Jahn School II
The Jahn schoolyard was the venue for a significant amount of informal education and socialization. It was a large gravel area surrounded by a metal fence in front of the school. A wide sidewalk ran the length of the building. The main entrance for faculty and visitors was at the center. The students’ entrances were at either end on the sides of the building. Leading to each entrance was a wide paved area. The boy’s entrance was on the north side of the building and the girls’ on the south side. Two-thirds of the open area was allocated to the boys, and only one-third to the girls. There was no playground equipment.
School hours ran from 9:00 a.m. to 3:15 p.m. There was a morning recess for all and an additional afternoon recess for the lower five grades. During the scheduled recesses all students except the handicapped and those being punished were expected to go outside. The lunch period ran from noon until 12:40. Most kids went home for lunch and had time to re-gather in the schoolyard afterward.
In the morning we started arriving about 8:30 a.m. and socialized until the bell rang at 8:55. Behavior in the school yard and halls was controlled by “The Marshals”, older kids who sported red and white badges. Offenses for which we could “be reported” were going on the girls’ side, fighting, throwing things, ball playing, or even running. It’s hard for me to understand the logic of sending young kids out for recess to release excess energy, only to forbid their running. Perhaps the teachers believed that being allowed to mill about and talk was enough activity for school.
In First Grade I was in awe of the Marshals. I was also a very straight-arrow little kid who tried to follow all the rules, whether I understood them or not. I recall very vividly one morning when I had my first confrontation with a Marshal. It was winter, so it must have been shortly after I had left the warm security of Kindergarten. There was snow on the ground, and the Marshals were on heightened alert for anyone committing the heinous offense of throwing a snowball. The 8:55 bell rang and I scurried toward the boys’ entrance, but I slipped and fell into some slush. I got up and continued hurrying toward the door. One of the Marshals stepped in front of me.
“Hold it.”, he said. “You were throwing snowballs.”
I was terrified. I could hear my heart pounding. “No….No….I wasn’t!”, I squeaked.
“Let me see your hands.” I held up my hands. Of course, since I had fallen into the slush, my woolen mittens were wet. He felt the moisture on the mittens, and said “You’re lyin’. You’re reported.”
You’re reported. The dreaded words.
“You’re goin’ to Mr. Boyd.”, he said as he grabbed my coat shoulder and pulled me toward the door.
And so this overly officious big kid with the red and white badge, empowered with the most circumstantial of evidence, pulled the terrified little first-grader to the wood shop where the feared Mr. Boyd lurked. I had no idea what being “reported” meant. Would I be tied up? Would they call the police? Would I have to go to another school? Would I ever see my family again?
The wood shop was empty except for a couple of handicapped kids who had just started their projects. My captor took me over to Mr. Boyd who didn’t say anything, but glared at me the whole time he was listening to the trumped-up charges. By this time I was crying. I was in the hands of these alien authorities. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but no one would listen to me. Finally, Mr. Boyd spoke in a very menacing tone. He ordered me to stand over in a corner of the woodshop. So there I stood, sobbing, still terrified. It must have been only ten minutes, but it seemed like hours---separated from my classmates, totally alone, yearning for my grandmother to come and save me. Finally, Mr. Boyd came over. He scowled down at me from his great height, and said that if I ever throw a snowball again, I’ll really be in trouble. He gave me a note and sent me back to Miss Campbell. I’ll never forget that morning.
Most experiences in the school yard, however, were happier. It was the place where the informal “seasons” began. One of these was marbles season. I believe this occurred in the early spring as soon as the snow had melted and most of the puddles had dried. One or two kids would bring a bag of marbles to school, and then in the early morning or during the recesses, they would clear the gravel, draw a circle, put some marbles in the center and then, with another larger marble, attempt to shoot them out from the perimeter. This was the signal to the rest of us that it was marbles season, both in the school yard and back on Fletcher Street.
Most of us had a supply of these multi-colored glass marbles, or “mibs” as we sometimes called them. We might carry them in a small cloth sack or Prince Albert tobacco can. Most of them were small and of the same size. The “shooters” were larger. The typical game was to draw a circle on the ground. Each player would ante up several of his marbles in the center, and then the players would take turns trying to shoot the other players’ marbles out from outside of the circle. You got to keep the marbles you shot out. The best shooting technique was to place the shooter between the tip of the crooked index finger and thumb, twist the hand so the second knuckle of the crooked index finger rested on the ground, and then flip the shooter out with as much force as possible. I could never master the technique. Freddy Witter was an expert at it and always won. Richie Weiss had his own less efficient technique. He would lay his index finger, slightly bent on the ground at right angles to the direction of shooting. His shooter lay in the fleshy middle of his index finger, and then he would flip out the shooter with his thumb. He could always win my marbles but he lost to people like Freddy who used the more orthodox and efficient method.
The other marbles game, and one at which I did better, was “Killer”. We dug a shallow hole, and from behind a line we lagged our shooters toward the hole. If we didn’t get our shooters into the hole with the initial lag, we took turns shooting in the conventional manner toward the hole, in the same way in which a golfer would approach the green . Once we got into the hole, we were a “killer” and could then try to hit the other players’ shooters. If we hit one, that player had to give us a marble and leave the game. Marbles’ season went on for several weeks, and then off and on through the summer. Though the season seemed to begin in the Jahn schoolyard, it was mainly carried on in areas of bare earth all over the Fletcher Street neighborhood.
Sometime later in the school year, we started bringing tops to school. Since you needed pavement to spin the tops, there was sometimes a bit of competition for choice spots on the sidewalk in front of the school. Most of us had tops at home. They were wooden with iron tips. You began winding a string at the point and wound upward in even rows until the end of the string was reached. The end had a loop on it that went around the middle finger. Beginners would sometimes try to get their tops spinning with an underhand throw. But veterans would never do this. We gripped it by holding the point with our thumbs and the end of the base with our first two fingers. We cast it out onto the sidewalk, pulling the string off of it with a casual sidearm snap of the wrist. When we were really trying to show off, we would toss it overhand.
There were four kinds of tops, depending on their points. The most common was a “digger”. The metal end of it was pointed, and as it’s name suggests, it stayed in one place. If you threw it onto hard dirt, its spinning would make a little indentation. However, most tops were not thrown onto dirt. The second most common was a “traveler”. It had a round tip, and as the name suggested, once it was spinning it moved along the sidewalk. The most prized tops, however, were the “spikers” and “jumpers”.
The tip of the spiker was just that, a pointed spike. Its body was also more streamlined. These were newer tops and they were usually bought from the candy store across Belmont. In fact, I think that when that store got its shipment of new tops, that was the signal for the season to begin. Legend had it that an expert top spinner could with a deft overhand throw of the spiker split an already spinning top down the middle. Legend may have had it, and we may have tried it, but I never saw it accomplished.
The most technologically advanced tops were the “jumpers”. The pointed tip, similar to the spiker, was attached to a spring, and when it hit the sidewalk, it would bounce.
There was usually no game involved with these toys. Very occasionally, a circle was drawn with chalk, and traveler tops were thrown into the circle, and we attempted a type of “Tag”. But since we couldn’t control the tops, there wasn’t really a whole lot of point to the game. So what did we do with tops? We spun them. We would gather together, talk, and spin tops. That’s all. Talk and spin tops. We thought it was fun.
Then there were the yo-yos. Like tops, most of us had yo-yos at home. They were red and black, relatively wide, and had a string tied to the central axle. As very little kids, you would wind them up, hold your flattened hand out, and then by moving your hand up and down, the yoyo would go up and down. But at some point in our Jahn years, a yo-yo “revolution” occurred. Kids started buying the new Duncan yo-yos and brought them to the schoolyard.
The Duncans were bigger, narrower, and brightly-colored, usually in a two-tone. The string was really a double string that, instead of being tied to the axle, just looped around it. Now, we could do tricks with them. Instead of the manipulation of the yo-yo being dependent just on gravity and slight up and down movements of the palm-downward hand, there was now a different technique. The yo-yo was cast over the tips of the fingers with a downward snap of the wrist, the palm held upward. Because the string looped loosely around the axle, if you did it just right, the yo-yo kept spinning at its lowest position and did not return until you gave the string a snap. With the yoyo spinning at its most downward position, you could touch the sidewalk with it and walk with it while it wheeled along the pavement. That was the trick we called “Walking the Dog”. We also learned how to cast the yoyos outward horizontally. The step beyond that was making the yoyo do loops. This was called “Around the World”. Other tricks like “Rocking the Baby” and “Flying Saucer”, involved manipulating the string while the yoyo was spinning at its down position. Very few of us could do those tricks.
One day in late Spring of what was probably my Fifth or Sixth Grade, an Asian man showed up at our school yard during recess and after school. He borrowed one of our yo-yos and dazzled us with some very elaborate tricks. Then, when he got permission from the owner of the yo-yo, he quickly carved into the wood a very pretty Asian design. We didn’t know who this man was. Now however, looking back on it, I suspect he was a Filipino public relations employee of the Duncan Company, who, with many others like him, was sent to the school yards around the city. The Duncan yo-yo had its origin in the Philippines, and doing tricks with it and carving designs in them became highly evolved skills there. Donald Duncan bought the patent to the design and the name “yo-yo” (which means “come-come” in the Philippine language) from a Filipino man in 1929
As I recall, the yo-yos were expensive. They cost 50 cents, and most of us only had one. And we prized it. Because the strings broke periodically, they had to be replaced. They were sold in a package of two for two cents. So for several years at a certain time in the late Spring, most of us boys showed up at the Jahn schoolyard with a tell-tale discoid bulge in our shirt pockets. They were not tins of smokeless tobacco. They were our prized Duncan yo-yos.
Two other fads started in the schoolyard, but because of the suppressing presence of teachers and Marshals, they had to continue to develop back on the streets. The first was squirt guns. I always had one or two squirt guns at home, as I believe several of my friends did as well. Those old squirt guns were thin, all metal instruments. There was a notched rod protruding from the back. You dipped the muzzle into the water and pulled the notched rod its full length and water was sucked into the airtight piston chamber. These guns provided three squirts and then had to be reloaded again.
At some point during those Jahn years, the candy store across Belmont began selling plastic squirt guns that you could fill completely with water from the faucet and have what seemed like an endless supply of squirts from one load. When these squirt guns first appeared we all wanted one, and for a while it was quite a fad. We couldn’t wait for school to be over so we could go out and start squirting each other with the guns we had secreted in our coat pockets. We even talked about filling them with ink, but I can’t recall anyone ever doing that. The design of those squirt guns was very successful. Forty years later, as a teacher, I was confiscating from my students squirt guns not very different from those we bought in that Belmont Avenue candy store.
The final fad that I can recall starting in those gatherings at Jahn of kids from different neighborhoods was not quite so harmless. We discovered bean blowers. These were plastic tubes through which we could blow and propel missiles. Once again, the candy store across Belmont was a happy supplier of those inexpensive tubes. Our preferred ammunition was small dried beans or dried peas, which most of us had in our homes or which we could buy cheaply from the grocery stores. We put several in our mouth, and once we got good at it, we could blow a rapid succession with quite a bit of force. If you got hit with a pea or bean on bare skin, it did sting. Using those in school was considered a near-capital offense, so most of us didn’t dare take them out during school hours. But as soon as we came out through the school yard gates……
Jahn was a neighborhood school. We lived at a time when most mothers didn’t work outside the home. Therefore when lunch period began at noon, most of the kids went home the block or two to eat lunch and then easily returned to the schoolyard before the 12:40 bell. While my grandmother was still alive I went home for lunch. When my aunt and uncle bought the house in 1950 I would sometimes still go there for a lunch prepared by my Aunt June.
Two main options existed for those who didn’t go home. We could bring our own brown-bag lunches. We then ate them in the basement by the Boy’s Entrance. This is the room into which we passed when we came into the building. The boy’s lavatory was there. Along the outer wall of the lavatory was a row of drinking fountains. Along the other wall was a bench where those who brought their lunches sat to eat. We could go outside to eat, but there was nowhere to sit, so we stayed in the basement at least until we finished eating. I would imagine the girls had a similar arrangement.
The other option was unusual for a Chicago elementary school. We had a lunchroom that provided cooked meals. In the morning, the smell of cooking food permeated the first floor. That we had such a lunchroom was no doubt due to the presence among us of the handicapped children who had to be bused to school. However, the school lunches were available to the rest of us as well.
Lunch cost twenty cents. There were no choices. No advance menu. We could only guess what we were having by trying to identify the smell of the cooking food coming from the lunchroom. We paid our twenty cents, walked through the door, and then found out. There were no cheeseburgers, tacos, or pizza seeking to tantalize the pre-adolescent palate. It was “wholesome food”. Like we got at home. Stew was regular fare, and I disliked it—both at home and there. Soup (that had been cooked from scratch that morning) with a sandwich was also common. I didn’t mind the soup, but they put butter on all the sandwiches. I hated butter on sandwiches, and the thought of butter on a meat sandwich still creates in me a gag reflex. On our very lucky days they would offer their version of ground barbequed beef on a bun. I loved it, and the butter put on the bun melted enough so you didn’t notice it. Another culinary delight for me was mashed potatoes with a ground beef sauce. They called it “goulash”. All of this was served on heavy white plates or bowls, and accompanied with the standard issue half-pint bottles of milk.
Patrolling the lunchroom were stout ladies in white coats. Smitty, the head lunchroom lady, a very heavy woman who collected our money at the door was nice and friendly. The others, however, were stern-faced and considered it their mission to make life unpleasant for us if we didn’t clean our plates. As I said, just like home. Since the lunchroom was such a craps shoot, I preferred taking a sack lunch or going to the diner across the street.
I discovered Ma's diner late in my Jahn career. Eating there, when our parents thought we were getting “wholesome food” in the lunchroom, seemed to me a bit rebellious and wrong. But it smelled great inside, and there, for twenty cents, you could get four scoops of mashed potatoes covered with mass-produced gravy. Delicious. It sure beat stew. Or cold roast beef sandwiches on buttered bread
When we had some more money in our pockets, we might top off our lunches with a tart from Phillips Bakery on Belmont near Damen. Phillips had a great selection of tarts--- small pastry shells with fruit or pudding filling, topped with whipped cream. They were wonderful, and something I never got at home. I think they cost seven cents each. For variety, at the same price we could get a chocolate éclair filled with custard or a chocolate-frosted nut bar.
Our Service to the School.
We considered it a privilege to be asked by the teacher to do various chores in the class. This was especially true in the early grades. We always liked collecting or handing back papers. We vied with raised hands, almost jumping out of our seats, when the teacher asked for volunteers to hand out art supplies or to erase the blackboard. A special treat was to run an errand outside of class. One of the things I especially liked doing for the teacher, and I think some of the others did as well, was washing the blackboard. This was not done during class time, so it must have been during recess or after school. I just loved taking the wet sponge and making that light gray chalk-laden surface clean and black again. And the water dried so fast.
When we got to Fifth or Sixth Grade, we could volunteer for special service organizations. I was a “Husky”. This had nothing to do with my body structure, but a number of us bigger non-handicapped boys were in this group. During fire drills it was our responsibility to push the wheelchair-bound kids down the ramp out of the building, and then after the drill was over back to their classes. Toward the end of my Jahn years a metal escape tube was constructed from the first floor to the schoolyard. I never saw exiting through it practiced, but I imagine that in certain types of emergencies the kids who couldn’t walk would leave the building by sliding down the tube.
I was also a “Radio Boy” and a “Movie Boy”. There was at least one educational channel on FM radio ( FM radio was not common in our homes then.), and occasionally teachers would have their classes listen to certain programs on it. As a Radio Boy I would be expected to haul this huge radio up from a storeroom to a classroom, and then set up the radio in the class. Afterward I or someone else would take the radio back to the storeroom.
The school also had educational movies almost every Wednesday morning in the Assembly Hall. It was the job of the Movie Boys to set up the equipment for those movies. We were a team of three. The team I can remember was Dave Giandinoto, Teddy Avesing, and I. The Movie Boys had three tasks, and each of us did one of them. One of us used a big crank to lower the screen. Another hooked up the sound box. A third set up the projector and threaded the first film. The last task was the most challenging. As someone who was always deficient in mechanical confidence and ability, I gladly deferred this job to Teddy or Dave. I either cranked down the screen or set up the sound box.
The major service organizations, however, were the Patrol Boys and the Marshals. I’m not sure of this, but I think I was a Patrol Boy for two years and a Marshal for one. The Patrol Boys had the higher status of the two, and the gym teacher was the faculty member responsible for them.
As soon as I became eligible in Sixth Grade, I volunteered and was accepted into the Patrol Boys. Our job was to guide kids across the street safely. We didn’t stop traffic. We stood on the curb, and when the kids came, protectively put out our arms and said, “Hold it.” When it was clear to cross, we said “Let’s go.”, usually with a flourishing wave in the direction of the opposite side. When we were on our corners we wore white cloth patrol belts which went diagonally across the chest and around our waist,. Back at school, we rolled them up into a tight ball, hooked them to our belts, and carried them that way as a status symbol. We were assigned a corner and partners. My first corner was Damen and Barry. My partner was my classmate Dick Becker.
After the novelty wore off, I didn’t like being a Patrol Boy. We left school a bit early to get out on our corners before the kids got there and arrived back at school after the kids. That was all right. But I didn’t like standing out in the cold. And I especially didn’t like running home to get lunch and then running back. My corner was farther from home than those of most of the other guys. So, finally I went to Mrs. Tisch, the gym teacher and Patrol Boy supervisor, and told her that I didn’t have enough time to eat lunch. She looked at me with an unsympathetic stare and said, “You don’t look like you need more time.” Well, I must admit that that hurt a little bit. But in those days you didn’t rush home and tell your parents so that they could get on the phone and tell the principal that the teacher made an insulting or mocking comment to you. For better or worse, you just took it and lived with it.
I got along pretty well with my partner, Dick Becker. As I mentioned earlier, Dick had status in our class and, despite the fact that he was quite a bit smaller than I, he had that tough kid aura and I found him a bit intimidating. But he was friendly to me most of the time. There was a candy store on that corner, and the proprietor was a guy named Hal whom Dick knew, since Dick’s home was nearby on Damen Avenue. We would go into the store to talk to Hal when the weather was bad and there were no kids around. Hal was one of those rare adults who was friendly and didn’t talk down to young kids.
Obviously in a duty like that, you spoke a lot with your partner. By this time we knew some things about sex, and Dick and I talked a lot about that particular subject. I learned from him several terms for the penis that I hadn’t heard before (Obviously “dick” wasn’t one of those he favored.). His favorite was “dong”. He referred to the female vagina as “the bun”. I don’t know if that was accurate usage then, or if Dick was just getting the front side confused with the back.
On the right (and enlarged on the photo page) is a photo of the Patrol Boys.
I am third from the right in the first row. On the far right of that row is Dick Becker. When Dick saw this picture, his immediate disgusted response was, “I look like I got a boner.” “Boner” was the in-vogue term for erection. Looking at the picture again….He was not too far off. Between him and me is Bobby Coles, the slightly effeminate classmate of mine. On the far left of that row is the genial Richard Fisher, mentioned earlier. Next to him is Richard Gustafson. The two big boys in the center were officers. The boy in the suit is Jimmy Louisi, lieutenant, and on his left is Frank Glasbrenner, the captain of our group. Frank went on to a distinguished football career at Lane Tech. The captain and lieutenant were always older, experienced patrol boys. I believe they were elected to their positions by the rest of us. Therefore, they were looked up to and respected.
In the photo are some other kids who have already been mentioned in this account. Second row on the right is Jim Innis. It was probably the following summer that we had our marathon Fletcher Street battle. Franklin Hermann, classmate, is third from the right in that row. On the left end is Donnie Gatewood, whom I have mentioned earlier as a class leader. On his left is Richie Weiss. It was probably around this time that Richie became my best friend. Why I started hanging around with him more than Dave Giandinoto, I don’t know. Richie was a half year ahead of me, and even after he had begun Lane, we spent lots of time together after school. In the third row on the left is a recurrent character in this account, my Fletcher Street friend, Freddy Witter. The rest of the boys were older and I didn’t really know them very well.
As a reward, the Patrol Boys would go on an annual field trip to the Stock Yards. At this time Chicago was still, in the words of Carl Sandburg, “hog butcher for the world”. The stock yards and the meat packing companies associated with them occupied a large expanse of the south side. If the wind was just right, the odor of the stock yards in the summer could be smelled several miles away.
Boys always looked forward to this trip, mainly because we got to see animals slaughtered. Witnessing all that blood and mayhem held a morbid fascination for us. I couldn’t bear to watch it now, but then it was shocking, yes, but also thrilling to watch squealing hogs on a conveyor chain being stabbed in the throat, their life blood spurting out as they passed by the slaughterer. Or cattle on the killing floor being hit in the head with a sledge and then having their throats slit. We even joked about Richard Dau (third from the left in the second row of the photo) eating a ham sandwich as he watched the animals being disemboweled. Girls were never taken on this field trip. I believe most of them would have been disgusted by what we saw. The average adult would probably also experience revulsion. Why were we boys so fascinated by it? What is there about human sensibilities and their development that accounts for this difference? I don’t know.
In Eighth Grade I became a Marshal. Not only did I become a Marshal, I became “Captain of the Marshals”. Mr. Boyd had been the faculty sponsor of the Marshals for years. For some reason, to which of course we were not privy, he gave that up in 1950 and Miss Quinn became the sponsor and faculty supervisor of the Marshals. Miss Quinn. I had just finished spending an entire year with her during which she continually lavished praise on me. I was one of her pets. Now I was one of her Marshals. And she appointed me Captain. None of this democracy non-sense where the group elected its captain as was the practice with the Patrol Boys and the Marshals under Mr. Boyd. Miss Quinn did it the Chicago City Hall way. She gave the job to the person she liked. Irrespective of experience, ability, or leadership. She had “the juice”. I got the job.
I kind of liked the status. The little kid who as a first grader was terrified by these school-yard enforcers now not only was one of them, but he was Captain. I strode around the school yard with a menacing look on my face, making sure I stayed near the invisible boundary to “The Girls’ Side” so they could see me as well. The white badge I had affixed to the front of my pants didn’t just have the red word “Marshal” on it. It said “Captain”.
I don’t think I was a very good Captain, though. I showed up early to the school yard in the mornings, and I think my boys and I did what we were supposed to during recess. But at the end of the school day, it was another matter. We got out of class early so that we could monitor the stairways and school yard as the kids went home. That’s what we were supposed to do. However, I just let my Marshals go home early. It was definitely a popular command decision. Sometimes I went with them. Sometimes I stayed. One day, however, they were found out. Fortunately for me, it was a day I didn’t join my troops. The kids were still leaving school, and as I was going up the stairs, Miss Quinn, who usually stayed in her room, was coming down. When she saw the unmanned staircases, she became very angry. “Claude, where are the Marshals?” I gave her a perplexed look, mixed with a feigned touch of anger---“I think they all went home.” (After all, that wasn’t a lie.) She was furious. Not at me for letting it happen, but at them for deserting me. As far as Miss Quinn was concerned, I could do no wrong.
I must say however, that in the mornings, right before school started, we looked good. After the kids had left the schoolyard and were in class, we Marshals would line up two-by-two at the bottom of the stairs. I would say, in my best command tone, “Marshals, attention.” They would all brace up. Then, “Forward march”, and this otherwise fairly motley crew would march up the stairs to the third floor, where with even a touch of military precision, we would then peel off to our classes---all under the eye of an approving Miss Quinn. Mr. Marino, the new sponsor of the patrol boys, sneered as we went by. He was on to us.
Sex Education and the Discovery of Girls
In those days, there was no sex education taught in Jahn classrooms. The idea of Jahn teachers even knowing about sex, much less talking to us about it, was a thought too fantastic to entertain. As far as I could tell, not much sex education took place in the homes of my friends either. Absolutely none in mine. There was no nudity in movies. Sex as a theme was limited to a very few “Adults Only” films. There was no internet with sexually explicit websites. Not even any Playboy or Hustler magazines. The Police Gazette in the barber shop went no further than showing women in scanty bathing suits. Toward the end of my Jahn years, “photography magazines” started appearing on newsstands. They contained page after page of nude women, always, however, with the genitals discreetly covered. Sex was something that went on outside our world.
That doesn’t mean, though, that we didn’t think about it or talk about it a lot. Sex education occurred on the street, in the alley, at the park, and on the Jahn schoolyard as we collected bits and pieces from each other trying to put the whole exciting subject together.
I don’t know at what age I started to get some understanding of what went on in sexual relations. Since the family members of my generation were all boys, and since we didn’t have the benefit of graphic photographs, early on I wasn’t even sure what girls had down there. I think I started to get some understanding through friends who did have sisters and through some early childhood memories of mutual exposing.
I wondered how babies were born. I went through a stage where I was asking every available family member about it, but everyone quickly changed the subject. One of my relatives even scolded me for continually asking. Finally, I wheedled a partial answer from my Aunt Evie. At the time, my Aunt June was noticeably pregnant with my cousin Gerry. I asked Evie why June was so fat. It must have been a weak moment, because she told me what my friends had led me to suspect---that there was a baby growing inside of her. How did it get out? Evie described it as, “like going to the toilet”. Of course, that gave me a great mental picture of the birth process---especially since I wasn’t quite sure then of where the baby would come out. But absolutely no help about how that baby got there. Some vague remark about the man and woman had to really like each other. The real answers would have to come from my friends.
When did we start talking about sexual intercourse? I don’t know. It may have been by third or fourth grade. A great help to us---and really our only early visual aid---were booklets we called “Eight Pagers”. These were eight page pornographic comic strips with movie stars, cartoon characters, or famous people engaging in all sorts of sexual acts. I have no idea how kids got these, but it was a grand event when someone had one and was willing to let us look at it as he turned the pages. One day an older kid was going to join us in the alley for one of our alley softball games. He announced that he had an Eight Pager. The game immediately halted as we rushed over to see it. He laughed and said, “If you look at it, you’re all gonna get boners and not be able to play.” I can’t recall now how accurate that prediction was.
Anyway, we now had the basic facts of sex. It struck me as a really good idea, but it also seemed “dirty”, certainly not anything nice girls or respectable women would want to do. We all hoped, however, that we would at some point in our lives encounter a disreputable female who would consent to the act. That she might like it was an even wilder fantasy. The real shock for me came one day from David Giandinoto.
I don’t know what grade it was. But Dave’s parents must have been more enlightened concerning sex education. One day, Dave showed up on the school yard with the shocking news that his parents had told him that all married people “did it”---at least to have babies. I was stunned. First of all, because I couldn’t believe that such a wonderful prospect awaited me when I got married. But secondly, and probably more immediately, I couldn’t imagine all those married adults I knew, both in and out of the family, engaging in sexual relations with each other. For a rather extended period of time, I would look at married people I knew and try to imagine them having sex. Those were truly overwhelming thoughts and mental images.
Though we talked a lot about sex, and though we looked forward to the prospect of it, my friends and I during our time at Jahn, were not participants. Perhaps this was due to it being a more innocent time for kids. Or perhaps it was simply due to a later onset of puberty than kids today experience. In either case, as far as I know, we didn’t attempt to act out any fantasies on our female classmates.
Oh, we were interested in them, though. As I mentioned earlier, even in first grade I was attracted to Beverly Anderson. But as far as I can recall, it was just because I thought she was so pretty. As the years passed, our interest in girls increased. Early on, we would display that interest by teasing them, or by taking some object from them and then run away laughing, or by simply annoying them in any way that occurred to us. Or we might stand next to that invisible line separating the girls’ side of the schoolyard from the boys’ and try to impress them with our ability to throw a softball or make dazzling over-the-shoulder catches with a football. We hadn’t yet learned about flowers and chocolates.
As time went on and we became more mature, probably from sixth grade onward, we would find things to talk to them about. That was mainly done, however, in the structured and restrictive environment of school. We didn’t date. In fact, we boys tried to hide from each other our interest in a particular girl for fear of being teased about it, or horror of horrors, have them tell her that “He likes you.” Yet we were thrilled to hear that a girl might be interested in us.
The big development in Jahn inter-gender relationships was instituted by our gym teacher in Seventh Grade, the sainted Mr. Rinka,. Up until that time, part of the Jahn physical education program was “barn dancing---what we now call “square dancing”. When one reached the upper grades, he or she would learn how to barn dance. Mr. Rinka changed that. He replaced it with “social dancing”. Once a week, on Fridays, we would gather in the gym and dance to popular songs on records.
The younger reader must understand how revolutionary this was. There were no Seventh or Eighth Grade dances at Jahn, as there probably are now. Dancing was something teenagers and adults did. Not Jahn Seventh-Graders. But Mr. Rinka changed that. He started by teaching us the box step. He drew a box with chalk on the gym floor, and we all practiced that simple geometric foot pattern. He then showed us how to hold each other when dancing. Left and right hands joined. Girls’ left hands gingerly on the back of the boys’ shoulders; our right hands on the side of the girls’ waists with, perhaps, a slight daring hand curvature toward her back. Even though our bodies didn’t touch, for me and my very inexperienced friends, it was still a bit of a thrill to be making such consistent physical contact with a girl.
Then a record was put on the portable phonograph, and we were all required to dance. But he didn’t make it easy for us by pairing us up. The boys had to ask the girls to dance. And ask them in the proper way----“May I have this dance?” I recall it as being really scary at first. But the girls were all so nice and accommodating, I quickly got over my reluctance and began to look forward to those Friday social dancing classes, doing the box step to Patti Paige singing “The Tennessee Waltz”. Mr. Rinka also tried to teach us the Polka and the Lindy Hop (which we called a “Jitterbug”), but these were not nearly as popular as that slow dancing to romantic music.
Of course, there was a lot of unspoken interplay between the boys and girls during those sessions. We boys had the advantage; we were the ones who could do the asking. We always had partners because we could make the choices. And certain girls were asked all the time. A special favorite of the boys was Judy McDaniel, whom I mentioned earlier. Though Judy was much taller than most of the boys (In fact, this was the case with many of the girls at that age.), she was very pretty and a bit flirtatious. And she had developed very noticeable breasts. They were not much below eye level for most of us boys who danced with her. Dancing with Judy and occasionally brushing against what seemed to us her magnificent breasts was a great topic of conversation afterward. Dolores McGuire, who had become quite popular as she blossomed, was also always asked. She, like most of the shorter girls, never lacked for partners.
Besides social dancing on Friday afternoons in school, our formal and structured involvement with girls was still fairly minimal. We might go to Hamlin Park or to Fellger Park, the playground on Damen and Belmont, hoping that some of the girls from school would also be there. If they were, we stayed with our group of boys and they stayed with their group of girls, and we talked very loudly so the girls could hear us. Or we did “boy things” so they could see our speed or strength. Meanwhile, they also talked loudly and giggled a lot. We were very much aware of each other and very interested in each other, but tried not to show it.
There might also be an occasional birthday party with classmates of both sexes invited. I don’t recall ever going to one, though I was invited to a party for Sheila Dixon. Later, I was told that at the party they played “Spin the Bottle”. Again for the younger readers, that was for us a daring party game where everyone sat in a circle with one person in the middle of the circle. He or she would spin the bottle and would have to kiss the person at whom the bottle ended up pointing. (I don’t know what the procedure was if it ended up pointing at a member of the same sex. I imagine it was re-spun.). “Spin the Bottle” was an exciting thought for me, and I was disappointed I hadn’t gone to the party. Innocent? You bet. It was a different time.
Eighth Grade---The Last Year
When we entered Eighth Grade, we thought of ourselves as quite mature, and we tried to act that way. We paid greater attention to what we were wearing. Our hair was usually combed now, often times with the help of Wildroot Cream Oil or Vitalis, those “hair tonics” that made your hair a bit greasy, but kept it in place and smelled nice. I don’t think we were using deodorants then, but there were a couple of boys who could have benefited from them. As far as I know, none of us, with perhaps the exception of Salvatore LaBono, needed to shave. Though we wished we did.
Classrooms continued to have mixed classes. During 8B my graduating class was divided up into at least two different classrooms. My half of the class was combined with some of the 7A’s. I know I had Miss Carroll in 8A. I can’t recall if I also had her for 8B. On the right, and enlarged on the Photo Page is a class picture of our combined 7A-8B class. I’m including it so the reader can see how we were maturing. Many of the kids in this picture have been mentioned in other parts of this writing. Note the favored hair style of the boys. We either wet our hair or loaded it with hair tonic. Then we parted it, and combed the larger side straight back. The final step was to place the flat of the hand on the top of the head and push forward on the hair, creating the “wave” in front.
In the first row, bottom, Herbie Marcco is on the far left. He was a friendly open kid who had a distinctive swinging way of walking, arms and legs all akimbo. Next is Patsy Binkley, the girl with the cleft palate. Then, Barbara McKenzie, Valoise Solt, Patsy Vincent, and Don Larson. I’ve already mentioned those kids in earlier pictures. They were fairly peripheral to my friendship circle. Marilyn Hannock, next in line, came into our class late. She was skinny as a rail, but quite pretty. I had a little crush on her, and talked to her a lot in class, but it was obvious she had no interest in me. To her left is the academic whiz, Donna Sue Wells. Then the blossoming Dolores McGuire and Dick Becker. Dolores and Dick were interested in each other, and were more open about it, but I don’t think they ever dated or spent any time together alone.
In the second row is Carl Pyka who was with me since First Grade. On Carl’s left is David Giandinoto, the Fletcher Street best friend who was such an important part of my earlier childhood. Then, Richard Gustafson, Morton Berger, our only Jewish classmate, Joan Heider, Louise Engeriser, and yours truly. On my left is Jimmy Baldrich, the only boy in class fatter than I was. At the end of the row is Joey TeBrake.
Tom Spasovich starts the third row. He was another late entry into our class. He was somewhat hyper and acted a bit crazy at times. It strikes me as odd that he wore a suit for this picture. The formality of that didn’t match the zaniness of his personality. Next to Tom is the elegant and developing Sheila Dixon. Completing the row are Donnie Gatewood, Bobby Coles, Fred Witter, Patsy Becker, and Franklin Hermann, all of whom have been mentioned previously.
The fourth and tall row. Barbara Brauer begins it. I can’t remember anything about her. Then our favorite dance partner, Judy McDaniel, followed by Salvatore LaBono (No, he’s not stoned here. Drugs, other than alcohol, were unknown to us.) Next to Salvatore is Jackie Clucas and Teddy Avesing. Loretta Paoli was another late addition to the class. She was a very friendly, talkative, confident girl. At the end of the row is Betty Williams who had such painful experiences in social dancing. She was a cousin to Jimmy Baldrich. Both of their families came from Tennesee.
The rest of my graduating class was in another classroom with either other 7A’s or 8A’s. We had no classes with the handicapped members of our graduating class until final rehearsals for graduation.
We began the year with a feeling of excitement. We were now “seniors”, Eighth- Graders. However, until we entered 8A we were not yet at the top of the Jahn pecking order. The only letdown we experienced that September of 1950 was to discover that Mr. Rinka had left. Our new gym teacher was Mr. James Marino, a short, swarthy man with a five-o’clock shadow and a perpetual scowl. Gym class was no longer pleasant and light-hearted. But little did we know how he would impact our developing social life.
One Friday afternoon in that Fall we went to our regular social dancing class. When we were all there, Mr. Marino proclaimed that we wouldn’t be doing social dancing. We would instead learn how to “barn dance”. Perhaps he wanted to return to the past. Perhaps he thought barn dancing was more appropriate for physical education. Or maybe he just wanted to eliminate something it was obvious we enjoyed. Whatever his reasons---and he did not share them with us---we were bitterly disappointed. Finally, Jimmy Baldrich spoke out and said, “But we want social dancing.” Unheard of. Challenging a teacher. Telling him what we want. Mr. Marino answered Jim with a menacing and icy glare.
“You’re going to learn how to barn dance.” our new gym teacher snarled. “If you don’t like it, you can get out of here.”
And even more surprising, Jim did just that. I can still picture vividly this friendly overweight boy, walking with set jaw across the entire length of the gym floor and out the door. And much to our shame, none of the rest of us who felt just as disappointed followed him. I don’t know what happened to Jim as a result of this unheard-of act of defiance. But it’s interesting to speculate about how Mr. Marino would have tried to handle the situation if a large group of us had had the courage to follow Jim.
Instead, we spent the next weeks struggling with incomprehensible commands from a twangy caller on square dance records. “Do-si-do.” “Alamande left.” “Alamande right.” “ Honor your partner.” “Promenade home.” What did it all mean? And why were we doing this when we could be holding girls and doing the box step to “The Tennessee Waltz”?
I can’t recall how long Mr. Marino’s barn dance counter revolution carried on. I don’t think it was the whole year, because years later, when I tried to square dance as an adult, I had to learn as if for the first time all those alien commands. I also don’t recall if we returned to social dancing. It would have been most uncharacteristic of Mr. Marino to relent and give in to what the kids wanted. I think I would have remembered that. Perhaps dancing was just eliminated from Jahn’s Physical Education program.
Unlike schools today, Jahn then offered no formal music program outside of singing in music class. A number of our kids, however, were taking lessons outside of school. Accordion playing and tap dancing were the two popular ones. Some of my classmates had become quite accomplished in those skills, and they provided entertainment at occasional assemblies.
Early in Eighth Grade I talked my aunt and uncle into paying for accordion lessons. I took them from an instructor some of my friends used near the Lincoln-Belmont shopping area. I only had two lessons. During the first lesson I was disappointed that instead of teaching me how to play “Lady of Spain”, the instructor wanted me to play scales and then told me to practice them at home. I did practice them for about 15 minutes, and when I returned for the second lesson, he scolded me for not knowing them. This was not what I had bargained for. That second lesson ended my instrumental music career.
Tap dancing was something that mainly the girls did, although a few of the boys took lessons as well. Surprisingly, while being able to tap dance was not a coveted male skill, those boys who took lessons and performed at assemblies were not looked down upon. In fact, at one point we all wanted “taps” on our leather shoes. These were metal strips on the toes and heels that the shoemaker would gladly affix for an added charge. We didn’t want to tap dance, but we thought it was cool---to use today’s vernacular---to make a clacking noise as we walked. We got our parents to go along by telling them the taps would make our soles and heels last longer.
Eighth Grade seemed full of activities, and they increased as we moved into 8A. When we were promoted into 8A, as a sign of our senior status, each of us was issued an 8A ribbon. The ribbon was two strips of satin cloth in the school colors, maroon and white. We pinned these onto the left side of our shirts and blouses to indicate our senior status and wore them every day. At graduation we would be issued similar but longer graduates’ ribbons.
We had a Student Council at Jahn, the officers of which came from us 8A’s. We were elected by our classmates. Donna Sue Wells was the “Mayor”. Donnie Gatewood was the “Co-Mayor” and Judy McDaniel the “City Clerk”. I was the “Co-City Clerk” and Lorraine O’Grady, one of a pair of fraternal twins who had joined our class late, and much to my surprise and delight was rumored to “like” me, joined Dolores McGuire on the “Advisory Committee”. On the right, and enlarged on the Photo Page, is a photo of our august group as shown in the Jahn Journal of 1951.*******************************
What did the Student Council do? The accompanying article to the picture claims that we “achieved excellent results in directing and participating in the many student activities of this semester.”, including the Clean-up Campaign. But I can’t recall ever doing much at all on the Student Council. I think we were a figurehead group, and the teachers did the accomplishing. Since this was Chicago, I do believe it was appropriate, however unintentional, that our figurehead do-nothing group had Chicago government department titles.
My 8A teacher was Miss Grace Carroll. Miss Carroll was neither old-school like Miss Quinn or young like Miss Parr. She was a tall lady with large teeth. She wore make-up and dressed well, but was not what we would consider stylish. She was no-nonsense but would loosen the reins when appropriate. Miss Carroll was the assistant principal, so she must have also had a status among the faculty. Though she was formal, she smiled periodically and was a teacher who could be approached. You didn’t love, hate, or fear Miss Carroll. But you did respect her.
Eighth Grade was a time of transition for all of us, and it was a year of increasing detachment for me. Since 1949 I had been living with my aunt and uncle, Evelyn and Roy Peters, in the Northcenter area of the city. My uncle would drop me off at my Uncle Gerhardt and Aunt June’s house at 2119 Fletcher in the morning on his way to work. I would stay there until time to leave for school. After school I would return there and join my friends in afternoon softball, football, or winter sports. At exactly 5:15 I had to be standing on the corner of Hoyne and Belmont to be picked up by my uncle on his way home from work. I would occasionally ride my bike back to the old neighborhood on warmer evenings, but since we had gotten a television the year before, those trips became fewer and fewer as I chose Kukla, Fran, and Ollie and Milton Berle over Fletcher Street friends and Hamlin Park. My attachment to the old neighborhood was definitely lessening.
One other thing was happening in my life that was hastening the detachment. I was making plans to break off from my friends after graduation by going to a high school none of them would be attending. Most of the boys would be going to Lane Tech, and the rest of the boys and all of the girls would be going to Lake View. My present residence in the Northcenter neighborhood was still in the Lane-Lake View district, but I was planning to attend Schurz High School, farther northwest, where my Uncle Roy’s mother worked in the cafeteria. The reason for that revolved around my personal family situation.
My aunt and uncle wanted to adopt me. I wanted that too, but I didn’t want to have a change in my last name while I was at Jahn. My family situation had always been different from that of my friends, and I was slightly embarrassed by it. I didn’t even want my friends to see that the person who was now signing my report card had a different last name from mine. To come back to school and tell everyone I was now not “Claude Barutzke”, but “Claude Peters” was just too much for me to deal with.
We agreed that I would be adopted after I had graduated from Jahn, but before I began Schurz. That way, I would be starting high school with a new name, and no one would know that I had ever had any other. Perhaps this sounds overly sensitive on my part. But thirteen-year-olds don’t like to be different, and at that time single parents, step parents, and blended families were not nearly as common as they are today.
I believe that these plans caused a further psychological detachment from my friends at Jahn. Certainly they resulted later in a real detachment, as I went away to a completely different high school with a new name. Unlike Jim and Ed Innis who remained in the general neighborhood until they graduated from high school, I subsequently lost almost all contact with my Fletcher Street and Jahn friends. The period of my life, about which I am now writing, had a distinct ending.
As the weather got warmer and we got nearer to graduation, the 8A’s got more and more excited. I don’t know how typical I was, but I developed a severe case of “senioritis”. My interest in academics came to a screaming halt. With the exception of a few lapses at the time of the deaths of my grandparents, I was always a pretty good student who got mainly “E’s” and “G’s”. The marking symbols in Chicago elementary schools at that time were “E” for “Excellent Achievement”, “G” for “Good Progress”, “F” for “Fair or Acceptable Progress” and “U” (always in red) for “Unsatisfactory”. During 8A I started getting more “F’s” and even one “U”. Besides that, I got checks and notes on my report card saying that I was talking too much, not keeping “profitably busy”, and not completing my work on time. Other things at school were just too interesting for me now. I couldn’t be bothered with something as boring as academics.
The girls started looking better and better, and it was a lot more fun talking to them in class. Because we were the oldest kids in the school, we were frequently asked to help in out-of-class projects and activities. That sure beat reading, and writing compositions, and doing math problems. And since the weather outside was getting warmer, after school hours were more pleasantly spent playing softball or touch football on Fletcher Street or in the school yard. Or hanging out at Hamlin Park or the Damen-Belmont playground, hoping some of the girls would show up to watch us dazzle them with our physical skills. Homework and making up missed class work just didn’t factor into my Spring 8A equation.
As we moved through May and into June, excitement increased. Our last Jahn class picture was taken. Unlike all the others, this was a picture of our entire class, including the handicapped kids who were graduating. We were instructed to dress up for this picture: boys to wear white shirts and ties; girls to wear white blouses. For the picture we were allowed to sport our long graduation ribbons. On the right, and enlarged on the Photo Page is our graduating class picture. Some of the kids had been with me since Kindergarten or First Grade; others had joined along the way. The names are on the following page. The reader will recognize many of them. Those graduates who were from the Handicapped Department are designated with an “H”.*********************************************
Jahn Graduates, June, 1951
Row 1: Richard Gustafson, Fred Witter, John Young, me, Tom Carney (H), Franklin Hermann, Don Larson, Dick Fischer, Dick Becker.
Row 2: Carole Branecki (H), Donna Sue Wells, Mabel Covington, Louise Engeriser, Mary Johnson (H), Loretta O’Grady, Sally Bannon (H), Chistine Mogan, Marilu Murray (H) Dolores McGuire, Darlene Sandell.
Row 3: Gilbert Weigel (H), Valoise Solt, Joan Heider, Lorraine O’Grady, Sheila Dixon, Patsy Becker, Joanne Uchiyama, Pat Jasch, Marilyn Hannock, Carol Goellner.
Row 4: Tom Spasojevich, Bobby Coles, Donnie Gatewood, Teddy Avesing, Jackie Clucas,
Marion Olson, Judy McDaniels, Loretta Paoli, Pat Briggs, Donald Green (H), Richard Louis.
About this time, also, we reminded each other of the tradition of signing autograph books. So we all bought autograph books, and during the second week of June we were allowed to bring them to school and have our friends and classmates sign them with a little note. We weren’t very imaginative in our notes. There were a few “Good luck in high school”s, some symbol ditties that we thought were clever---“2 y’s u r, 2 y’s u b, I c u r 2 y’s 4 me”, “ 2 good 2 be 4 gotten” and “o u q t I n v u”---,and warmly sentimental poems like “Roses are red. Violets are blue. The sidewalk’s cracked. And so are you.” Tom Spasojevich wrote, “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Pipes are hollow. And so is your head.” I guess he had difficulty with meter and rhyming couplets. Anyway, it was original. Some of us boys wrote a “vi-vi” on the bottom of the page. All year, in a loud and low voice, we had been shouting that at each other. I have no idea why.
The final event of the year. We began rehearsals for the graduation program. Since there was going to be quite a bit of singing by our class, Miss Parr, our music teacher, took over, and for the first time the handicapped kids joined us. One of them, Mary Johnson, had a beautiful voice, and she was going to sing a solo during one of our numbers. Those rehearsals were not particularly easy for me. Unlike many of the kids, I never learned how to read music. Year after year, when we would sing new songs in class---and singing was always a part of our Jahn program---we would learn the musical parts by pointing to the notes and singing the proper do-re-mi’s. I never caught on. To make matters even worse, my voice was very late in changing. All the rest of the boys in my class were either altos or basses. I was still a second soprano. So I knew that on the stage on graduation day I would still be standing with the girls as we sang those songs. The only boy among the sopranos. The Vienna Boys’ Choir this was not. There was no male status in my late vocal development.
Wednesday, June 20, 1951 was the big day. I believe the program was held in the late morning or early afternoon. I recall the day as being partly cloudy and windy. Of course, parents were invited to the ceremony. But the audience was mainly women with a few older men, probably grandparents. The young men had to work. My Aunt Evie---soon to be my mother--- and my Aunt Emma attended from my family. Most of the boys wore new suits with white shirts and ties. The rest had sport coats, some with bow ties. I had a new double breasted gray suit. All of us had white carnations in our left lapels next to the long graduates’ ribbon.
For me that day the ceremony was a blur, and I don’t remember much of it. But I still have the program. As with all our assemblies, it began with a Boy Scout color guard presenting the colors, followed by the Pledge of Allegiance. During the program our class sang our new songs---“Softly, Softly Falls the Night”, “Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes” (Only now do I see the humor in that juxtaposition---I wonder if it occurred to any of our teachers.), “Gypsy Fires” and “Deep River”. An accordion trio of Joan Heider, Sheila Dixon, and Dick Fischer performed. There was a dance group and several oral presentations. Finally we received our diplomas from our Principal, Miss Anna Lanz, and sang our concluding big number, “I’ll Never Walk Alone.”
In the schoolyard afterward, we gathered together in little groups. Our family members took pictures of us as the wind blew our carefully combed hair. Some families were going to have parties for their graduates. Sheila Dixon was hosting a party for the rest of us that afternoon in her family’s upstairs flat. We milled about and joined our family members as we walked away from that building which for the past nine years had been such an important part of our lives. Our Jahn days were over.
In the next two or three years I would occasionally run into some of my Fletcher Street or Jahn friends. Fred Witter moved to a flat not too far from ours. We tried to reignite our friendship, but that time was past. Richard Fischer helped me to get a part-time job in a bowling alley in which he was working. Dave Giandinoto and his family moved to Denver. Much to my surprise, one summer afternoon when I was a high school junior he appeared at the basket window of Whelan Pool where I was working. I last encountered Richie Weiss as a high schooler at a bowling alley with a date. But that was it until Jim Innis and I made contact a year and a half ago.
And so I’ve reached the end of this narrative. I’ve found it enjoyable to recall so many things that I had forgotten about during those years in that neighborhood. People came alive to me again. Even though Jim Innis told me about the eventual deaths of friends like Teddy Avesing and Junior Thompson, it’s hard to believe that they even got older. For me they will always be those kids out on Fletcher Street on a warm summer evening. Places were re-created. Hamlin Park is still there. But it’s a very different place now in a gentrifying neighborhood. In my memory it’s still that saucer-shaped depression in which we used to hit mushy softballs, or in the winter sled down its hill to an expanse of flawed and cracked ice created by kids who stomped on it before it froze. Jahn looks the least unchanged. The only thing that appears different about the outside is that the gravel school yard has been paved. But do the kids take advantage of that smooth expanse of pavement during top season? Is there still a top season? Only in my memories. I’m glad I lived when I did. It was a good time. And it’s been fun to remember.
Claude R. Peters
June 3, 2006
Jahn Patrol Boys, 1949
7A and 8B Class, 1950
Student Council, 1951
Graduating Class, June, 1951