Decisions and Disasters

The college prep program I was to enter was available in two junior highs: Walnut Hills and Eastern Hills. As I was from the East End and Walnut Hills was a longer bus ride, I opted for the latter.

Eastern Hills was a modern facility in a nicer area than my home turf. Mom and I went for a look-see at an open house before the school year and were both impressed.

Eastern Hills (razed in 2010)

None of my classmates from McKinley had been accepted into the program (or if they had they attended Walnut Hills) so I knew no one in my class. I suspect this was the case for some others as well. Not too many kids came from the same grade schools. Most of us were on our own.

Since I had attended different schools in 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd grades I wasn’t too fazed by the adjustment. Being around dad had prepared me for meeting new people.

The curriculum, although not so rare now, was new and daring then. Along with the usual subjects such as science, English, history, physical education (we called it gym) and shop we had either Latin or Spanish and geometry (with a little algebra thrown in). I chose Latin—a holdover from my 

interest in Rome in 6^th grade.

Below right: the college prepper

I thought all of the teachers to be good, but I had a clear favorite: my history teacher, Mrs. Doepke. She was a bit older, strict, and fair. In the first class she said something to the effect—and I think I am pretty close to quoting her—“If I should ever be so stupid as to ask you a question on a test such as ‘What happened in 1492’ then you are free to respond with an answer such as, ‘a baby was born,’ the sun came up,’ or ‘some people ate beef.’ My questions will be precise and I will require precise answers. If I don’t live up to my part of the bargain you needn’t live up to yours.”

Proof that my respect and love for her was her due came in the final exam of the year. The exam consisted of 100 questions, each with four possible answers. When we were finished we were told to bring the paper to her so she could begin grading immediately. As I stated before, tests have never been difficult for me. I was the first one done. When I handed her the paper she asked, “Have you gone over your answers.” I said I had, which wasn’t true, because I didn’t want to get the lecture I knew would follow.

No sooner had I sat back down than she called the class to attention and said. “Mr. McCalester hurried through his test. I have read his first two answers and they are both incorrect. I suggest the rest of you use more time before turning in your papers.”

Well that was a shock, and embarrassing. I sat very, very still while everyone stared at me. Then, a few minutes later she called the class to attention again and said, “I stopped the test earlier to use Mr. McCalester as an example—a bad example—in front of the class. Now I must apologize. I have finished his test. He scored 98 of 100. Those first two questions were the only ones he had wrong. I am sorry Mr. McCalester. That was very unfair of me.”

That was an even bigger shock. Never had I heard anything like that from a teacher. My 98 proved to be the second highest score in the class; a fellow whose name I believe was Joe Daner, or Doehner scored 99. When the class was dismissed Mrs. Doepke called me to her desk and surprised me once again. She said, “You should have re-checked those answers, Mr. McCalester, you would have beaten Mr. Daner. He isn’t as smart as you are.”

Now you know why I respected and loved her so much. Still do, and though she is no doubt long dead and buried I won’t ever forget her honesty and integrity.

That story is the good news. The bad news was that the sicker dad got the less I cared about school—and the shorter my temper became. I got into a couple of fights and took my swats without complaint—especially since I knew dad not only wouldn’t hear of them, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything about them if he did.

My favorite time was gym. Particularly if we played dodge ball. There was plenty of opportunity to release all that pent up anger by nailing someone with the ball. No matter the game, I was always one of the last, if not the last one standing.

We also had boxing—another great tension reliever—and we had basketball. I had learned to play at the YMCA while attending Boy’s Club and loved it. When tryouts for the school team came around I tried out. The coaches, not knowing any of the new 7^th graders, had us scrimmage in different groups and picked the team one by one from the groups. 

Finally there was just one spot and everyone had either been selected for the team or cut except three of us. The coaches had us begin shooting layups. First two to miss would be eliminated and the last would make the team. I hung on for one round and beat out one guy, but I missed first in the final set. Very disappointing.

The year ended with my grades being C’s and B’s. I had only ever had one C before—in music—and B’s were rare. It wasn’t that the courses were hard or the teachers bad. I just didn’t care. I got A’s in gym, geometry and history, but that was all.

In Cincinnati in those days school was about over by Memorial Day. The weather was good in Cincy—warm even in May—so the baseball games resumed on the McKinley playground after school. About two weeks before school ended and dad died, I was playing in a game. There was a close play at third (my position in that game) and there being no umpires, we made the calls ourselves. I called a fellow out at third. He disagreed.

He was known as a tough kid and came from a family with a host of brothers. He was used to getting his way, and if not getting it, taking it. I wouldn’t back down. Neither would he.

At that age a typical fight usually consisted of shouting, then pushing, then maybe one punch and then wrestling on the ground until the loser said he quit. This was not to be one of those fights.

The kid (I won’t use his name though I know it) told me he would beat me up if he wasn’t safe. I said he was out, period. He shoved me, I shoved him, and then the strangest thing happened. Everything began to move in slow motion. I have heard pro-athletes say when they were on a hot streak that “the game had slowed down for them” and they could see everything well before it happened. This was the first time it happened for me.

After my push he rushed me, I hit him in the head and he dropped. He got back up and I did the same thing. You could see the shock on his face. He fully expected to beat me up. He was the tough guy, not me.

Each time he charged I hit him as hard as I could and he fell. Once I saw a tooth and spittle fly from his mouth—all in slow motion. He was bloodied up by now and the other kids were yelling to him to stay down. It took him a couple of more shots before he ran home crying. I was still so angry I was shaking. The game broke up and I went home. I didn’t tell anyone.

Looking over the left field fence at the playground as it looks today. The fight took place near the far end.

On May 27^th I heard dad say to mom, “Well babe, I made it to our anniversary.” The ambulance came for him on the 28^th and on the 29^th he was dead. The death certificate read that he had lived 48 years, 10 months and 10 days.

Mom was at the hospital when he died. When she came into our apartment she simply said, “Children your daddy’s in heaven now.” I don’t remember after that what anyone else said or did. I just ran into my room and cried.

I’ll stop here for now, but there is more for the next post.