Five Back to School Memories

1959 – Mr. Tauschner, the principal at P.S. 196 in Forest Hills, tested me a few days before 4th grade began. As a transfer from P.S. 69 in Jackson Heights, I proved proficient in reading but deficient in math. This qualified me for the “middle” class in a school with two other 4th grade classes: one for “Intellectually Gifted Children” who considered themselves better than kids like me, and one sadly labeled the “dumb class” by kids in my class. The big difference was that when May 1 rolled around, the kids in the IGC class got to dance around a May pole of crepe paper streamers, just like the one Don and Betty Draper’s kids danced around in the last episode of Mad Men. My teacher, Mrs. Hamburger, capable and conscientious in many ways, also had a mean streak -- telling both Alvin Custin and Mitchell Polestein that they would one day be sanitation workers, except that “garbage men” was the term she used.

1968 – Independence at last! After driving through the sulfurous haze of the New Jersey Turnpike followed by what seemed like an endless series of tunnels in Pennsylvania, Dad and I arrived at a quadrangle of Pre-World War II apartments buildings, one of which was to be my dorm at the University of Pittsburgh. Dad helped me make my bed, shaking the scratchy, wool blanket into the plain, cotton blanket cover before he headed back to New York. I cried when he walked out the door. With the sounds of "Hey Jude" wafting through the halls, I sought out a few floor-mates to go out for a dinner of hamburger and fries at a local luncheonette. My roommate, a girl from rural Ohio who arrived several days later, stayed for a few months before saying she needed a more tranquil environment. Ironically, she switched to Kent State.

1970 – Having transferred to B.U. as a junior, I pondered a new future full of possibilities and the opportunity to reinvent myself. In a burst of optimism, I bought a ticket for a John Sebastian concert on campus. I loved his song, “Do You Believe in Magic?”, replaying it over and over in my head. The trolley was literally outside the door of my dorm, and I headed for the Harvard Coop, purchasing a Jimi Hendrix poster for my room, along with a “rug” that looked more like a bathmat. I’m sure these items were readily available in Kenmore Square, but Cambridge seemed a lot more sophisticated. Besides I loved traveling over the Longfellow Bridge, looking out over the Charles.

1979 – Free time for mom! With Daphne enrolled in a pre-school called The Apple Orchard, I relished the opportunity to pursue my budding career as a free-lancer for The Brookline Chronicle. Without any hesitation, my three year old leaped into the arms of a teacher posted to remove each child from the car with a warm greeting, and a comment on how lovely the child looked that morning. An only child gets very excited about having the opportunity to be with other kids – particularly when the “classroom” is a renovated red barn sited on a farm with several acres of pasture, and lots of animals, including a pig named Maple Mocha. Daphne ran off to feed the chickens without looking back. I drove down the long driveway leading back to the main road – tears streaming down my face.

1995 – Feeling terribly guilty about not having accompanied Daphne when she began her freshman year at Washington University in St. Louis, I welcomed her transfer to Barnard, determined that the drive to New York be a mother-daughter bonding experience. About a mile from home, Daphne uttered an “oh,” a signal she’d forgotten something. Despite my being compulsive about adhering to deadlines – even when the deadlines have little meaning, such as the time one is supposed to arrived at one’s Barnard dorm – I kept my mouth shut as I drove back to the house so Daphne could retrieve a desk lamp. When we arrived at school, she suggested that I wait in her room while she went to an orientation meeting. I caught the Edward Hopper show at the Whitney before rejoining my one and only for a late lunch at a falafel bar followed by a reception for moms and daughters. I drove home, comforted that I could visualize exactly where my daughter would be spending the year – close enough for me to drive up for a visit or for her to come home for a weekend.