead to a reprimand was by the PTA President who, after a short dressing-down of Mr. Plavick finished up by addressing this question to the parents of the two boys: “Have they shown any indication that they have been smoking since this incident.” The indication from both parents was “No, but…”

Mr. Plavick was supported by the majority of the parents including the president of the PTA who told him, “If you ever catch one of my boys smoking you have full permission to do the same. In fact if you call me I’ll even supply the cigars.” That would have been typical of my dad who was also the president of the PTA.

The next school year I was nine-years old when my mother received a telephone call from Mr. Plavick. “I’ve got one of your boys over here in my office Mrs. Wasion. He was caught fighting another boy. The other boy got away but we’ve got Larry here and he needs a good talking to about fighting at school.

“That’s funny.” Said my mom, “Larry was just here a few minutes ago and…oh, wait…” she paused, covering the receiver, then returned, “Where were they when they were caught fighting?”

“Across the street from the school Mrs. Wasion. They weren’t on school grounds but across the street it is close enough that we still will take charge when we see something like this.”

“That explains a lot Mr. Plavick.” Mom said. “We live across the street from the school and Larry’s little brother is here crying about fighting with his big brother until a lady came into our yard and took his brother away. I think he’s more afraid of what happened to his big brother than harmed from fighting. Brothers will be brothers. Send him home.” A short apology followed and I was sent home with a second apology in the form of a note from Mr. Plavick.

Mr. Plavick was the principal of that school until he was promoted to Winthrop Harbor’s Superintendent of School and retired on his own terms several years later.

Not long after that Westfield school was opened and we transitioned to that location with our new Principal, Mr. Olsen. A whole new principal with a whole new story.

My relationship with Mr. Plavick was far different than the experience I had with Miss. Johnson, my 3rd grade summer-school teacher, also at Spring Bluff. She was young and blonde and lovely with a figure that even an 8-year-old could appreciate (evidently). I was enrolled in 3rd grade summer-school because my math skills were horrible. Adding, subtracting…it all seemed just so confusing. I don’t know why…it just did. It may have had something to do with a condition of which few if anyone in 1958 understood, dyslexia. This coupled with the fact I couldn’t see…I was to get my first pair of glasses the next year…meant that I was not the best student. In 1958 the best student got most of the attention and sat at the front of the class. Those who were perceived as either troublemakers or below-average students were placed in the back of the classroom to avoid disturbing the other students. I spent my school-days day-dreaming and having wonderful adventures in my head. As I couldn’t see the board, any time I was quizzed I didn’t know the answer. It didn’t help that I was the shortest person in my 3rd grade class except for Elizabeth…a…girl. It also didn’t help my grades that I sat behind a tall kid all year. It was a great help to my imagination as I was left mostly undisturbed.

But that was not Summer-School. Summer-School was entirely different. Of course in 3rd grade summer school class was only half-a-day. I was there with a couple of handfuls of other students there for academic reasons similar to my own although not necessarily for math. Early the first week Miss. Johnson sat me down and told me, “I’ve just finished looking through your records and I see you’re here for math. Of course, in summer-school we study everything not just the one class you had trouble with. I’ve looked at your book reports and I can tell you write them by paraphrasing the dust cover. Have you ever actually read a book?”

I may not have known what a dust-cover was or the meaning of “paraphrasing” but I got the meaning from the context. Busted! How could she tell? I was sure I had covered my tracks so well! I said nothing.

“Well, Larry,” she said, “in this class you will also have to study English but, since you’re not here for that reason I’m just going to ask you to read one book and do a book report on it. While you are in this class you will sit in this seat.” She pointed at the front desk in the row directly ahead of her desk. “That way I can be sure you’re reading and not day-dreaming.” Miss Johnson directed me to the small in-room library filled with books appropriate for 3rd graders. I perused through he selection looking for something easy – this was not something I looked forward to. Finding a big book with lots of pictures and really big writing I made my selection.

This is the good part –

To my never-ending joy the book was a story with which I could easily identify. It was about a guy that was stranded on an island all alone, my insecurities fed right into understanding “being all alone.” He used what was available to make his life on the island more comfortable. This guy was, to put it in a future context, a regular McGuyver. Not only was he alone and self-sufficient but then…he found a friend! Incredible!! The book was, of course, Robinson Crusoe. I was gaga…I was amazed…I was transformed! All of the adventures I had in my head did not compare to the adventure and anticipation contained in that book. We were about half-way through summer school…and I was about half-way through the book when Miss Johnson took a week off to get married which also resulted in a name-change which I immediately forgot. This disturbs me to this day because she had such a huge effect on my life I wanted, for years, to find her and thank her for all she did for me. As I do not remember her name I have developed the habit of thanking every teacher with whom I come in contact. My book report was, I assume, adequate.

Following summer-school I proceeded to read every book I could find. Our house had a fair library that mom and dad had collected over the years. I devoured them with a hunger I had never felt before. That summer I read a book of Native American legends, learning about the Thunderbird, the Pleiades (the seven sisters), and several other traditional tales. I read the Songs of Roland and a volume each of Shakespeare comedies and one of tragedies. I read Beowulf in Old-English and learned about the reign of Charlemagne. I read the Tales of the Knights of the Round-Table and a book of short stories containing such classics as Our Town and The Lottery. I read a juvenile collection of books about pole explorers Richard Peary as well as Roald Amundsen and Robert Scott. I read a volume of Ogden Nash poetry, one of which I still remember:

I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
And, indeed, unless the billboard fall
I’ll never see a tree at all.
- Ogden Nash

I read everything with difficulty so I figured if there was a problem understanding it was me and not the book. By the end of summer I had a fairly good reading speed and could run through and understand Shakespearian writings almost as quickly as modern English.

Reading has taken me from the depths of the ocean to every planet in our solar system. I have traveled and related to people and creatures across the universe and beyond. I have developed a vital interest in the sciences and technology. Reading is responsible for most of whom and what I am. Whether this is a good-thing or a bad-thing I’ll leave to your judgment.

Thank-you Spring Bluff Grade School and Miss Johnson, wherever you are…