There were so many of us kids in the 1950s, with parents all revved up about the American dream, that communities were forced to be eccentric about schoolhouses and calendars. Historic buildings were converted to limited-grade schools, split sessions were established, year-round instruction was explored. We were all encouraged to become teachers, there was such an obvious shortage (although it was equally obvious to the best of us, that by the time we got through the credential process the need for teachers wouldn’t be so urgent).
The prettiest alternative school for me was the Thayer House, in Glen Cove, New York. I attended second grade there. I was 7 for the first almost half of the academic year, and 8 for the second part.
The school had been a mansion, and the estate was north of our houses. That was unusual; everything else we visited was south of us. We walked to the Thayer House through residential neighborhoods and fields that were snowy in winter. We neared the intersection where Roy Campanella spun out in his car and broke his neck. That accident occurred on January 28, 1958.
The Thayer House contained a kindergarten with its own playground in the right wing, the first and second grades in the left wing, the offices up the grand staircase, and the grounds – semi-circular lawn edged by rows of trimmed trees, punctuated by shaded benches – in the back.
The one flaw, and it was minor, was the absence of a real playground. There was only so much walking or lurking one could do in the arbor. But other than that I loved the place. It had an exclusive feel I’d never experienced before. And it had one of my best teachers. Miss Seaman harnessed my energy by having me help the slower group learn to read. She kept me after school and invited me to read to her, and I think she’s the one who told my mother to make lists of numbers for me to add and subtract. I wrote about her in a post last September 1. She was the first adult after my father to show appreciation for my weirdness.
