Claymont, Part 3

As I might have mentioned before, I graduated from Claymont High School in 1984, and if I didn't mention it, well, there you go. It's hard to believe it has been a quarter century since I was worried about my senior thesis, taking my SATs and pressing in my fake-me-out mustache for the senior portrait. The passage of time brings with it perspective - a perspective that isn't available when you're 18 years old for the simple fact you think you know everything there is to know about the world at that age. I regarded my high school years with equal parts of enjoyment and out-and-out disdain. Looking back now, I wish I had the perspective of my present mind set. I would have done more, taken more chances and maybe, just maybe, actually studied.

High school is a little community unto itself. The characters, socializing and the teachers. Ah, the teachers. Is there a more thankless job in the civilian world than teaching high school students? For anyone out there presently in high school who may actually be reading this, you'll realize in short order just what an annoying, hormonal drama-monger you are right now, when a few more years pass. Teaching is the equivalent of being a first-time lion tamer except it happens every day at the chalk board. Throughout my life, I have had some fairly nondescript teachers, but I have also had some extraordinary instructors, as well. Ron Eshleman was my 10th grade Science teacher. To get an idea of who he was, try to imagine Emeril Lagasse without the Cajun patois. The man was brilliant and had boundless energy. He demanded accountability and knew his stuff, but the thing I remember most fondly about him is what he told us on the first day of class - "People (teachers always called the students "people"), I don't care if you walk out of here at the end of the year knowing absolutely nothing about science. What I hope you are able to do, however, is learn how to THINK." It's a funny thing, though. I actually do remember a lot about that class and not just because of the handy mnemonics he gave us. But, if you stepped out of line, he really gave it to you. Once, when he was describing how two Nitrogen (periodic symbol "N") split into two, I said, under my breath, "Hmm, split Ns," he wheel around and rocketed a piece of chalk at me that split into a zillion pieces over my head. He said, "You know, for a jackass, you're pretty good." Then he pointed towards the door and I had a chance to socialize with the principal, Mr. Fred Wrigley, for the 100th time.

Fred Wrigley. I'm not sure if this is true or not, but legend had it he was a drill instructor in a previous time in his life. It certainly wouldn't surprise me. Infamous for the way he bellowed the word "soph-o-mores!" to us clueless locker jockeys, the man was a take-no-guff disciplinarian. However, he was one of the kindest, most compassionate people I had ever met at that age. Each year, the senior class would pull what is known as the "Senior Stunt." The class of 1983 filled up Mr. Wrigley's office with 1,983 balloons. It was quite a sight. In fact, it made the front page of the fledgling USAToday, with Mr. Wrigley sitting at his desk surrounded by a mass of inflated latex. As a member of the class of 1984, there was no way we were going to top that, let alone get national exposure, so we decorated his ceiling with 1,984 Wrigley's gum wrappers. Lame, I know, but the gesture had to be made.

Sadly, Mr. Wrigley passed away not long after I graduated. His place was assumed by James Bruton, who had a bit of Smothers Brothers-type routine with the math teacher, Donald Fantine. The two of them were strict taskmasters, but, when the atmosphere was more relaxed, they were like a well-polished comedy team, lobbing hilarious insults at each other and generally adding a lot of color to the hallways. I could really write for hours upon hours about the memorable teachers I had, but for those who attended dear old CHS, you remember them, and for those who did not, you probably had similar people in your educational staff. Without referring to my heavily dust-covered yearbook, I would just like to thank the following teachers off the top of my head for making me the person I am today - for better or worse: the vivacious Susan Stetler, the booming Grant Dunn, the patient-beyond-reason William Chipman, the favorite uncle-type James Ruth, the kindly English teacher James Brasure, the motherly Virginia Burins, the uncompromising excellence of Michael Roccia, the eagerly determined Helene Jouan, the whimsical Robert Guy, the mystical Donald Crawford, the lovable grouchiness of one of the best basketball coaches in the state, Tom DiStefano, who had the unenviable task of teaching me to parallel park, the laid-back brilliance of Rich McKinnon, the bubbly effervescence of the late, indefatigable Gertrude Jenkins and the genuine enjoyer of life, art teacher and senior class advisor, Alan "Bags" Ruth, who, until the day I die, will remain one of my favorite people of all time. Lastly, the teacher all CHS alumni will never forget, the person I could not stand as a student until my last day of class as a senior, when it dawned on me just what an incredible personality he was, Mr. Howard Simpkins. Mr. Simpkins was a taskmaster extraordinaire, with a haircut from a 1950's industrial arts classroom video, rocket scientist eyeglasses and a system of demerits that would bring a Hell's Angel to his knees. He was one of those guys who wore a short-sleeve shirt and tie. It's difficult to elucidate the level of influence he has had on students over the years, and even me, a lover of words, cannot find the exact words to convey just how valuable the life lessons he taught us. To Mr. Simpkins, Mr. Eshleman, all the teachers of CHS, my previous teachers and to all teachers, past, present and future in this world, my sincerest thanks and appreciation. No matter what they are paying you, it is not enough.

Like any high school, cliques develop and evolve. I had a few which I rotated through, like most people seem to say ("I never really belonged to any one group; I got along with everyone." Sound familiar?). The big, broad clique, the kind represented in every high school-based movie of white kids, was always the most eventful. I suppose it's why so many movies are based on that social grouping. We would hang out behind the high school on crisp Autumn nights, passing around half pints of Jack Daniel's, watching the youth football leagues or playing Frisbee and chewing tobacco in the parking lot of Gebhart's Funeral Home or infest the McDonald's on Philadelphia Pike, having a great time laughing, cutting up and soaking up the magnificence of youth, all the while complaining how bored we were. The events of the season, however, occurred when someone's parents went out of town. Everyone descended upon that house in a Bacchanalian eruption of unleashed exhuberance. Whether it was Lynn Newton's house, Mark LaVere's or the epic festivals at Marie London's, everyone who was everyone, in our world, was there. I remember bringing a loaf of Italian bread to Mark's house because, whenever I drank, I would develop a humongous appetite. As if I didn't normally attract my share of derisive gazes, the Italian bread was the clincher. The fact Mark's house was smack dab next to the park was a dangerous formula. Imagine a horde of drunken high school students on the swings, leaping at the apogee up the upswing, people puking whilst hanging upside down on the jungle gym and teenaged girls screeching, "Stop! Stop!" while being violently swung on the little red roundabout, and you have what amounts to a typical Claymont high school teenager party.

High school is a heady time. For some, it's the summit of their lives. Many people never experience the glory of life as they did in their high school years. Others, cocooned in their chrysalis of shyness and late blooming consider their high school years the worst time of their lives. For me, it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B. You see, the students who graduated from Claymont High School more or less grew up together. We went to Darley Road, Maple Lane or Green Street Elementary Schools, attended Claymont Middle School and/or P.S. DuPont Middle School and, eventually, dear old CHS. Many students were integrated into the environment with the advent of busing in the late 1970s while others came from some of the Catholic or private schools. The youth programs, such as Little League, football and basketball leagues further solidified the student community into an inescapable celebration for some and a prison for others. You see, with that environment, something humiliating that happened to you in third grade traveled with you until 12th. You might have changed as a person, but the perception of you did not. It's a cruel truth to face in the most fragile part of a boy's or girl's life. The pressure can create a diamond or a lump of coal. We were all geniuses in high school, and since this is the only life we knew, we figured we knew all about life. How wrong we were, just as wrong as the students of today will find themselves in due time.

Personally, I knew I could not wait to get out. I wanted a fresh start and to put the distasteful elements of my standardized schooling behind me. I didn't want to be around these people any longer. So, it might come as a bit of a surprise, when upon graduation, sitting on stage, I began to bawl like a grandmother. Where was this coming from? Why was I shedding tears for something I detested so much? In the movie , "Conspiracy," (a brilliant and chilling movie about the Holocaust) the one dissenting figure, Dr. Kritzinger, tells a story about how a man he knew, who lost the mother he adored. At her funeral, he could not find the tears; however, when his father, a man he hated, died, he wept uncontrollably. The man in the story, apparently, had been driven by hate his whole life, so when the object of his hate, his father, passed away, his hate died with him. He felt he had nothing else for which to live. I suppose that's how I felt, up on that stage 25 years ago. It's taken the mellowing of age, the appreciation of perspective and the understanding, that, despite knowing everything back then, I realize I know almost nothing today, to not only offer my forgiveness, but my apologies to the people, the institution and the life I had detested so many years ago. When I run into an old classmate these days, I don't think about the bad times; rather, I embrace the good times, the laughs of Margie Eachus and Bev Deloatch, the sinister snarkiness of Scott Frizzell and Rob Doherty, the country boy ramble of Bruce Lane and his car, "Bandit"...

Oh, I could go on. But you know what I'm talking about. It was in your high school too, and in your high school memories. I pushed away my high school years with both arms long enough. I now embrace those memories. Living in the past is not the place to increase you present real estate value; however, even if you don't want to live there, it's not a bad place to visit once in a while.

Even if it's only in your mind.