Chapters from "TIME TRIALS"
American Midwest School Kids 1940s
• 4 •
Elementary Grades
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The latent student in me had yet to surface in grade school, and the three “Rs'' emerged unevenly. Reading was pleasing though unexceptional, (w)riting still primitive, and (a)rithmetic welcomed. Actual scholarship would be in the distant future.
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In retrospect, the tranquility of schooling allowed the boy to develop in an unpressured environment. I was an average student—neither in the advanced group consisting mostly of girls nor among the slow learners, who were exclusively boys. It was at the end of 3rd grade in 1948 where my casualness surfaced, and teacher Florence McCormick recommended that I join a remedial group for a 6-week summer reading tutorial.
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It was embarrassing, even though I was the most advanced in the group. In retrospect, this was a “blessing in disguise,” as I was both humbled and an aid to others—all boys, not surprisingly. Later, I learned that 3rd grade is a critical time to be at grade level in reading. Students who fall behind at that time are at risk of not graduating from high school.
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This was the first among several educational awakenings that encouraged me to “turn over a new leaf” in school. The opening day of fourth grade, I recall ascending the stairs to my classroom on the second floor of the 1887 building thinking this year I would emerge as a different and accomplished student. “Different” perhaps, but “accomplished” certainly not yet.
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Well, it didn’t happen in the way I imagined, as I made my way to a playing field after school, tossing a football among friends. Arithmetic came somewhat easily, but conjugating verbs and distinguishing tenses continued to be baffling. I was yet to arrive as a student in any meaningful sense of the term.
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The years before third grade are largely a blur, except for a couple dark moments two years earlier. My first-grade teacher, Florence Kliener, was a sweet lady, whom I appreciated, in contrast to her grade-level counterpart Dorothy Gregory. During one morning’s recess, in a distracting reverie, I walked the three blocks home for lunch to my mother’s dismay. Rather than sending me back, she called the school, provided nourishment, after which I returned for the afternoon. Little did I know that this was a frightening experience for the teacher, who likely had thoughts of me being abducted from the playground. Ms. Kliener, the saint she was, had spoken to Ms. Gregory, known for her bitch-like qualities, who reprimanded, scolded, and scared the hell out of me.
Elkhorn Elementary School • built 1887
During the previous semester on a gloomy, dank April afternoon, I arrived home from kindergarten to find my mother weeping in the kitchen. She told me that grandfather, her dad, had been killed on the job that day. Fred MaGill’s brother, Will, (Wilson) backing up their truck accidentally pinned grandpa against a barn door crushing his chest. He died instantly. The men were 69 and 74 respectively, past their prime but still with a thriving plumbing and heating business.
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The accident was devastating to Will and a tragedy for the MaGill Bros. Inc. This was the beginning of the end for the town’s premium plumbing shop. When the business declined, Dad took his skills and started his own company working out of our home with mom doing the appointments, bookkeeping and billing.
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Fred MaGill was a charismatic, dapper man and great support for mother, who was somewhat of a “black sheep” in the family. Born two years after and in the wake of a self-assured, swashbuckling brother, mom suffered in comparison. It was hardly surprising to me that Fred was divorced from grandmother Maud, a rare event at the time, who was a staid but steady woman, whom I nonetheless liked and appreciated. She would walk the three blocks to our home each morning in my youth to assist her disorganized daughter, often to mom’s chagrin, but not to my orderly sensibilities.
Fred MaGill - My Grandfather
Wisconsin Fire Hose Champion - 1902
Bronze Medal - St. Louis World's Fair - 1903
In contrast, mom adored her dad, who would break at noon some days and join us for lunch. He then would hoist Roger and me into the back of his plumbing truck and drive to the end of the block where Washington Street meets Court Street—a treat for two pre-school boys.
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Genetically, grandfather had a hand in the quickness of his grandchildren. As a young man and fire chief for the Elkhorn volunteer fire department, he was a champion racer in hose coupling contests at a time before the combustion-engine fire truck. Fred was the Wisconsin state champion in the early 1900s at an event held in Portage, a town due north and 100 miles from Elkhorn.
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From there, he participated in the 1903 National Fireman’s Tournament in St. Louis, where he took the bronze medal. He actually had the fastest time but was bumped to 3rd place because of his controversial technique in the race to pick up and attach the nozzle.
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At the turn of the century, the “horseless carriage” was a plaything for the wealthy. That is until 1908 when Henry Ford introduced the Model T. I can imagine that grandfather would have been one of the first to own this vintage auto, but hardly in time for his journey from Elkhorn to the gateway of the West. Grandfather, likely accompanied by his brother, made their way by train from Lake Geneva (or possibly Williams Bay) to Chicago’s Union Station and from there to St. Louis. Granddad was not one to pass up an opportunity for adventure.
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I wonder how he might have appreciated his contribution to the athleticism of his grandsons, particularly in track and field. Ours was a confluence of grandfather’s swiftness, dad’s sprightliness, and Uncle Perry’s bounce, who was a schoolboy high jump champion in Walworth County and record holder at Beloit College.
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Dad was no slouch with speed and quickness but had little opportunity to perform as a boy not attending high school. As Roger matured into adulthood, he emerged physically as a near replica of dad. Grandpa died in the spring of 1945. Japan’s official surrender aboard the USS Missouri ending World War II hostilities took place on September 2, 1945, my sixth birthday.
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Early the next summer, after first grade, before universal refrigeration and on a typical hot, humid day in Southern Wisconsin, I was playing with friends in the street. As the iceman, Claire Zweig, was carrying a 50-pound block of ice over his shoulder to the Van Scotter house, it slipped from the prongs. Only much later did I appreciate how strenuous it must have been to yank a huge block of ice from the bed of a big truck and haul it to households up and down streets and into homes.
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Mr. Zweig was a gentleman, whose son Eddie had entered kindergarten with our class a year earlier, but he was learning impaired and too emotionally immature to remain in school. This was three decades before The Education for All Handicapped Children Act (1975), and the Zweig family had little recourse but to nurture the boy at home with some learning assistance from the ladies at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.
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Chips of ice on sizzling summer days were a welcome treat for kids, at least on our block near downtown. Trailing Eddie’s dad that afternoon was a group of boyhood friends with me, as usual, at the vanguard when the block of ice, sharp edges and all, landed on my right foot. Claire Zweig sent out a warning of what was about to happen, but it was drowned out in the clamor and excitement.
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What I remember next is hopping on my left leg to the curb, after which he carried me (all 50½ pounds) over his shoulder to our porch at N. Washington Street. The rest is a blur except for mother packing the wounded limb in ice, while nurturing me through the night, as I attempted to sleep on the porch swing. Along with minimal refrigeration, air conditioning was rare in the 1940s. If one wanted to stay cool on hot sweltering days, the movie house was a welcomed respite but not in Elkhorn.
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The idea never crossed my parents’ mind to sue Claire Zweig, or his employer the Elkhorn Lumber Company, for damages. Although, I suspect the lumber company paid for the medical charges and hope it wasn’t docked from Mr. Zweig’s pay. The fault was all mine.
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The following morning with the foot swelling subsiding some, mom drove me to the Lakeland Hospital located a few miles outside of Elkhorn in the general direction of Lake Geneva, a resort community to the south not far from the Illinois border. Edmund Sorenson, MD who had delivered me as an infant nearly six earlier years, took an x-ray of the throbbing foot revealing three fractured bones of the 26 in my small foot. A decent ratio of healthy to broken, but the good doctor adroitly shaped a plaster of paris cast around the foot up to just below the knee.
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Attempts to keep the leg elevated and still lasted maybe 72 hours before I was outside playing and within a week running albeit stiff legged with the other kids—who struggled to keep up. Six weeks later, I accompanied brother Bob, a newly minted high school graduate, riding my tricycle to the medical clinic on the corner of Wisconsin and Geneva streets, where Dr. Sorenson cut the cast and removed it from the atrophied lower leg. Total recovery for an active kid was swift.
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Along with chips of ice on hot summer days, pulling strands of peas and string beans from the farm trucks heading through town were a treat. The war was good for the economy and farmers. With a cannery at the south end of town, trucks made their way along Washington Street, and kids feasted on organic veggies snagged from the truck beds. If this included some dirt, it merely served to boost our immune systems.
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The pea cannery, as we called it, prepared shipments of canned goods for soldiers on the European and Asian fronts. Milk also was in demand, and Elkhorn benefited from the war economy. Bob and high school friends found jobs working alongside German POWs (prisoners of war). Some German was learned along the way by the boys. Even Holton’s was busy making brass instruments with some headed for military bands.
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Factories in neighboring towns were at work providing war goods—machine parts, pumps, clocks, tools and brass works—that employed women alongside men. Stay-at-home moms now became “Rosie the Riveters,” but our mother with a house full of boys remained on the sidelines. We made do with hand-me-down clothes, and girls wore dresses and blouses sewn or stitched from cloth and burlap.
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With many foodstuffs and other goods going overseas to the troops, families subsisted on rationing stamps that limited goods purchased. One day in 1944, when Roger and I had been misbehaving, mother reprimanded us by pretending to call the sheriff’s office. Little did we know that she had left her rationing booklet at a grocery store downtown, who dutifully turned it over to the police.
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Later that afternoon, a squad car pulled up to our house to return the stamp book. Roger and I spotted it and high-tailed to the bathroom, where we locked ourselves inside. It wasn’t until that evening, when dad returned home, that we could be persuaded to come out.
World War II Ration Stamps
During the war years, movies were a wonderful treat for getting away. And Hollywood entertained with a gallery of stars, particularly classy actresses. Gene Tierney, Linda Darnell, Veronica Lake, Katharine Hepburn, Hedy LaMarr, Rita Hayworth, Lauren Bacall, and Jean Arthur graced the screen with their beauty and charm. The men looked well-groomed in tailored suits and fedoras.
Gene Tierney
Rita Hayworth
Lauren Bacall & Humphrey Bogart
With the war winding down, The Chicago Store on the corner of Walworth and Wisconsin Streets downtown carried an assortment of women’s dresses, suits, hats, gowns, hose (nylons), and shoes. Men selected suits, pants, shirts, and sport coats at Cain’s and Dailey’s shops, two clothiers on South Wisconsin Street.
George “Shorty” Cain, haberdasher, was a bachelor, who lived behind us on Lincoln Street. After Shorty had worn a handsome suit for a while, he would pass it along to dad. They were the same size, and Dad became one of the better dressed men in town on Sundays. Fashion was chic. When a guy attended a major league baseball game and other events in the era, he sported stylish threads and a dress hat.
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Fashion, beauty and fine automobiles were in, but in other ways, the look was minimalist. Tasteful homes were adorned with beautiful furniture, rugs, and curtains, but kitchens, bedrooms, and closets were small. Life styles valued conserving that would change in a few years.
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Boyhood life in the 1940s and for a few more decades tended to be rough and tumble. The same existed for girls to a lesser extent. Outdoor play was ever-present, much to our mothers’ delight, who minded the household to keep it tidy. We played games on yards, fields, and streets until nightfall much like the “Katzenjammer kids” from a cartoon strip of the time.
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Besides the physical aspect of such play, it helped build resistance to germs and fear. I don’t have an empirical basis for this claim, but it likely contributed to good health and stamina, as I’ve aged. Despite a compromised heart from rheumatic fever at age 12, I’m growing older now with mildly declining vigor and stamina.
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My first bicycle, age 6, was a one-speed adult size that dad bought used for $5. He taught me to ride on a warm spring day by holding up the bike, as I climbed from the trunk of the big elm in our front yard onto the seat. Dad proceeded to run down the block with me for about 20 yards before instructing to “keep pedaling,” as I made my way on the sidewalk over the curb onto E. Jefferson Street. No curb cut to ease the transition to the street, but by then the big wheeler was under control. No helmet or elbow pads either. Once learned we never forget how to negotiate the ride.
In a later era, Dad might have been charged with child abuse.
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I wonder about long-term fortitude and mental health nowadays in an age of “helicopter parents” and kids fixated with smartphones and iPads. It helps to be smarter than the device that seems seldom the case.
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Technology giveth and taketh away, and parents are increasingly protective in what is perceived as a dangerous world. It isn’t, but mollycoddling began in recent decades and seems to be a function of two-working parents with fewer “precious” children. Much is lost with protection and isolation, as research demonstrates. Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt referred to it as over-parenting, sheltered kids, and “the cult of safetyism.”