Author: John Morris Benson

Husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, uncle, cousin, friend, veteran, retired, grow veggies-eat meat

Trouble in School: part 15 of 15

This milestone is the last time I had trouble as a student in school.

It involves the previously noted Miss Doitover and had the greatest probability of the most serious problem in my student life.

My final Social Studies grade was a B-. I had calculated a strong C+ average in the class, but the day before graduation, Mr. H.S. Prin told me Miss Doitover requested a hold on my being a graduate. I’d failed to turn in a report, and that left a hole in her grade book. Mr. H.S. Prin told me that she would not put zero in blank space. And with that I’d get an incomplete.

When I had calculated my average and knew I’d still pass even with a zero grade on that report, so I didn’t do it.

He told me if I turned in an acceptable report to him, he’d be sure the blank was filled, and I would go out with my class. I guess I did well enough on the paper, thus the B- grade instead of the C+ I’d calculated.

Somehow, those troubles in school didn’t keep me from earning a BA in technology education and MS in school administration followed by a 35-year career in public and private schools.

Please use the contact jmb/btw tab for non-public messages.

Trouble in School: part 14

I’ve missed not having the lessons of a biology class many times.
and
Mr. S.R. Counselor was probably far wiser than I thought at the time.

Every senior was interviewed by the school Vocational Guidance Counselor. Mr. S.R.Counselor’s first remark to me was that I hadn’t met all graduation requirements. I knew what my grades were ‘good enough’ and didn’t yet know about the hole in Miss Doitover’s grade book.1I’ll tell you in part-15.

His reply to my ‘why’ question, was something like, “You don’t have a biology grade. Perhaps it just got missed. Who was your teacher?”

A full year of Biology was required for graduation from Central High School. Most took the class as sophomores.

My answer was probably, “I never had bio.” Then I told him I didn’t know I had to take the class. When he told me everyone knew, I was probably snarky when I said someone in authority should have known the year before and I could still have taken it as a senior.

He called Mr. H.S. Prin and the requirement was waived. Since there was no summer school for that class, the only other option was to take another year of school for one class.

What I remember most is Mr. S.R. Counselor’s closing remark. “Benson, the Army would probably be a good career choice for you.”

I took that to mean, “Benson, you aren’t qualified for much, so you should enlist.”

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”
“The Shadow knows.”

No! I didn’t think he had evil in his heart. But his Army comment hit me to the core and stayed with me for many years. When I got my MS in Education Administration, I sent him a copy of my diploma from Portland State University without comment.

In retrospect, he probably saw no future for me in Alexandria and meant I needed to get out of town for my own good.

Please use the contact jmb/btw tab for non-public messages.

Trouble in School: part 13

New York Yankees

vs

Brooklyn Dodgers11953

I didn’t like baseball and didn’t play baseball except very poorly in gym class. I could catch and throw but had a fear of being at bat. Part of the reason was probably from getting hit on the head by a pitch from a 9th grader when I was in fifth grade.

But baseball got me kicked out of my Western History class.

OK! OK! I got me kicked out.

Our teacher Mr. V. C. Histtchr had his radio on for the World Series when we came into the room. I don’t remember if it was the first day or one of the ensuing days. Several boys on his baseball team took front seats which voided the seating chart.

Mr. Histtchr told us to read something or put answers on a worksheet he had his student aid hand out.

D. Shouldersback made a paper airplane with his worksheet and fired it across the room. Histtchr told him to pick it up to which Shouldersback said, “Don’t tell me what to do,” and left the room on his own.

I stood and said, “I don’t like baseball either and we shouldn’t have to listen to it.”

I had another short visit with Mr. H.S. Prin, but only for the rest of that class period. He was also listening to the game. At his advice/firm insistence, I took something to read during the rest of the games.

FYI: 2I had to look this up.The Yankees won the series in six games for their fifth consecutive title.

Please use the contact jmb/btw tab for non-public messages.

Trouble in School: part 12

The spinster typing teacher, Miss Clickakee, seemed even older than anyone in the building – well perhaps she was. An adult acquaintance, the same age as my mother, had her as a teacher when he was in school, and he said she was old or seemed to be old back then.

We had to take at least one business class for graduation. One of the guys had a girlfriend in the typing class and signed up. I’d already taken Retail Selling as a vocational option, but I had an open spot, so signed up for the elective too.

Our typewriters didn’t have letters and symbols on the keyboard. We learned to locate our fingers with the little dot on the j and f key and tried to coordinate the location of other letters from the big chart on the wall.

I don’t remember any of the drills we had, but we started speed and accuracy tests using our propped-up lesson guide. Looking at the paper in the carriage or at the keyboard during typing was forbidden and it seemed that Miss Clickakee could see where everyone’s eyes were focused.

Then came the transcription speed tests from copy we’d not seen before. I wasn’t destined for typist of the week, but neither was I doomed to fail for being too slow or too inaccurate.

Sometime about mid quarter, we had the drill for grade. Text for transcribing was located face away on each propped-up lesson guide stand. At the signal from Miss Clickakee, we flipped the paper with something written in cursive and started. Most were finished before my transcribing was done. Big Guy behind me ended at the same time as I did. I admit being wrong in turning to ask him something totally unrelated to the class.

Whap!

I was spun around in my chair when Miss Clickakee slapped me on the head. I was far more surprised than hurt, and there were gasps from some in the room. Big Guy told me later he started to stand in my defense, but she pointed her finger in such a way as to say he was next, and he needed the credit.

I did the required leaving class procedure: center the typewriter carriage, close the study guide and square it on the desk, slide the chair under the desk, then walk out quietly. I felt her eye arrows penetrating my back. I’m sure, at least I was at the time, that the absence of murmuring in the room was because most of the students needed the credit.

Mr. H.S. Prin, was in the outer office when I walked in. With his curious look in my direction I blurted, “The old bag hit me.”

He asked, “Clickakee?”

Another student arrived as he took me into his inner office. He looked at the note the other student gave him and asked me, “How does one cheat on a typing test?”

I probably just gave a shoulder shrug.

Mr. H.S. Prin asked if I needed the credit after I explained what happened. “Cheating on a typing test eh, just go to study hall instead.” He chuckled and continued, “She hasn’t hit anyone else yet this year. I’ll talk to her.”

Can you imagine current media grabbing onto that incident and his comment?

Learning to type didn’t improve my spelling skills, but we couldn’t type our homework assignments for English class anyway.

Trouble in School: part 11

Of Sticks
my mouth
and
Old Cars

Alexandria’s Central High School started a driver ed class in the spring of 1952, and it was a route to get a real license at 15½. I did most of my practice driving with the assistant football coach/history teacher Mr. Astcoach and did well. Two friends were farm kids, so they and I also practiced with pickups on their parents’ farms and the nearby county roads.

Mr. Hdcoach was the main driving teacher and did all of the testing to consent to the State Patrol testing for a minimum age license. I almost didn’t get authorized to take the state test.

My mouth got in the way of what the rest of me could do quite well. Parallel parking was done with sticks at the corners of an on-street parking place. I’m not sure just what I said, but it was something like, “Mr. Hdcoach, I believe it’s ridiculous to park with sticks pretending to be cars when the real test would be to have some wrecking yard cars parked for us to get in between.”

I knew it was so the Chevy dealer donated driver ed car wouldn’t have a dented front fender but said what I did anyway. My unheard intention was to make parallel parking more realistic.

His look told me I should keep quiet, but I added as I completed the maneuver into the space, “How many times in real life have you had to park between sticks.”

He got out and told me I was more than a foot from the curb to which I said something about the posts being more than a car-width from the curb, so space-wise I’d actually parked correctly.

I did a recovery and asked if he’d show me how to get closer to the curb. He hit the front stick twice, then sent me home.

The letter authorizing me to take the state patrol test came, and the next week two junkers were parked the required six inches from the curb in front and in back of the driver education practice spot. I had aced the written test and parked between the junkers after my MSP test drive through town and on the highway.

I got my license at 15½, but we didn’t have a family car so it was some time before I could drive them anywhere. But it did help getting me a job at the Red Owl grocery store. I could use the boss’s wife’s car to make deliveries.
There is more to that story, but perhaps I’ll tell it later.

Finished, yes, finished

At last!

I have finished Bill Bryson’s

At Home: A short History of Private Life.

There are many reviews about the content and significance of this work on the internet, so what I could write about it would be redundant.

The content, for me, however, was not what I expected when I read the title and chapter headings. You will have to read it yourself to learn what I mean. One chapter – you will have to read to know – was disturbing but was a learning experience.

I already have several more of my problems in school drafted, so unless interrupted by reading, they will continue.

Trouble in School: part 10

By now you might be tired of reading about my troubles in school. I understand, but keep in mind, I don’t need nor want cheese with my whine. But whine isn’t a good word for my words – I have no real complaints; I wasn’t the only one. Some readers may even know of those about whom I speak, and remember something like, that’s how I remember him/her too.

Junior high school gym class was not a good experience for me. I got a D in seventh but improved to a C in eighth grade. I don’t remember my junior high teachers, but with Mr. Hdcoach as the high school PE teacher, I somehow managed to get a B.

I didn’t like PE class in high school. Even in no contact activities I managed to be in the way of one or more of the teacher’s favorites. They ranked from star athletes, kids of the local social elite, teachers’ kids, and down from there. My only real positive was consistently being second or third to the eraser throwers in foot races I mentioned in part 5.

Rope climb was my least favorite activity. But I did learn using my feet to grip the rope took pressure off my arms, so I made it to the top for the test and managed to have enough grip left to make it down. Many others did the bare hand burn going down to avoid falling. Oh, the only padding on the gym floor was a three-inch mat from the wall behind the baseline on the basketball court. I was among the few who made it up and down the rope. And perhaps I should not have asked Mr. Hdcoach, “Why is climbing a rope to twenty feet above the gym floor an important skill?”

We were usually outside as much as possible during fall and spring seasons, Mr. Hdcoach seemed to have little concern about keeping kids outside in most inclement weather. One spring day it must have been very bad outside because we had an inside activity. Perhaps there was an order from the principal because I doubt that he would have brought us in even if there was lightning.

I was a freshman, and another freshman, the starting JV fullback, gave me a little shove. I thought it was good natured jostling and did the same to him. He hit me on the chest hard enough to make me stumble backward and fall. By the time I recovered and said, “What did you do that for?” Mr. Hdcoach was there asking what happened. The high on his list jock said I had shoved him, and ignored my, “He shoved first.”

I thought it was over until the coach gave me a very hard swat on my bare buttocks during shower time with a shortened shaft canoe paddle.
In those days a report from a student would have been disregarded and the student would be labeled a whiner or pantywaist.
What teen boy wants that label?

Trouble in School: part 9

Trouble in school wasn’t always in the classroom and wasn’t necessarily from misbehavior. My freshman football season started going badly before we had a game with another school.

I didn’t understand underlying motives for reactions of adults in my community until reflection when I was an adult.

The afore mentioned eraser thrower1part-5 asked me during the summer after eighth grade if I was going out for football. Except for him, I beat everyone else in gym class wind sprints at least once, but I had not thought about school sports. He convinced me it might be fun even though I’d never handled a football or watched a game.

I learned to cradle the ball and run sideways. But there were enough running backs, so I was assigned to play center on offense and linebacker on defense. Neither was a suitable assignment for my size – 5’2, 110 lbs.
We played single wing, so the quarterback didn’t get the ball any more than the right or left halfback or the fullback.

The pre-season freshman/senior scrimmage was a tradition.

Not too long into the game, the freshman defensive line opened like frightened ducks leaving a pond. I was in my center linebacker position a few yards back from the right and left linebackers. The only thing between me and the 210 lb. varsity fullback was groomed football turf.

I held my ground and took a step forward as he closed the distance between us. I expected him to dodge or for me to give him a lucky shoulder hit with my ill-fitting body pads and leather helmet. He veered only a little and got a low center shot from my helmet. He threw up on the turf and was out for the first game of the season.

I knew some teachers, who like many men of that time, cursed now and then. At the injury timeout, the varsity coach Mr. Hdcoach let loose with a barrage of profanity directed at me such that I don’t remember hearing in anger since. I didn’t understand. I learned later the fullback was key to a winning season and coach was hungry. I was uninjured but didn’t play the rest of the game.

The fullback told me when he returned that he wasn’t angry with me because I was doing what any opponent linebacker might do. Then he confided that Hdcoach had instructed him to bowl me over instead of dodging a tackle I might try.

I also realized later, if Mr. Hdcoach was at a freshman game, I was on the bench.

Trouble in School: part 8

This being the eighth in my series about troubles I had in school, and with several more to come, I don’t want you to get the impression that school was an all-bad experience for me.

There were many good times during those years. But I formed only one lasting acquaintanceship. There probably would have been many more, but I left town and never went back except to visit family.

Mrs. H.S. Prin was my junior high school Social Studies teacher and one of my morning paper route customers.

The Minneapolis Star evening paper from the day before, and the Minneapolis Tribune, “Trib”, morning paper were delivered to some customers every morning. I delivered both papers to Mrs. and Mr. H.S. Prin weekday mornings and the “Trib” on Sundays. 1The newspapers merged in 1987 and became the Minnesota Star Tribune in 2024.

I didn’t feel well but was up before six so I wouldn’t have to pay a sub two or three times what I made and delivered all the papers before my mother let me go back to bed. I missed my morning classes, including Social Studies taught by Mrs. H.S. Prin.

I became fully recovered and went to my afternoon classes and a basketball game in the evening. It was the same scenario the next day. But I got – you know what I’m talking about – when I went to Social Studies class on Friday morning.

Mrs. H.S. Prin saw me at the basketball game and gave a truancy note to Mr. J.H. Principal. I had a week of after school detention and was not allowed to attend the next two home basketball games.

That wasn’t too bad, because I didn’t really like basketball anyway, and I could do homework or read during detention. Any guess what I chose to do?

PS: Mrs. and Mr. H.S. Prin still gave me a twenty-five-cent tip when I collected weekly for the newspaper when a dime or less tip was more common.

A Very Long Day Indeed


Posted at 1:10 a.m., 13 August, Frankfurt Germany time.

RE:
The 65th anniversary of the closing of the Soviet sector of Berlin and East German borders between the British, American, and French sectors of Berlin and West Germany.

Frankfurt, Germany, August 13, 1961:
A message came in from our Army Security Agency communications center in Berlin while the shift lieutenant and I were reading a Reuters News Service report about the East/West Berlin border being closed. Some of us had been assigned a double shift because of personnel shortage, but several of us didn’t know we were just over ten hours into a 95-hour workday.

When message traffic indicated East German and Russian sources which we monitored in the region became progressively quiet starting about August 6, 1961, I started to feel some stress. I’d been schooled that more than one source of intelligence going quiet was a very good indicator that some planned event was about to happen.

Then there was a one-word CRITIC, “ROSE” on August 9th. It had no meaning to me, but I did think someone far above my pay grade would know. CRITIC is critical communication that must be relayed to higher authority within 10 minutes of receipt.

A top-secret message came through my workstation saying our Berlin stations would be on covert alert starting the evening of August 11. No specific reason was given in the message. Covert alert means all normal activities would be overt and routine if observable by the other side. But all would be ready to respond to full duty asap if full alert were called. Our Frankfurt unit wasn’t on alert, but conversations of the more experienced in the secure break room gave me uneasy feelings.

There was continuing tension between East and West authorities and military on both sides. But Saturday, August 12 was like any other summer weekend for most Berliners and Frankfurters going about their daily routines. British, French, and American soldiers were still ‘doing the town’ if not on duty.

My morning was busy with personal things. I picked up my laundry at the post exchange and checked the reader board for approved apartments. My wife and two boys were scheduled to join me in two weeks.

Swing shift on Saturday the 12th started at 4 p.m. and I was told to expect an overlap to graveyard or a double shift. The graveyard shift communications controller was in sick bay, and the day shift controller had been flown to Berlin that morning to strengthen that station’s staff. Another controller had been ordered from ASA Turkey for temporary duty at Frankfurt but probably would not arrive for several days. Our observers had communicated that Soviet and East German troops usually out and about in limited numbers were all restricted to barracks that night.

It was a little over an hour into my extended shift when I responded to the CRITIC message alarm on the teletype. I strongly suspected, but did not know, the three word message, “ROSE-R0SE-ROSE” had something to do with the single, same word message, on the ninth.

My gut wound tight as I read the follow-up text from our observers in West Berlin. Routine East German check points between the Soviet Sector and the West Sectors became fully armed guard stations with armored vehicle and tank backup.

Simultaneously, our news monitoring teletype rattled out a Reuters News Service dispatch from its Berlin correspondent Kellett-Long. His message alerted news agency teletypes around the world. “The East–West border was closed early today!”

We did a well-practiced routine and relayed the critical message from our Berlin station to the White House, Pentagon, and other vital national security entities.

Frankfurt wasn’t too far from the East German border, and I imagined Russian tanks might be lining up as they were in Berlin. I had been at the Pentagon when Russian radio communications went silent just before they drove tanks through Hungary to quell the student uprising in 1956. But at that time the 4,500-mile distance made it like reading about the situation in the newspapers. This was different, GDR border was about 45 miles away from Frankfurt.

Training and mission focused adrenalin didn’t completely remove initial thoughts about my wife and boys who were scheduled to arrive in September. They were still safe at home, and the immediate intensity of the work drove those thoughts into the background.

My relief person arrived at 4 p.m. Wednesday, August 16, and I went to the barracks. I was exhausted after being awake for 104 hours, ninety-five of those on duty. But sleep didn’t come immediately. Acid stomach from gallons of coffee, NoDoz tablets given to several of us by our shift lieutenant, and mentally reviewing what I’d been passing on kept me awake until after dark. 1I suspect now that the tablets were methamphetamine, or some form of it, instead of the OTC med NoDoz.

It seems odd even to this day that I slept only about eight hours after my multi-shifts and didn’t have to be awakened by my alarm to go to a debriefing and my next regular shift.

With a full complement of controllers and related personnel in place, my physical tension from fatigue was relaxed but there were still underlying mental ‘what if’ issues. Communications, for the most part, returned my tensions to what they were prior to the border closing.

I considered having my wife and children’s travel to Germany cancelled, but I didn’t. My off-duty time became overtly relaxed after they joined me. But it was extremely frustrating to not be able to share my workday with my wife.

Sharing any detail of top-secret military work was strictly forbidden. Not being able to just talk about it gave me angst I’d not felt before or since. And it was many years before I could share any of my role in those mid-August events of 1961.

I’m thankful that August 13 is only an annual reminder of the Cold War intensity, not the start of another hot war in Europe.

However,
it was a very long day indeed!