Away from Home – Choate School for Boys
The Choate School for Boys was founded by William Choate in 1895 five years after the founding of Rosemary Hall School for Girls in 1890 by his wife, both in Wallingford CT on the same piece of property. In 1900, the Rosemary Hall campus was moved to Greenwich CT where it remained until 1974 when the two schools merged as one in Wallingford. That merger took 74 years and no little cultural change to happen. My attendance was when Choate was still operating in the stone ages and no girls were allowed except for the Spring Festivities weekend.
My first association with the school was the summer of 1945 where I had a summer job at the Choate Dairy. My first introduction to my future classmates was made with a strong barnyard smell. The first year I lived in the Hill House, which was the main building for classrooms, administration and dormitories. That first summer I stayed in the Hill House along with the other summer students, I was sort of lucky because John Bogue, my mentor from the University of Connecticut, had been hired as the dairy manager at Choate. My jobs were varied but included milking, processing and the pasteurization of the milk. All the milking was done by machine, except each cow had to be “stripped” by hand with the last little bit of milk. Once completed, we would take the bucket of milk into the processing room where it was poured over a long washing board looking device made up of a series of horizontal tubes giving the washing board look. Each of these tubes were ice cold. The milk, still warm from the cow would flow down over these tubes into a trough and then into cans that when filled, would be placed into a walk in cooler ready for pasteurization, For my colleagues and me, the best part of this process was holding a quart bottle between the trough and the can and capturing a quart of ice cold raw milk. While not the safest thing in the world to do, it was delicious. The difference between raw milk and pasteurized milk was substantial. The school’s cattle heard was well inspected several times a year so the danger of Bangs disease (Undulant fever) was pretty low (DII-3).
Of course I had more to do than milk cows and drink ice cold milk at the dairy. Hay had to be harvested and stored. There were two processes involved in the field: baled and loose hay gathering. Automatic hay-balers were just being introduced and we did a moderate amount of activity, which involved following a tractor pulling a baler with another tractor pulling a flatbed railless wagon. Bales would fall out the back of the baler and a ground crew would throw them onto the wagon. A guy on the wagon would then neatly stack them so the wagon remained reasonably stable. The stacks would grow to 6 or 7 feet. Now that doesn’t sound like much except each bale weighed 37 lbs. The beginning of the day was fine, but by mid-afternoon it felt like the bales were bolted to the floor of the trailer. The other harvest procedure was simply loose hay. Here the hay had already been cut and was laid out in rows. We would drive slowly down the row and one or two guys with pitchforks would heave them on to the wagon and one guy (two were dangerous) with pitchforks would even out the load. One day I was that guy. It was mid summer and hot. I had no shirt or hat on (of all things youth brings, stupid is one and can be the most destructive). That afternoon, I blacked out up there on the wagon, never knew anything until waking up sitting in a small stream dividing the fields with guys pouring water over my head. They kept on saying “are you OK? I don’t think I was out long, and I really was beginning to feel OK, but not enough to get back up on the wagon. We all learned a lesson that day that fortunately was made with minor damage. The lesson of course is we are not invincible especially to natural sources.
Another lesson learned shortly after was to rely on yourself and don’t rely unconditionally on someone else. In this case it was the horse barn up the hill from the cow barn, Here the hay was stored in bulk and not in bales. My job was in the hay loft where the hay was stored above the stalls. Overhead there was a track running the length of the barn where a large clamp-fork traveled. The fork was on a cable that could be raised and lowered or positioned left or right. The procedure was to run the fork to the end of the track outside of the loft door and lower it to the hay wagon, where a guy would position it so it could grapple a huge chunk of hay, lift it up back into the window (typically blocking out all light) and then back into the barn where I would position it, pull a rope and drop the load and then lift the fork and send it back for another load. Three or four trips would unload the wagon and I would wait for the next delivery.
While waiting I had the job of distributing the hay just unloaded. Even though the hay could generally be dropped where needed, it could not just be left in a heap. Now this all happened during the middle of summer and talk about hot! Mercy, the dark loft, the smell of newly harvested hay, the heat and sweat was overwhelming. Under such circumstances, one just looses track of time. And as I toiled away, all of a sudden I got a cramp in my left leg. Worked it out and next thing you know, I had a cramp in my right leg. Ultimately I got cramps in both legs at once. I managed to drag myself over to the ladder and lowered myself down and out the barn door where it was already well into twilight. No tractors or wagons in sight. They had all gone home for dinner. I didn’t know the time because I had no watch given the circumstances of where I was working, and I was counting on my co-workers to tell me it was quitting time, but they forgot (they said). I just barely got to the mess hall in time to grab a bite. From that moment on to today, I wear a watch daily and keep track of my own time. While in the field was a sun-stroke issue, the horse barn was a heat exhaustion issue as my cramps were trying to tell me. Friends, buddies and backups are fine, but never minimize the importance of self reliance.
Farming experience was a continuing thing during those 2 summers. One week, I was assigned field fertilization duties. This consisted of driving a tractor driven manure wagon that had sides, and instead of a tailgate, had a large screw grinder that extended completely across the back of the wagon and was driven by the back wagon axle. There was also a moving axle driven belt that would move the manure load back and through the grinder and then spew out on the field. It was and imperfect system requiring human interaction to move the manure along. The manure was raw and not without considerable aromatic properties transferring with ease to the operator’s clothes and body. Working in this environment all day, one sort of got used to the aromas. However not so to those in the dining room when I entered for lunch. I often shared a round twelve seat table with only my odorous presence (in other words, I stunk).
Another interesting but difficult task I was assigned had nothing to do with animals or their output, but rather that of fence mending. Again a tractor and flat-bed trailer loaded with several fence posts and barbed wire (real fun to handle). The process included riding along field boundaries marked by barbed wire fences, and locating broken or rotted fence posts, replacing them and re-stringing the barbed wire. Sometimes the wire was compromised and had to be replaced. The wire had to be tightened so there was no sag in it, and had to be done for each wire strand (usually 3). This was done by a winching tool that clipped on the wire and with a strap looped around the post. The tool itself included a ratchet wheel and handle (much like a car “come-along” winch). When ratcheted as far as possible, and when there was a barb within the body of the post, the winch lever was locked and a heavy staple nailed just in back of the barb, which prevented the wire from gaining any slack. A field with poor fencing made for a long and arduous day.
One last and most odorous episode of those summer farm days was the burial service. Turns out some citizen reported a dead cow he saw in one of the fields. The only clue as to the cow’s location was the specific field, but no other geographical information. So with shovels and crowbar three of us were dispatched to bury the critter. We decided that our best chance was to diagonally transect the field and we ought to be able to see it. We found it alright, but not by seeing, but smelling. The animal (struck by lightning) had been dead for days. The smell was a lunch launching experience, but burial had to be done. We took turns with wet shirts tied around head and nose digging and when rocks were encountered crowbarring our way toward a grave roughly the size of the cow. We had to place it such that we could, with one roll, plop it into the hole. We clearly could not go 6 ft. under so we sort of estimated if we dumped her so her legs were facing up, how deep we would need to go. I am afraid to say the smell had a strong influence on how far we went. It was rocky land and tough digging, but we managed by the end of the afternoon. In went the cow. Unfortunately and too late, we realized another foot or two would have been advisable, since the hoof’s and part of the legs were sticking up. Fortunately, after the cow went in we had plenty of leftover dirt and rocks. We ended up with a very well decorated mound with headstone and all. It took a while to get rid of the smell, at least mentally. I don’t know how the folks working in forensics can stand it.
There was in fact more at Choate than the dairy farm. After all, I was there to finish my secondary education, and with luck, to be accepted into a certified institute of higher learning (and not some other notorious state institution). That began in the fall of 1944 and for the first year, I resided in the same building I did during my summer job, the Hill House. It was a convenient spot since I joined the choir and glee club, and those activities were practiced in the Choate chapel located just down the hill from our dorm. Other buildings of note included the Andrew Mellon Library, a well equipped science building and of course a classroom building. As mentioned, a first class dairy was part of it as well as a well equipped infirmary located a bit off the main campus on the banks of a small but permanent stream.
The Hill House did not house all students, in fact most of them lived in individual houses in which various faculty and families served as house masters. My second year there I was assigned with Toby Thompson to the Gables which was a house toward the north end of campus with prominent gables. This is where Toby and I decided it would be a good idea (this was before “cool” was in the vernacular) to raise a couple of crow chicks. We found two in an abandoned nest, brought them home and rigged a box outside the window for them. We did this after we realized the trajectory of their “poop”, which was obviously designed to clear the nest. Our room was a mess at the beginning. We soon decided that was not a good idea, and I let mine go as soon as he could fly. Toby took his home where it stayed until the following fall when it woke up and migrated with all the rest. He was a handful in a domestic environment, While he flew on his own, he would always come home, much to the chagrin of his parents. Anything shiny was fair game. One day a watch went missing (an expensive one) along with coins and other small shining stuff. It was a mystery and finally the crow took off on migration, never to be seen again. A year or so later while having their gutters cleaned, a virtual trove of treasure was found in one of the gutters, including the watch, which was now useless, The Gables had one great feature: the basement which housed what we called the Tuck Shop. This was the equivalent of a student union store full of good things to eat. My favorite was their grilled peanut butter sandwich and a chocolate milkshake. Good thing I didn’t have too much money, I would have ended up like a balloon.
The house master of the Gables was Mr. Leighman (can’t remember his first name) who made a habit of hosting weekly seminars or discussions in his den, with hot chocolate and cookies. It was here that I witnessed the old saying that a “small act of kindness” can yield great reward, not only in personal aggrandizement but in tangible terms as well. One of the attendees joining the group was an exchange student from Iran by the name of Mahmoud Riza Pahlavi. He was the younger brother of Mohamad Riza Pahlavi, the Shaw of Iran (before the religious upheaval that threw him out). Mahmoud had just purchased a brand new Packard Clipper, one of the finer automobiles of the time. Man it was a spiffy, two tone vehicle of which the rest of us could only dream. Mahmoud, however, was concerned. He had to return to Tehran for the summer and was flying from New York’s Newark Airport, He was concerned about navigating the traffic, since even then, Wallingford traffic in no way mirrored N.Y. traffic (Athens vs. Atlanta). Another guy spoke up and said, “hey I will drive you down, it would be no problem, since I live in Elizabeth NJ, just a short distance away and my parents can pick me up there as easy as the bus station, and I hate to ride busses anyway”. Mahmoud was ecstatic and a few days later off they went. The next fall, here was this guy driving the Packard. ‘Where is Mahmoud?” we asked. Turned out when they got to the airport, and the guy helped Mahmoud with his luggage, Mahmoud thanked him warmly and handed him the car keys and title saying in effect, a small price to pay for your kindness and I have no further use for the car. Well I guess so!
The third year, I had a room with two other guys (Kent Carson was one) in the infirmary. Great room and comfortable furniture. It was right next to a creek with a well developed and wooded creek bottom. One of the resident students (Hayden Mathews) was an excellent archer. He taught us a little about how to use a bow and arrow not just for target shooting but for game. Some of his arrows were broad-head arrows designed for that purpose. One day in the back of the infirmary, crossing a long foot bridge across a small creek bottom, we spooked a rabbit who ran erratically (as they do) in front of us on the bridge. Mathews whipped off his long bow, seated an arrow and pegged the rabbit right down the middle. What a shot. Not surprisingly, his hero was Howard Hill of international fame (1899-1975). My Alabama readers surely are familiar with his name as a world class field archer. Born in Wilsonville AL (Shelby Co). he played all sports at Auburn and after graduation, some minor league baseball, but his true love was long bow archery. He traveled the world where he hunted big game animals including elephants with the bow. Many current tournaments carry his name. He was inducted into the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame in 1971. That represents the extent of my archery expertise.
My fourth year I roomed at the “Cottage” a relatively small house where Hugh Packard, the football coach lived with his wife an son, My roommate was John Noyes, the grandson of John Humphery Noyes the preacher and utopian socialist that founded the Oneida community in New York and in Wallingford CT. The commune was located on a lake formed by the Quinnipiac River. Not surprisingly, the lake is named “Community Lake” which hosts the Choate Rowing team. Quinnipiac University of political polling fame is located only a few miles south in Hamden CT.
While I did not participate in rowing activity (that was hard work, unless you were the coxswain). I did participate in seasonal sports, was circulation manager of the Choate News, vice president of the ski club and sang in the Choral Club. In football, I played full back (when not sitting on the bench), or line-backer. Actually by the time I reached my Junior and Senior years, I played with the first unit quite often. Most of the time, my role was as a full back with more blocking than running, but enough to have some fun. Other times I played at line-backer, which really was more fun. Joining me in the backfield were 23 Dave Howard, R. Halfback, 18 Billy Ragland, Quarterback, 27 Tony O’Conner, L. Halfback. We were supported by a fine line including 50 Pete DeVinnie, R End, 44 Milo Hyde, R. Tackle, 36 Robert (BoBo) Williams, R. Guard, 37 Charlie Hovey, Center, 51, Steve Rintoul L. Guard, 34 Bob Owens, L Tackle, and Dave Kuyk, L. End. All but Steve Rintoul I remember well. In fact, David Howard came from my neighborhood in Bridgeport (DII-3)
We played all of 6 games in 1947, including the likes of Wilbraham, Taft, Mt. Herman, Lawrenceville, Deerfield and Wesleyan College freshmen. We didn’t have a stellar year winning only two, but had fun doing it, If you can believe it, we almost had a guy die from drowning. It was an away game (maybe Deerfield) where the field was in a depression, and there was a heavy rainstorm during the game. One of our linemen was stuck on his stomach under a huge pile of guys, with his head pushed into a puddle of water. Realizing there was a problem under all those guys, the pile reduced quickly, and the poor guy was literally blue in the face and was taken to the infirmary for observation. He was OK and joined us on the bus for the ride home. Those were always raucous trips, the degree depending upon whether we won or lost. One guy played the harmonica, but unfortunately only knew one song; “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” He would walk up and down asking for requests, and each was filled with a version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. By the time we reached home we were almost out of our minds.
Football season took us well into the fall, and by the end of Christmas break, winter sports were well underway. One of the most popular sports was ice hockey, and then basketball, indoor track, gymnastics and soccer. When winter rolled around, I was not really built for basketball or indoor track, so a friend, Bill Kirby and I decided to form a ski club. That was so successful, that by our Junior year we actually formed, and were recognized as a ski team, and made it into the “Brief”, the Choate yearbook in 1948 as a recognized winter sport. We basically competed amongst ourselves intramurally since we had yet to organize into an inter school schedule of any sort. Wallingford CT is not exactly in the middle of the New England snow belt, so performing as a ski team presented a wide range of challenges, One of them obviously was the lack of snow for practice. But we had a lot of hills and the hills supported robust stands of red and white pine, which in turn produced copious amounts of pine straw. Many afternoons were spent gathering up pine straw and dumping it on our trails and slopes. Most of our practice was done on the pine straw. It was amazing how well it worked. It was extremely fast, but you could maneuver (snowplow, stem turn, stem-christy or full christy). Downside? Don’t fall. Pine straw, no matter how deep, has no snow bank. But of course we did fall from time to time, and our black and blues attested to it.
Springtime brought an outside track (DII-3). Here I was on the steps of the gym. My events in track were the 100 yard dash, the 220 yard sprint and float race, and the huff, puff and grunt 440 yard (1/4 mile drag) In this particular meet, the guy to my right and left both jumped the gun as Jerry Fenn out team manager watched. Alan Doyle, the guy on the other side of the one jumping the gun, won the heat and I came in second, Most of our meets were in Wallingford and I think the meet above was with another prep school (all white guys). Our toughest meet was always Hillhouse High in New Haven. This being a public high school, the black student body was considerable, and their track team was awesome. I remember one guy, Reddick Jackson. He was a big powerful black guy and ran like an express train. I remember watching him cross the finish line about the time I was coming out of the blocks. His older brother Levi was smaller but faster and graduated the year before. He was currently one of the most talked about running backs in the nation and played for Yale (of all places).
After the track season, that was it for us seniors, hopefully college was next. But first we had to graduate, and then get accepted someplace. Well I graduated OK with pictures and all. The big question is would I be accepted to the college of my choice. The school helped us submit our application(s) of which I had several. I can remember to this day the wait ended when the the director of academics (Mr. Wheeler), confronted me at the end of chapel service and announced that while he could not believe it, I was accepted for enrollment into Middlebury College the following fall if I was willing to make up a few credits. Well of course I was, which would put me in the class of 1952. My first choice was Wesleyan College in Middletown CT. That is where my “bud” Toby Thompson went (the year before me). Probably just as well I didn’t end up there.
The acceptance by Middlebury College in Middlebury VT was a “bird in hand” as far as I was concerned and I couldn’t be happier. Mr. Wheeler (a typically dour sort) could have been a little more encouraging though as his tone indicated he thought Middlebury was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I took no offense, and if they were (scraping the bottom of the barrel) I would take it. I was just delighted I was accepted. Mom, and Pop were ecstatic about it, after Pop got over the idea one of his kids was in fact not going to Yale (I think he was secretly delighted). Being outdoors people, Middlebury VT was almost an idyllic location, especially for skiing, or in the spring for fishing the New Haven River and its tributaries.
Late in the summer my friends, Toby Thompson and Brainard McGuire and I piled into Toby’s car (affectionately named the “Grey Ghost”, an old 1937 Chrysler.) and headed off to, Nantucket Island, via Martha’s Vineyard on a large ferry boat that served both islands during the summer. From there it was on to Montreal and Quebec Canada, including part of a night on the historic Plains of Abraham. We left home early with our packs and ice chest with sandwiches and drinks and reached Falmouth MA somewhere around 10:00 AM just about the time the ferry left. We didn’t take our car and as I remember it was a passenger only vessel. We stopped at Martha’s Vineyard where several disembarked. We stayed on board and continued on a rather lengthy leg to Nantucket. There we got off, and the ferry headed back to Falmouth. We grabbed lunch and walked all around (couldn’t afford much else). We were really impressed by the ocean and harbor waters regarding cleanliness, and color. We sure were not on Long Island Sound any more. We also got a really good look on how the upper 1/8th live. Not for us in the near future. The ferry returned and picked us up about 3:00 PM and dropped us back in Falmouth in the late afternoon.
From Falmouth we headed north to Montreal Canada. We got in a bit late, but found a boarding house (no bed and breakfasts in those days) where we collapsed for the night. It turned out the proprietor served breakfast, and a big one at that, so I guess we could call it a bed and breakfast after all. Much of the day we shopped around and toured Montreal including the small mountain that bears its name (Mount Royal). That afternoon, intrigued by the history of where we were, we thought it would be “cool” to camp out on the Plains of Abraham outside the walls of Quebec. That was the site of the shortest and most decisive battle of the French and Indian War (a part of the 7 year war between Britain and France). The French controlled Quebec City with a small army led by the Marquis de Monclam. In the dark of night on 13 Sep. 1759, a British force under the command of General Wolf scaled the cliffs facing the St. Lawrence River, surprised the French and with only one volley won the battle in which both Wolf and Montcalm were fatally wounded. The battle lasted less than 30 minutes in which the British prevailed, and yet was the most decisive battle of the entire war and probably in Canadian history, the results of which Great Britain took over complete control of Canada.
Our battle of the Plains of Abraham in August 1948, lasted about 30 minutes as well. The volleys were not from muskets but mosquitoes. Man were they ever fierce. All we had was one small mosquito net and we all tried to get under it. Someone (not me) had a really serious case of bad breath, and we could only stand that so long, so once again we beat a hasty retreat to the nearest boarding house that had a hot shower. Boy did that ever feel good. The lady running the boarding house was surprised we lasted that long. She said the plains were famous for their voracious and aggressive mosquito population. Next morning we elected to forget Quebec City and packed up and pointed to the “Gray Ghost” South and home, with all three of us feeling accelerated if not exhausted, and wearing Canadian blue red and white tamoshanters (“Tams”). Quite a 3 day saga for 3 young (and green) fella’s. A trip I am sure we all remembered while we lived (Toby died several years ago), and I lost track of Brainerd, though I dated his sister (Dixie) for a while. (DII-4)
The day after we got back home, Dick married Sela Wadams in the fall of 1948. Of course I was included in the procedures as best man. One of my duties was to strategically place the “getaway” car such that it was hidden, but handy enough for a quick and clean getaway. Well it was hidden, it was handy, and it was loaded and clean, and eventually served as a get away, and while many many words were used to describe the event, I would not describe quick as one of them. Out of habit I had just parked the car, pocketed the keys and melded back into the crowd. Boy oh boy was there ever a dust-up down near where I parked. I was wondering what it was when the dreaded words floated with considerable force above the crowd; “Where are the damn keys?” Uh-oh!! I quickly moved through the crowd and with a flourish (as though it was planned) I presented Dick with the keys with a hearty “Bon Voyage”. If looks could have killed, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this.
Before we get to Middlebury, let’s check to see what Miss Joyce Edwards has been about during the secondary years. Like me, Joyce seemed to matriculate through the elementary years and started her secondary education experience at Fairfield (Roger Ludlow) High like I did. In her sophomore year she transferred to Cushing Academy in Ashburnham MA. Again like me, it was her first foray away from home, but unlike me she was attending a co-educational institution. In the current era, this would be no surprise, but in the ‘50’s it was the exception and not the rule. Oh well, some people have all the luck, but on reflection it was probably just as well. There is ample evidence to the idea of co-mixing of sexes during the hormonal change period of life is actually not such a bright idea (any more and I am in trouble.)