A FEW MOMENTS IN TIME
by
Howard A. Geltman
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Howard A. Geltman
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Visit Howard’s author page at Smashwords.
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Dedication
There are three special people who are no longer with us. Their names are Pete, Tommy, and Joe Z. You will read a lot about them and our lives together, and this book is dedicated to them. Guys, no matter where we are, your spirits are always with us like glimmering stars. Shine on!
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About the Cover Photograph
In 2000, Matt Langer, who was 10 years old and blind, participated in “Eyes in the Mind,” a workshop funded in part by a UTC Innovation Grant awarded through the Greater Hartford Arts Council. Under the direction of Roger Maynard from Oak Hill, this workshop opens up the world of photography to people with visual impairments. Participants learn how to take photographs using senses other than their sight. Those photographs are then reproduced on a special graphics printer called a tactile image enhancer. The paper used is heat sensitive and raises the darker objects in the image so the participants can perceive the images through their sense of touch.
Matt, intensely curious and quite knowledgeable, was eager to learn about photography. He quickly picked up on the mechanics of the camera and how to hold it against his chest to keep it vertical and steady. Then Matt began his foray into photography. From the campus of Oak Hill, to Jonathan’s Dream Playground, to Elizabeth Park, Matt photographed objects that he could first smell, like a flower, or touch, like the bark of a tree. Matt’s enthusiasm and talent produced results that are quite extraordinary.
This year’s gift for our award recipients is a photograph that Matt took of the oak tree on Oak Hill's campus. Roger first had Matt feel the texture and width of this majestic tree and then had him walk around it while touching the grooves in the bark. The photograph that Matt created captures beautifully the essence of this tree that has come to symbolize Oak Hill.
Suzanne Heise
Director of Development and Communication (Retired)
Oak Hill
Since 1893, services and solutions for people with disabilities
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Chapter 2 — Our Home Away From Home
Chapter 3 — The Russell Hall Years
Chapter 4 — Making It to the Main Building
Chapter 5 — An Egg–xeptional Mess
Chapter 6 — Gaining Some Independence
Chapter 7 — The Halloween Dance
Chapter 9 — Some Comic Relief (That Was a Gas!)
Chapter 10 — Weaving Friendships
Chapter 12 — A Little Goes a Long Way
Chapter 14 — The Power of the Pen
Chapter 15 — Making a Difference
Chapter 17 — Laughter in the Air
Chapter 18 — Weekends on the Farm
Chapter 19 — A Brother Moves On
Chapter 20 — Just a Little Take–Out
Chapter 22 — Leaving Something Behind
Chapter 23 — Something Unexpected
Chapter 25 — The Legacy Lives On
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Special Thanks
Mrs. Marcia Watson (retired Blind Services Coordinator) and Dr. Rebecca Earl, PhD (retired Vice President of Development) at Oak Hill provided me with much assistance in the writing of this book. To both of you, I give my heartfelt thanks.
I would also like to thank Leonore H. Dvorkin, of Denver, Colorado, who proofread and edited the text. Her husband, David Dvorkin, designed the cover of the book and did the technical formatting of the manuscript.
To learn more about their services, see their websites:
www.leonoredvorkin.com
www.dvorkin.com
My Special Two
To my darling wife, Terri: You stood by me during the past three years of writing this book. At times I wanted to give up, but you pushed me on to finally complete my project of love. And to my wonderful son, Evan: You also gave me the strength and encouragement I needed to finish this project. Both of you have my undying love.
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Prior to the 1970s, specialized schools for those with disabilities were considered to be the best way of teaching the whole person. The Connecticut Institute for the Blind (eventually known as Oak Hill School) was founded in 1893 to create the best learning environment for blind children, one where they could master both academics and independence in a residential setting.
When a group of people live and learn together, a family is formed. This is true of prep schools, colleges, and military troops. It was certainly true of Oak Hill School.
In this book, Howard Geltman has captured the essence of the “old” Oak Hill, before the days of mainstreaming blind children in public schools. Students and staff worked and played together, forming lifelong bonds. As one reads this book, it is difficult not to wonder: Is “progress” always the best solution? Was there even a problem that needed to be solved?
Enjoy the Oak Hill family reunion. Then you decide….
Josephine Pace
Oak Hill School alumna
Former Oak Hill teacher, Principal, and Director of Group Homes
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This book is based primarily on the teenage years of a group of students who attended and lived at an outstanding boarding school. These individuals lived together as family members, with all that implies. As such, they led lives that some people can only dream of. I was proud to be one of them. The only difference between all of us and most of the rest of the world is that we attended a school for the blind.
The Connecticut Institute for the Blind, founded in 1893, is located in Hartford, Connecticut. The campus stands on the tallest hill in Hartford. Early on, the old oak tree on the hill near the gym inspired the name Oak Hill School, a name that was voted on by the students of that day. When I was a student there, roughly 220 students attended the school, which was also known as the Oak Hill School for the Blind.
It was a wonderful place. The teachers were top notch, and most of us received a very good education. I would say all of us, but the fact is that anywhere you go for an education, there are always some who feel they might have gotten a better education somewhere else.
During my time at the school, from the early 1960s to the early 1970s, my friends and I grew together, studied and learned together, laughed and cried together, and created a special bond among us that could never be broken.
The stories in this book are about our lives and the people we interacted with daily. Many of us graduated from Oak Hill School. Others went to public school during the last years of their high school education and graduated from there. Some of us went on to gain further education, marry, and have families. But we all remain friends until this day.
Having friendships remain intact for over 45 years is a feat in itself. We know how fortunate we are to have these wonderful relationships, and we are deeply grateful to one another for our mutual support through thick and thin over so many decades.
This book is my tribute to Oak Hill School and all my wonderful friends and teachers there. Like the branches of the oak tree that gave the school its original name, they are closely intertwined in my memory, where they live on still.
Howard A. Geltman
Wethersfield, Connecticut
July 2011
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Me from a Miracle
I was born several weeks premature in 1953. As was the practice of the day, I was placed in an incubator for many weeks to ensure that I had enough oxygen to survive. Back then, doctors did not know that too much oxygen given to premature babies could cause blindness. Later that year, doctors discovered the problem and changed the way oxygen and certain medications were given to babies in incubators. I guess it could have been worse. With all those great heat lamps overhead, all I would have needed was some barbecue sauce and a good turn every few minutes.
Too much oxygen caused Retrolental Fibroplasia (RLF), the condition I and many other visually impaired or blind babies had. Now doctors have given it a new, shorter name, “Retinopathy of Prematura.” (Mmm. That sounds like a good Italian dish!)
Officially, I weighed two pounds at birth. In fact, my mother tells me I fell below that weight. As with many preemies in that extremely low weight class, the doctors did not expect me to live. My wife, Terri, picks up a small chicken in the store and tells me, “This is bigger than you were when you were born.” I always feel somewhat awkward for the chicken when she says that, but boy, you should see me now!
Back in the days of the dinosaurs, when I attended public school, “special education” for students with anything much in the way of a disability was almost non–existent. I started kindergarten in 1958 at the Roger Sherman Elementary School, in New Haven, Connecticut.
The following year, I was transferred to a special “sight saving class” at the Scranton Street School in New Haven, one of just two such classes in the school system. I attended the class for the younger children. Almost all the time, we simply drew pictures, played with clay, did some simple math, and read from papers that had enlarged print. Our teacher was nice but strict. The classroom across from us was for high school students. All of us were bunched together in the classes. For me, it was terrible. The other kids in the school wanted nothing to do with any of us, and to make it even worse, the high school students in the other classroom wanted nothing to do with us either.
In 1962, I was eager to return to Roger Sherman School for the fourth grade, where I was sure I would enjoy it much more. My teacher, Mrs. Derucio, was nice, but she could not spend a lot of time with me. She had about 20 other students to teach as well, those with no physical disabilities. Those were the days when there were no accommodations in public schools for kids with truly special needs. Having limited vision made me someone too “special,” too different, too difficult to accommodate. Most of the time, I was never even allowed to play outside during recess, because the teachers were afraid that I would fall and hurt myself.
Almost all the other students in the other classes, as well as many in my own, did not bother with me, because I was different. I didn't dress any differently, smell funny, or make strange noises. I just looked different from them because I had to put my face almost on top of the printed page of a book to attempt to read. In fact, many times when I tried to read, my nose would touch the page, and when I pulled my face away, I would have ink on the end of my nose. In class, I sat in the first row, closest to the blackboard, but I still had to get up and walk over to the blackboard to be able to copy down what the teacher was writing on it. Eventually I was placed at the back of the classroom, because I became too much of a distraction to the rest of the class.
One day all the students had to report with their teachers to the basement of the school for an eye test. Each of us was given a square piece of black construction paper and told to look at an eye chart that was lit from behind down at the far end of the room.
Then it was my turn. I was placed in position, told to put the paper over my left eye, and to read the chart. The only thing I saw was some white light and said so to Mrs. Walters, the school nurse. At that point, she told me to cover my right eye and look at the chart. When she asked me what I saw, I again said, “Nothing but white light!” When I told her that I couldn't see much of anything at all out of my left eye anyway, she asked me to walk as close to the eye chart as I needed until I could see something. I had to walk until I was standing about a foot away from the eye chart before I could see the big “E.” What made me feel even worse was the fact that the glasses I was wearing had lenses that were about an inch thick.
That afternoon, Mrs. Walters walked me home so she could have a conversation with my mother. I cried almost all the way home because I was afraid I had done something wrong and would be punished. As we were walking, she stopped, wiped the tears from my eyes, and told me I hadn't done anything wrong. Later, she and my mother had a long talk.
School was not the only thing that was difficult for me. After school was not very exciting either. I had a few friends, but no close friends. My middle brother, Stephen, who is about one and a half years older than I, and my older brother, Peter, who is five years older, were often my reluctant companions. If my brothers had plans with their friends, I had to be taken along with one of them, and I always felt like a third wheel. I knew they didn't want to take me with them, but if given a choice of taking your little brother or not going at all, you take your little brother along and you don’t complain.
I know in my heart that my brothers loved me, but I often felt out of place with them. If they went to play baseball or football with their friends, I would be planted on a swing in the playground while they went off with their friends. I do have to admit that riding high on the swing made me feel free, but I wanted very much to play baseball and football with my brothers.
My sister, Roberta, who is four years younger than I, was happier to play with me than were Stephen and Peter. Roberta and I played with her dolls and other toys. I did not mind playing with her because we were so very close. Don't get me wrong. I was close to both of my brothers, but they were older, and tagging along with them did not make me feel any better about my situation.
A few weeks after her talk with the school nurse, my mother took me to the Jewish Family Services in New Haven, where I met one of the most wonderful people in my entire life. I didn't know it at the time, but I realized it later, in high school. Mr. Isidore Offenbach was a special counselor there, and he was totally blind. My mother took me there because public school was not working out, and she was at her wits’ end as to what to do to help me.
That spring, Mr. Offenbach, my parents and I took a drive to see Oak Hill School. When we got there, I didn't know what to anticipate. This was a place that was different from any public school I had ever seen before. I was quite nervous and scared. It seemed that I was most likely going to go to yet another school. My parents were busy talking with Mr. Offenbach at first, and I couldn't get a read on what they were considering. And let's face it; if they had any concerns, they certainly weren't going to let on to a scared nine–year–old.
We all met with Miss Pace, the principal of the Lower School. (That’s private school language for the elementary grades.) She took us to visit a few classrooms in Russell Hall, the elementary school building. Miss Pace, who also had partial vision, gave me a nice smile and talked with me for a few minutes. Her smile and easy manner made me feel somewhat more at ease, but only for a short while. I was still quite nervous about the whole thing. We did not stay that long, and luckily for me, my parents and Mr. Offenbach did much of the talking.
When I returned and finished out fourth grade at Roger Sherman School, I had to meet with our school principal, Mrs. Fitzsimons, who was a nice woman. She and I talked, and she decided that I would not go on to fifth grade. She told me I hadn’t learned enough to be promoted.
It was a horrible feeling knowing that the other kids in class were being promoted and would go into a new class the next year while I would have to stay back. I felt as if I had done something terribly wrong. I knew I had tried as hard as I possibly could to stay caught up with my classmates, but I never could. To make things worse, I felt that I was to blame.
There were times in those weeks after my visit to Oak Hill School that I wondered what would happen to me. I was not sure if I would be going back to Roger Sherman School in the fall or if I would be going to yet another New Haven school. Deep inside, though, I knew that I did not want to repeat the fourth grade at Roger Sherman School. I was afraid of what the other students and my few friends would assume. Secretly, I hoped that if by some stroke of luck I was allowed to go to Oak Hill School, maybe I would have a chance to be like other kids and wouldn't be made to feel so different.
My life was not all rejection and isolation, though. Sometimes I felt that way, but other times bright spots that kept me from feeling totally down seemed to appear at just the right time. My grandparents created many of those bright spots. I felt very special in the eyes of my grandparents, especially in my grandfather’s eyes. On weekends, my grandfather would come over to our house to wait for my grandmother to finish her regular Saturday appointment at the beauty parlor. Afterwards, they would take me for lunch at the Pancake House, which was always a special treat for me.
Later, when I would arrive home from Oak Hill on Friday nights, it was my grandfather who would pick me up at the train station each week. We would go pick up my grandmother at the store where she sold women's hosiery and other personal items. Now these items are available at any store that sells woman's clothing, but at that time, many small specialty stores catering to every need still flourished.
After we picked Grandma up, we would go to Harz Bakery, which was run by Martha and Henry. Henry was the baker, and he always took me into the kitchen and showed me what he was baking and all his equipment. That was fantastic. He told me that he never let anyone else into the kitchen to see except me. Sometimes while we were in the kitchen, he would put a special cookie cutter into my hands so I could feel the different shapes of the cookies he was about to make, or the cutter that was used to cut an entire sheet of chocolate frosted brownies. (Yum!) To me, the brownie cutter felt just like one of those old–fashioned metal ice cube trays with the handle, but larger. Martha was in charge of the store, and she always loved to talk to me, too.
In later years, Harz was replaced with Gitlitz Bakery, another one of the Jewish bakeries that thrived in our area. Henrietta ran the store, and she also loved me. Each Friday night, when we came in for breads and desserts for the family, I was overwhelmed by the wonderful smells. There is nothing better than the smell of something good baking. If given a chance, I probably would have eaten the entire contents of the bakery. Being a kid, I probably could have — especially everything made of chocolate.
For some reason, the women who ran these bakeries always enjoyed having me come in. They proved it by regularly giving me a large chocolate chip cookie or a chocolate covered brownie, and I'm not talking about the puny ones that they make today. They always asked how I was doing and made me feel very special.
I loved my grandmother dearly, but my grandfather was my hero. He was a master electrician and the smartest man I had ever known. He taught me about electronics, electricity, and all that good stuff of great interest to a ten–year–old boy. I credit his unconditional love for me with my motivation for becoming an electronic engineer later in life. Grandpa would take me to the electrical supply house with him to buy extra switches and parts to teach me the basics of electrical circuitry. It didn’t matter to him that I was very “nearsighted,” as he called it. He loved me anyway.
Apparently my grandfather also trusted me an awful lot. When he was over 70 years old, I was able to convince him to dive off the diving board of the swimming pool at the beach. I can still hear my poor grandmother screaming at him, “Abe, you're going to kill yourself!” The first time he made it into the water, my grandfather had the biggest smile on his face that I had ever seen. That was something we shared and laughed about for quite some time afterwards.
My Uncle Max and Aunt Norma also treated me with much love. My Uncle Max owned a candy, tobacco and sundries business. Sometimes on Saturdays, he would take his son Harry and me to help in his store. When this type of excitement was on the agenda, I would sleep at their house on the Friday night before and we'd be off to work before the sun was up. My uncle would take us to breakfast at a small coffee shop across from his store. That was where I had my first and last cup of coffee. No matter what I did to it, adding a ton of sugar and milk, I still could not get over the bitter taste. However, because I was with Uncle Max and Harry, I made the best of it. They always made me feel included and never treated me as if I were different.
During the summers before I went to Oak Hill, our families spent a lot of time at the beach. We went to the Surf Club in West Haven, right across from Savin Rock, an old but famous amusement area. I played with my cousin Harry, who was a year younger than I. We dug monstrous holes in the sand until we were waist–deep in them. We made sand castles with water–filled moats and swam together in the warm, salty surf of Long Island Sound or in the large Olympic–sized pool. My Uncle Max or one of my brothers watched us by the ocean or at the pool, but no matter what, my Uncle Max treated me no differently than anyone else.
My brother Stephen was into basketball, and he was very good at it. Peter kept busy with his friends, and Roberta had her own special group of friends. As was often the case, when they weren't around, I would end up playing by myself.
Summer should have been a time when I would play, relax, and forget about everything for a while before the start of the next school year. But between fourth and fifth grade, since I didn’t know what to expect when I started my new school year, all I did each day in the back of my mind was count the days until it actually happened. I was extremely nervous inside. I couldn't tell anybody how I felt because I didn't think anyone would understand.
On Sunday, September 8, 1963, at the tender age of 10, my life changed forever. As we entered the gate and slowly drove up the hill to Russell Hall, my heart was pounding. The ride from New Haven had given me plenty of time to imagine good and bad things about this new school, to imagine why I might enjoy it or why I would hate it. Now that I was there and it was actually happening, all I could do was cringe inside from the fear of not knowing what to expect. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it would jump out of my chest. I was always a talkative kid, and I’m still that way today, but at that moment, I became nearly mute.
When I saw my father getting my suitcase out of our car, and my mother took me by the hand to walk through the lobby doors of Russell Hall, I knew that my life was going to change. I was about to become a student at the Oak Hill School for the Blind, and the significance of that was something I could never have known at that moment.
Miss Pace greeted me and sent me to the infirmary to be weighed. My mother and father went along, and we were introduced to Mrs. Percival, the head school nurse. I was weighed and told that my housemother would be Mrs. Duffacy, on the second floor, in Russell Hall.
Together, my family and I trooped up to the second floor of Russell Hall, where I met Mrs. Duffacy for the first time. She had a kind smile that eased the butterflies in my stomach, at least for a moment. She told my parents where my closet was and helped us to unpack my belongings. Within what seemed to be much too short a time, my mother kissed me goodbye and left me alone in this strange new place.
Before I had a chance to fall apart, Glenn came in and introduced himself. He would be my first roommate. Glenn was totally blind. I remember that night so clearly because I cried throughout much of it. Glenn stayed up with me and tried to comfort me. I am sorry to report that this went on for a few days and nights. I was so very homesick!
The next morning at breakfast, I met Tommy, Danny, Debbie, Rosie, and a whole host of others who would become lifelong friends. By the end of the first week at Oak Hill, I found that it wasn't that bad. I’d had all these ideas floating through my head before I got to Oak Hill. Would I be treated as I had been in public school? Would I still seem different to other kids? And the most important question of all: Would I now be accepted as ME, and not labeled? I had such high hopes that nobody would be looking at me because I had to hold things closer to see them. Now I was like all the other kids at the school and longed for them to know that. For many years, I had been treated differently, and I hated it. I just wanted to be ME!
Now, at Oak Hill, things were beginning to look and feel different to me. Kids that did not know me came right up to me, acting as if we had been friends for years. During my first week, Tommy took me by the hand to take me to shop class, my first real class at Oak Hill. Danny, Debbie, Rosie and others greeted me with the same enthusiasm. Suddenly I felt as if I truly belonged somewhere; now I fit in. I played with the other kids and ate with them, and we all had the same thing in common: We were all simply kids. Yes, we were legally or totally blind, but we were JUST KIDS! Our vision or lack of vision didn't matter to any of us, our houseparents, or the other staff members. We had thick glasses, white canes, or no canes. We bumped into walls or table ends together. But here, none of us gave it a second thought.
Some of us had had many of the same experiences before coming to Oak Hill, and we had spent lots of time feeling different. But once at the school, we were all the same. There were no labels. There was no name–calling. It didn’t matter what background we came from, what religion we were, or what color we were. Now we were all brothers and sisters in one large family — the Oak Hill School family.
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Our Home Away From Home
Hartford in the 1960s was a busy place. Known then as “The Insurance Capital of the World,” it was home to over 160,000 people. Like so many other small cities of that time, Hartford was undergoing big changes. People were moving to the suburbs in greater numbers and new residents were moving in from other parts of the country to take their places. The racial and ethnic mix changed dramatically during that decade.
Those were not easy times. The nation was going through growing pains, and people of different ethnicities wanted the same rights that others of us took for granted. Hartford had its share of trouble with disturbances (some would call them riots) in parts of the city, but at Oak Hill, those problems didn’t really affect us.
The Blue Hills Avenue neighborhood, which many of us called home during our time at Oak Hill, was pretty quiet, and the people were friendly. Blue Hills was a mixed bag of people who were Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, black, and white, with a slew of other ethnicities and denominations thrown in for good measure. None of that mattered to us students, because we liked almost everyone. That attitude was paid back in kind.
In those days you were able to walk down the street, say hello to a complete stranger, and receive a similar greeting. You could stop someone to ask a question or for directions without having to worry about having a problem. Looking back, it seems that everyone was more laid back and the pace of life was slower.
Most of the store owners in the area got to know many of us, making us feel right at home in the community. During these years, it was possible to earn off–campus privileges, and a good number of Oak Hill students gave the local merchants plenty of business. Our visits helped keep even the clerks at the larger stores downtown happy.
Oak Hill School sits on 16 acres, a whole large city block, bordered by Blue Hills Avenue, Vine Street and Holcomb Street in Hartford’s North End. It was on Blue Hills Avenue, a busy street with businesses and distractions galore, where many of us spent much of our off–campus time. We'd leave school, head north past Mount Sinai Hospital (now a rehabilitation center and an outpatient facility), and within just a few blocks, we’d be surrounded by stores such as Mayron’s Bakery (an old–fashioned Jewish bakery) and the Grand Union supermarket, where many of us picked up soda and other daily necessities. A five–and–dime variety store that sold model airplane, car, and boat kits was close by. In those days, small kits containing model paint were sold. Boy, did that paint have a kick to it!
An historical side note is that Mayron’s Bakery had the honor of supplying a huge birthday cake with a model of the White House on top for President John F. Kennedy’s birthday celebration in May of 1961. If you Google “Mayron’s Bakery, Hartford, Connecticut,” you will find a YouTube video of the event. There is no sound, but it shows the cake, President and Mrs. Kennedy, and Princess Grace of Monaco, among other celebrities and dignitaries.
The east side of the street also featured a branch of the public library, a laundromat, and a small firehouse before you got to one of our favorite hangouts, Noland’s. There was no better hamburger in Hartford than those we ate in huge quantities at Noland’s Café. Nearby was Model Market, a grocery store that would now be called old fashioned. After having a bite to eat, we would sometimes go there to stock up on food for our evening snacks.
Further down the street was Jensen’s Ice Cream Parlor. Mr. Jensen was married to one of our school nurses, and we visited often for one of his excellent ice cream sundaes. Sitting at the counter was a bit tough for some of our friends. Much to their embarrassment, Tommy and others who came in our little groups had problems with the height of the counter and the stools. Tommy was about five feet tall, if that. His height came in handy for some of our escapades later on, but it did make it somewhat difficult for him to sit comfortably at a soda fountain counter to eat.
A short distance from Jensen’s, you crossed the city line into the adjoining town of Bloomfield. There on the west side of the street was the well–named Treasure City, where we could buy almost anything, and did. From Treasure City, heading back towards the school, the studios for WDRC Radio were the first major attraction. WDRC was one of the oldest radio stations in the state and was our favorite for rock and roll as we reached our teens. A small record store right across the street from Jensen’s got lots of our business about that same time, when it was crucial that we have all the latest tunes.
A bit further south on the west side of the street was another favorite hang–out, the famous Manny’s Delicatessen. Manny’s had the best kosher corned beef around and was supported by many of the neighborhood’s older Jewish residents. As the neighborhood changed in the early 1970s, Manny’s was replaced with a small Chinese take–out place called the Hong Kong Kitchen.
Somewhat away from the central shopping area and directly across the street from the Blue Hills Avenue gate to the school was Sless Pharmacy. Sless was where I did a lot of my business in my high school years; I’ll fill you in on that later. Other stores came and went during our time at school, but these were the ones I remember best for our many visits and good times there.
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The campus of Oak Hill School was beautiful. The grounds were always kept neat and clean, making it easy and safe for us to get around. You could always hear someone doing something to maintain things on campus. Inside that fence, we were normal children and teenagers. Our limited vision or total blindness were fully accommodated, and our growing up years were wonderful.
Those of us who lived on campus didn’t have the input of a mother and father to help guide us during the week. While we were at school, that job fell to our houseparents. They watched over us, guided us, and often motivated and mentored us. Each dormitory had its own houseparents. Some were memorable for their kindness, some for their good humor, and some for the pranks we played on them. (Those categories were not mutually exclusive).
Russell Hall housed both boys and girls from ages five through 10, or fifth grade. It also contained classrooms for students from kindergarten through the third grade. From the outside, the building was a plain, two–story brick rectangle with a one–story arm, but most of my memories come from the time spent inside.
The lobby of the front entry was a large, open area that contained a fireplace and had a heated floor. Sitting on the warm lobby floor without feeling any draft was a real treat. During the Christmas season, a large artificial tree would be set up and covered with colored lights and ornaments made by many of us. Some nights during the holidays, Miss Pace would have the fireplace lit and we would all sit in our pajamas on the heated floor singing Christmas carols. I can still remember many cold winter nights outside and us feeling so cozy with the warmth of that fire. Hearing the flames crackle was very relaxing, as was seeing the flames jump up as if they were dancing for those of us with some vision. We would either sing songs or listen to stories while enjoying each other’s company.
Also located on the first floor was the school infirmary, which was state–of–the–art when it opened in 1960. It contained a treatment room, a dental examining room, and three bedrooms. One bedroom was for the night nurse to sleep in. The other two bedrooms each contained two beds, so sick boys could be accommodated in one room and sick girls in the other. Primary school classrooms were right across the hall and near the office of the lower school principal and the supervisor of Russell Hall. For many years, the supervisor was Miss Pace.
The dormitories were on the other side of the lobby, in the rectangular portion of the building. The first floor contained bedrooms and bathrooms for the youngest boys and girls and a common room where we would listen to stories and music and could play.
Mrs. Shakespeare and Mrs. Covini took care of the youngest children, while Mrs. Cauldy and Mrs. Staubley took care of the next–youngest group of children. Mrs. Shakespeare was a gem. Each spring, when it was nice and warm, she would have a small picnic for the kids in her charge. Before Potter Hall was built on the other end of the Russell Hall corridor, the area right outside the building consisted of grass and trees. That was where she would set up a small grill and cook her hot dogs. The hot dogs were pretty awful, but because she loved all of us as much as she did, they didn’t taste that bad to us.
The second floor was set up like the first with respect to the bedrooms and the rest of the dormitory area. Mrs. Duffacy took care of many of us boys and girls who lived on the second floor. I had a special fondness for her because she was my first housemother. She was very kind and had quite an imagination when it came to finding things to keep us occupied after school. Mrs. White and Mrs. Senit also shared the caregiving. Mrs. White always had a smile on her face and the rosiest cheeks I had ever seen in my life. Mrs. Senit found her way to our hearts with her special way of telling an evening story or taking us on mystery walks downstairs near and in the dining room at night.
One night she took a bunch of us down to the dining room and had us pretend it was a sailing ship. For those of us who had some vision, she had us close our eyes. She rang the dining room bell and she told us it was the ship’s bell. At that point, she got a wide, soft– bristle push broom and touched our cheeks gently with the bristles, telling us it was Grandfather’s whiskers. (Grandfather was the boat’s captain.) The story went on from there.
Another housemother, Mrs. Prindle, lived in the annex over the Main Building dining room. During her work hours, she helped out as a houseparent with the younger kids in Russell Hall. When we had to go to the Main Building for classes, we would line up in the lobby of Russell Hall and walk over to the Main Building in a group. Mrs. Prindle usually pushed the wheelchair of one of the students who had cerebral palsy. Danny and I were the heroes who would help her get the wheelchair up the Main Building steps, as those were the days before ramps and elevators were installed for easier access.
The basement of Russell Hall was at ground level in the back of the building. It contained a large activity room along with a few bathrooms and the dining room for the little kids on that side of the campus. Outside the dining room was a lobby with about thirty cubbyholes in which you could put your jackets, boots, and other kid stuff. Quite surprisingly, there was also a large bathtub. It was in the middle of the area and had been converted into a large sink with about twelve faucets of hot and cold water, each with its own soap dish, where we could wash our hands when we came in from playing outside before we went for meals.
Just beyond the doors in the back was a large playground with swings, seesaws, a huge merry–go–round, and a wooden playhouse. The playhouse became a favorite of us boys when we adopted it as the place where some of us would act out scenes from Gunsmoke, a favorite TV program of the day. The playground was built on a large sandy area that was also great for digging. Having sand thrown in your face when someone was upset wasn’t pleasant, but it was a part of growing up.
One of the prettiest buildings on campus was the vine–covered, brick girls’ dorm called Founders Hall. This was where girls lived from fifth grade until they graduated from high school. Founders Hall became an important focus for the attention of me and my friends as we got into our teens.
Inside the main entrance of that building, there was a common living room where the boys went to meet their girlfriends for special events or occasions. In the dorm portion, the first floor housed the younger girls and the second floor housed the older girls from ninth through twelfth grade. There was one classroom at the end of the hall on the second floor.
Mrs. Bosko and Mrs. Warkowski cared for the girls on the first floor, and Mrs. Erickson and Mrs. Corgino supervised the older girls on the second floor. Mrs. Wore, as we called Mrs. Warkowski, was wonderful. When some of us boys were in high school and had girlfriends in Founders, she would let us sit together on the sofas in the main lobby and watch television, or pretend to. The school was strict about visiting rules, but Mrs. Wore made exceptions for those of us who behaved. She was also a housemother down at Camp.
According to our rating system, Mrs. Erickson was also fantastic. She kept the girls well supplied with fresh coffee and always had kind words for everyone. Later, I’ll tell you more about the special delivery of Chinese food that she helped Danny and me make to the second floor of Founders.
Founders Hall is another building that had a walkout basement in the back. In it were a classroom, a bathroom, and an activity room that had a piano, various games, and other activities, including a tabletop shuffleboard game.
Next to the large lawn behind Founders was a chicken coop that housed 100 chickens. The 4–H club raised about 200 chickens in all; the other chicken coop stood down the hill from the Main Building swings. (This area would later make way for the school auditorium). The coop behind Founders was handy to the basement, where we also had the “egg room.” That’s where we weighed the eggs and then washed and boxed them for sale. There was also an old refrigerator to keep them cool and fresh. We sold the eggs around the school to the staff and their friends to raise money for the club.
On the nicely cut grassy yard behind Founders was a playground for the girls with swings, a jungle gym, and a seesaw. Behind the Founders playground was a road that started at the main entrance of the school on Holcomb Street next to the Main Building and wound all the way around the upper campus behind Potter Hall and Russell Hall before leading back down to the Blue Hills Avenue gate of the school. That road was important for a few reasons. All the students who had gym or who walked down to the pool in later years had to cross it. This meant that if you had mobility training, you had to use your cane properly — and in many cases, you were watched.
Potter Hall had a metal shop where many students were taught how to do basic auto repairs. Many staff members would leave their cars behind Potter Hall for us to wash them, change the oil, or do tune–ups on them. We were not paid for this work, but it was a good learning experience.
Behind Founders and across the road was Hillside Cottage, which held six apartments to house the young staff members who chose to live there with their families. The school owned other houses around the campus perimeter where staff also lived.
When we were in high school, we would sometimes visit some of the staff at their homes. In those days, Mr. Johns, the school superintendent, did not like the staff to intermingle with students after hours, but we did it anyway.
During my junior year, Mrs. Gilcrest (who also taught many of us math) supervised Potter Hall. Her secretary was Mrs. Stenberg. Around Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter I would use poster paints to create colorful holiday scenes on both sets of Mrs. Stenberg’s windows. It was much more fun and easier to put the paint on the windows than to get them clean once the holidays were over!
Mrs. Stenberg’s son, Carl, had an apartment in one of the houses on Branford Street across the Russell Hall parking lot. Carl and his wife lived on the second floor. Danny, Tommy, Pete, and I would go over to listen to his wonderful stereo on afternoons when he was not on duty. Carl was a part–time housefather at that time. Another reason that Danny and I liked to visit was because Carl’s wife was from Thailand, and she was a knockout! On occasion, even my blind eye opened up for a good look.
On the first floor of that house lived Mr. Lydon, who was one of the mobility teachers during my high school years. He had a wife and two babies at the time. Tony “Pop” Rozek and his family lived next door in another house. He taught wood shop and piano tuning. We called him “Pop” because he was a father figure to many of us. Sometimes I would walk with Pop and talk with him as he walked home from school. He and his thoughts on various subjects had a big influence on many of us as we were growing up. Talking to Pop gave me insight into the world through a blind adult’s view. That was very helpful, both back then and in my later years.
* * * * *
As you came onto the campus, the first building you would see was a large, vine–covered, three–story brick building called, appropriately enough, the Main Building. It never had any other name, and it’s still called that after nearly 100 years. It was built in 1912.
Though it is now the administration building for Oak Hill, when I lived there, the Main Building was where young boys lived from the fifth grade until they graduated from high school. The basement, in reality the first of four floors, contained the school library, a music appreciation classroom, and a “tactile maps” resource room full of maps made with raised borders to teach us all the countries of the world. Mr. Johns, our superintendent, had his office on the first floor, where there were also two classrooms.
Mr. Johns was a father figure to many of us. He had an open–door policy, which meant that if he was not busy, you could knock on the door and ask if he had some time. His assistant, Mrs. Cilley, would also make appointments for some of us. Mr. Johns was always interested in what everyone was doing. When I was a year away from graduating, Danny and I met with him with our ideas on helping to improve the way students would be prepared to live on their own after their Oak Hill years.
Mr. Johns’s office was at the corner of the Main Building. It looked out onto Holcomb Street and into the main parking lot. For one of our many stunts, Sam, Danny, and I made water bombs out of these huge balloons and then stood on the fire escape off the third floor, outside our bedroom window. Mr. Johns’s office was two floors down, directly under our window. We had Danny, our main gunner, guide the balloons to any car with open windows. Some of the staff had convertibles with their tops down, which made for fantastic targets. We hit about 10 cars with over 50 balloons. Then one sort of slipped from my hands and hit Mr. Johns on the head as he looked out to see what was going on. It wouldn’t have been that bad if he hadn’t happened to look up just as the balloon was coming down. I didn’t do this on purpose, but let’s just say I had a hard time sitting down at the table for supper that night.
The second floor of the Main Building contained three classrooms, one office, and enough bedrooms for about 20 boys. The boys on the second floor lived there from the time they were in the fifth grade until they started ninth grade and were promoted to the third floor.
Mr. Elster became a housefather on the second floor when I was in the eighth grade. Danny and I were already on the third floor, but there were many evenings when we would come back from supper and smell salami and eggs cooking. Mr. Elster had a hot plate in his room, and something always smelled good.
Mr. Mullens became a housefather on the second floor the following year. Jim, as he asked us to call him, practiced police call numbers and studied each night to become a policeman in Hartford. At that time, he was going out with a beautiful blonde girl. At times, she helped us with a few math problems we managed to come up with. Danny and I wonder if they ever got married. But I do know that Jim Mullens went on to become one of Hartford’s finest, eventually earning his gold shield as a detective. I hear he has since retired after many years on the Hartford Police force.
The third floor, which was the rowdiest, contained one classroom and bedrooms for about 35 boys. The students on this floor were teenagers and lived here until they graduated from the school. We had Mrs. Blanchard, Mrs. Ozels, and Mr. Phelps as our houseparents. Mr. Phelps was always practicing squash with his racket when we were outside after school. He always had a pipe in his mouth and loved to read. It seems that whenever we needed a question answered, all we had to do was follow the pipe smoke to his room, and there he would be sitting with his pipe in his mouth, reading a book, studying something. When he left in 1969, Mr. Johns’s son, Skip, became our housefather until we graduated.
Mrs. Blanchard was in charge of the boys in the eighth and ninth grades. At first, she seemed sort of strict, but by the time I graduated, I had discovered that she really was a caring person. There were evenings during my senior year that I would go down to her end of the floor and have a cup of tea with her. We would talk about what I was thinking of doing after graduation, with me drinking my tea and with her drinking a cup of coffee and smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes. Imagine such a scene today! It could never happen. I remember feeling sorry for her, because during my years on the third floor, she had a bad cough. The cigarettes couldn’t have helped.
The only word I can use to describe our other housemother, Mrs. Ozels, is fantastic. She was fair, but strict when she needed to be. She was the parent we all needed at our age. I will never forget the night I had my graduation party off campus at a home in West Hartland. Back in 1972, when we were about to graduate, I was 19 and of legal age to purchase and drink liquor off campus if I chose to. In fact, everyone who was invited to the party and involved in our little group was of drinking age at that time.
In an effort to be a good host, I got one of the teachers to help us purchase gin, vodka, and beer. I did not drink. Once I took one sip of beer, but it just tasted nasty to me. I decided I would put my money elsewhere. For that matter, I have never smoked, either, but I did know how to throw a party!
The problem was that I didn’t want to get Mrs. Ozels or Skip, our housefather, in trouble, so we made sure they didn’t know what we were up to. I knew that students who had graduated before us had done similar things, but they were not operating within the law. By 1972, the school had adopted a policy that students who were of drinking age could drink off campus if we wished. However, if we came back to campus drunk or in any way embarrassed the school, there would be very serious consequences.
Vinnie was keeping Mrs. Ozels busy in her room at about 10:00 p.m. while Danny, Pete, and I were shoving suitcases of alcohol down the hall right in front of her open door. She never said a word as the suitcases went flying by. She simply said, “I think I’m going to go to bed, so keep the noise down.” Skip was always there for us. He too went into his room and told us to keep the noise down because he was also going to bed.
Deep down I know that maybe one or both houseparents knew we were up to something funny that night. But maybe we were simply good at smuggling. Anyone need a blind driver?
The Main Building had an annex on the first floor that contained the dining room. It served the girls and staff from Founders, the boys and staff from the Main Building, and teachers and other staff from the school. The second floor had sleeping quarters for additional houseparents and other staff.
Outside the Main Building was a playground that had a jungle gym, swings, and a set of seesaws. Right near the jungle gym was a large oak tree, the one that is pictured on the front of this book. The Main Building and the tree both stood on a large hill. That was how the school got its name, Oak Hill School.
Potter Hall, built as a classroom building extension to Russell Hall, opened in 1965. The basement contained a woodworking shop where the wonderful “Pop” Rozek taught classes. He was very special to all of us. He was totally blind, taught wood shop and piano tuning, was inspirational to all of us, and had a lot of love for everyone. He inspired me to push hard at whatever I did and not let blindness get in my way. In the basement of Potter Hall, in addition to the metal shop, there was a piano tuning room, where students learned how to fix and tune pianos. That was a career choice for many blind students of the day.
The first floor of Potter Hall was devoted to classrooms and therapy rooms. The physical therapy room included weight lifting equipment, which was of much interest to the boys at school. Mr. Cady was the boss there. Mrs. Holland was in charge of occupational therapy. She taught basic skills such as tying shoes, dressing, and multiple household skills to those students who had physical disabilities in addition to their blindness. She also taught us how to weave on a floor loom. This is where I learned a craft that I still practice today. Another of the classrooms was used to teach pottery–making, and there was a kiln for firing the finished pieces. French class, taught by a variety of teachers throughout the years, was held in the remaining classroom on the first floor.
The second floor contained a typing room, where Mrs. Stuart taught us how to touch type. Since we were either legally or totally blind, we could not cheat when it came to learning to type. To this day, I thank God that she worked hard to teach us well. Also on the second floor were a greenhouse room and a science lab, where Mr. Wilson helped us to conduct some nifty science experiments. In our teen years, we found creative ways to use our new–found knowledge of science and some of Mr. Wilson’s rubber tubing for a number of our own very special experiments.
Completing the classrooms on the second floor of Potter Hall was the three–room area in which Mrs. Wilson taught Home Ec, or Home Economics. Those skills doubled as basic skills for most of us. We learned sewing and other skills in one large classroom. Mrs. Wilson also mended our ripped pants and sewed our school letters onto our sweaters when we earned them. The classroom set–up also included a living room with a foldout bed, which let us practice making crisp “hospital corners” when putting sheets on a bed. The bed gave us an obstacle that we had to learn to clean and vacuum around, as we would at home. The third room was a large kitchen with three fully functional kitchen units, each containing a stove and refrigerator. There was also a clothes washer and dryer in the main kitchen area. Mrs. Wilson taught many of us how to cook, a skill that would come in very handy later in my life.