Remembering the teachers as PTHS alumni (-ae) gather

I’m one of the older surviving PTHS alumni these days, and one of these times I’ll probably wind up sitting at the head table during the reunion banquet. I remember from years past how, as a younger alumnus, I’d glance at whoever was up front and say to myself, “Damn, they’re old; I wonder how much longer they’ll be around.” 

So now, I’d like to advise the younger graduates in attendance this year not to fall unthinkingly into that passing mental mode as they rush on in their Bacchanalian pursuits of the evening. I and and others of my deeply depleted cohort can assure you that weathered as we appear, we are not all decrepit of body and senile of mind. You’d be surprised at what we’re actually up to and what we’re accomplishing these days. Some of you should be so lucky. Speaking for my fellow ’47 survivors, we’re aiming at going out with a bang, not a whimper. Your day will come; look upon us as role models.

Meanwhile, I’d like to call the roll of most of my Port Townsend teachers over the years beginning in 1935-’36 and continuing through 1947. I considered grading them here, but that would serve no purpose. (There were alternate classrooms at each grade level through sixth grade and alternate home-rooms in 7th and 8th.)

First grade—Annie Jarvis. She taught me to read—which opened up a whole new world. We eventually even gave book reports. She also made me sit with my head on my desk for a time after coming in late from recess. I’d been playing alone in the willows that then adjoined the school building. Second grade—The best and all-time favorite of my entire life was Vivian Finnell. She taught me to spell, most memorably, and that was one of the “little things” that set the tone for the rest of my life. When I was confined at home with the hard measles, she brought the spelling list for the upcoming test, as she knew how important it was to me. She was a sweet young woman who loved kids as her own. She taught only two years before marrying and moving away. About 10 years ago she (living in Port Angeles, unbeknownst to me) had bought one of my books and wrote me a letter—she then in her ‘90s. She remembered me as “little Tommy Camfield who used to walk to school with his cousin Walter.” How heart-wrenching that was. In the long scheme of things, she helped me write that book.

These days, whenever I read about early childhood education, my mind leaps automatically to Miss Finnell. She is a fine illustration of the lifelong effects of various little nuances on tender young minds. I wish I’d had her on through third grade and perhaps beyond. Third grade—The only thing I can recall about Miss Midgarten is how she had us coloring the countries on mimeographed maps of Europe with different-colored crayons or pencils during geography. Fourth grade—We never struck a rapport, but I believe Edna Avery was a good educator at this age-level. I recall she had us doing compositions (especially one of mine on the life of Eskimos). I also drew detention for sticking my tongue out at her in class during a frustrating moment. Edna served on the P.T. city council during retirement—back in the ‘50s when I was reporting council sessions for the Leader.

Fifth grade—was a banner year. My teacher was Loretta Lafferty, who in numerous ways instilled some self-esteem in me. Her class was a pleasant experience. I believe that also was the year highlighted by music teacher Jean McLane. She has lived strongly in my memory. We sang all through her classes, and I still remember the words of such songs as “Stout Hearted Men” and of some of the counter-melody she perfected in us—which we performed on the high school stage. She later married Bob Marriott, who along about seventh grade was giving me private trumpet lessons at home. Jean was a bouncy, lively sort who truly loved music. She taught one of my daughters a bit of piano. In early high school I also took some private group music lessons at her home. Jean was a church organist and provided piano accompaniment at all manner of school and public affairs. Bob played piano at our high school dances on many occasions, as well as heading a local dance band well into my adulthood.

Sixth grade--Grace Phillips was not particularly memorable but she was nice. I turned 13 midway through that term. That’s a tough hormone age level for teachers to deal with, and Miss Phillips was easily driven to tears. She later married my high school math teacher Earl Baugh. Our grade school principal was named Barbo and was a bit scary duing the earlist grades.

Seventh grade—We had several teachers that year, having moved into the nearby “junior high building.” I recall most science teacher Tom Lieb (who taught at all three grade levels, 7 through 9). He was a highly capable sort driven to leave teaching by unruly middle-school students, my class among them, who made his job impossible. He moved into a job at the county courthouse. We also had a large impressive young male teacher named Schmandt and a home-room teacher I’ve totally forgotten. Eighth grade—I can recall only one teacher, down in the basement of a new addition to the high school building. She was somewhat incompetent. She was the one who accused me (unfairly) of having done so well on a literature test that I must have surreptititously used the current textbook, marking me down from an A to a C. I joined vigorously in the undisciplined behavior that inspired her to resign in mid-year, and I never have regretted it. Who knows what she gave root to in my still-malleable young mind.

Ninth through 12th grades—Although it was more recent, I remember less about some of the teachers than I do about my earlier ones. During those hectic teen years, I can recall Dick Wagner (chemistry, physics), Earl Baugh (algebra, geometry), Walter John Clarke (Latin), Dorothy Meyers (English), Emma Pringle (typing), Kirby Sooy (phys ed), Superintendent William (Wild Bill) Carder, A.C. (Ace) Griffith (Washington State History), Emma Pringle (typing) and Mary Briggs, later Mary Lyon (band and orchestra). I actually forgot long ago the name of the sophomore English teacher who tutored me after class in the writing of a prize-winning essay. He disappeared from the scene not long after that. My Latin teacher, Mr. Clarke, was the only one with whom I had any real rapport. He had a degree in psychology and gaveme the Stanford-Benet IQ test after I bettered him on a national Latin test. He moved on to teach at Stanford. He was Irish through and through, lived with his widowed mother—and occasionally spoke briefly of past bloodshed in the old country, catholic/protestant and English/Irish. A vague reference to a midnight knock at the door led me to surmise that his own father might have died violently, but I coiuldn’t get up the nerve to ask.

Latin, by the way, was one course (I took both Latin I and Latin II) from which I have benefitted in subsequent years, as it is a keystone of English. It bothers me at this particular time of year, for example, that reference continues to be to the historic “PTHS Alumni Association.” That exemplifies male sexism. Alumnus, plural alumni, actually refers to male graduates. Alumna, plural alumnae, refers to female graduates. Our association should be the “PTHS Alumni/Alumnae Association.”

I still find Latin interesting from many angles. For instance (from the Internet) regarding the ever-popular Carpe Diem:  “The original, extended form of the phrase is "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero," which roughly translates to "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." Note that it's not about ignoring the future, but rather not trusting that everything is going to fall into place for you someday. It was compared to picking the fruit as it grows on the tree, taking life as it comes and doing the work that's before you. (Sort of like “one day at a time”)

So after all these years: thanks, Mr. Clarke. Rest in peace.

During this interim of Memorial Day and remembering our teachers and classmates at our old-grad gatherings, I found in the May 20 issue of  the Leader an obituary for Dr. Muriel Smock (Miller) Severns. She taught in the local schools when a couple of my children were going through the lower grades. I never knew her beyond a passing “hello,” but I and the rest of the community were abruptly introduced to her somewhere around the late ‘60s when Cesar Chavez was working to organize and unionize downtrodden, impoverished farm workers in California. Muriel Miller was teaching young music classes to sing the rallying anthem of the farm workers. When word got out, the guano hit the fan among some parents, who made things as difficult for her as possible. Details are a bit dim now.

In this then blue-collar union town, long viewed as liberal, Muriel nonetheless appears to have been ahead of her time—at least where social conscience was concerned. It is significant to me that she had not only had a masters degree in education but also a PhD and master of divinity degrees. I hope the bigotry she encountered here among some of my contemporaries has died with them—or soon will. Your memory is held dear among many of us Muriel.

Meanwhile, jumping ahead half a century, a teacher in Dublin, Ga., posing as an “educator” has been forced into retirement after telling her middle-school students such things as “If your parents voted for Obama, they’re evil and I don’t see how your parents could vote for someone that’s Muslim.” She also apparently claimed at a P-TA meeting that “Obama is a baby killer. He aborts babies at nine months old as they’re coming through the birth canal.” Unfortunately, the type of “Christianity” she claimed to be instilling in young minds is prevalent politically in the GOP’s Religious Right. It has no place in either a church or a classroom—any more than extreme Islam does.

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TODAY’S WORD—Cohort: “one of ten divisions of an ancient Roman legion,” any group of soldiers or warriors, a group of people banded together as a group . . . or modernly “any supporter or companion.”  So a number of classmates can be referred to, acceptably, either as a cohort or as cohorts. Being respectful of Latin roots and also old-fashioned, I prefer to use “cohort” as a group description.

And puh-leeze! Don’t talk about “graduating high school,” an abominable affectation spawned in the eastern U.S. It’s “graduation FROM high school and TO the next level—a degree of gradation. How would one “graduate” a high school? Likewise, one does not “go high school;” one goes TO high school (and graduates FROM same).

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