Did you go to summer school? Know anyone who did?
The first kid I knew who attended summer school was this guy, Danny, who I met in 8th grade. He’d flunked twice and taken summer school twice. This would be his last chance to pass 8th grade before they sent him to “the other school.”
Danny was the kind of person who seemed to have ‘dropout’ written on him since his first dirty diaper. We all know someone like him: at best, he showed up for school and slouched in a chair; at worst, he disrupted, disrespected or dismissed anyone and anything that smelled of education. And, as with many kids who had to repeat a grade (or two), he was also a big kid, as in “big for his grade.” He was the only boy in class who had real B.O. and actually needed to shave. The other boys nursed little peach fuzz mustaches and teased each other in their hilariously cracking pubescent voices. No one teased Danny, even though he’d done summer school twice. He’d kick the shit out of you.
He showed up for our first day of 8th grade, and I remember him sitting in the back row of Mr. Forman’s science class, shooting spitballs at the girls. He tried to copy my homework a few times, but I lost track of him when I left public school to attend Catholic high school. Turns out, Danny made it to 9th grade and went on to graduate from the county Vo-Tech school and become an electrician, a family man, and a contributor to local sports and civic organizations. Maybe summer school changed his life.
“School’s out for summer.
School’s out forever.”
— Alice Cooper, 1972
~~~~~
Like Danny, I went to summer school twice during my teens, and it changed my life.
In the summer of ‘77, Eddie had his driver’s license, and the KOA was properly staffed for the first time. Mom, still smarting from our move to culturally challenged coal-country, had determined that she could spring us free for a few hours, a few times a week, to take some “enrichment classes” at the regional community college. She handed us the course catalog, encouraging us to find something that held classes the same days, so Eddie could drive us.
In short order, we found a morning “Introduction to Jazz Music” class that appealed to us: me, a fledgling though indifferent clarinetist, and Eddie, an already-good trumpeter. He was totally into it. He absolutely loved playing by ear and jamming along to the records of his idols, especially Maynard Ferguson and Chuck Mangione. He really wanted to get better fast so he could take over the first seat in high school band. I wanted him to get better fast because when he missed a note, it was worse than nails on a blackboard.
We each also chose one afternoon course, to make the most of our 2-hour round-trip drives. I forget what he chose, but I clearly remember my choice: “Creative Writing 101.” I’d loved reading since I was old enough to crack open a book, and I began writing “creatively” when I was in first grade, doodling and writing silly stories about happy ghosts and pumpkins for Halloween, scribbling rhymes and riddles in my elementary school notebooks, often cracking myself up.
By high school, though, our English teachers seemed more interested in proper grammar and well-constructed paragraphs, and most of my writing came out as basic compositions, essays, or papers that read clearly, but left little to the imagination. They were personality-free; perhaps a reflection of the strict lay teachers and nuns who taught us.
Until that first summer school.
I remember the morning Jazz class and the teacher (Chuck, a bearded and jovial string bassist) pretty well, but for some reason I have only gauzy memories of that creative writing class, other than this one, which floats through my consciousness from time to time. We were near the end of the 4-week term, and one afternoon, our teacher said something like this:
“Take your pens and pads outside. Find somewhere to sit, alone, and spend the next two hours just writing. Write about anything you want. Write in any kind of form you want. Just fill some pages, and come back by 2:30.”
It felt like a test and it scared the crap out of some of us. No prompt. No format. No word length. No one to review your shitty first draft. No nothing. Silly me, I thought summer school for enrichment was supposed to be fun, something you enjoyed with other people, something without tests.
I walked out and across the parking lot, eyeing some benches. People were eating lunch, so I moved on. It was hot; summer-solstice-sun-blazing-at-noon hot. Before I knew it, I was sitting in an open field in the welcoming shade of an old oak tree. I looked for a Yellow Ribbon, and found none. I took the cap off my pen and stared at the blank yellow page of my legal pad. No one was nearby. I watched the sky and saw clouds that looked like Napoleon. Grasses waved. Birds called. Just as I began to nod off, a swarm of locusts told me it was time to write. And I did. I got so lost in their symphony and my words that the teacher had to send someone to retrieve me.
“We can't salute ya
Can't find a flag
If that don't suit ya
That's a drag”
~~~~~~
My second trip to summer school: June 1980, immediately after my high school graduation. We’d just sold the KOA and moved from Jim Thorpe to the small town of Emmaus, PA, where I knew exactly no one. We had no teenage neighbors, and Eddie was hardly around, since he’d landed a summer job in another state. Mary was M.I.A., doing what she did, running around like the high-school dropout that she’d become.
I had no summer job, other than helping Mom settle into the new house and doing chores for her and some neighbors. I was preparing for my new life at college, and I was just marking time.
Until Dad’s Big Idea.
“You need to learn to type before you go to college. The local high school has a summer class. Here’s the information and I expect you to enroll.”
Dad considered typing one of life’s essential skills. We had a Smith-Corona in the house, which Mom used, and he knew most college professors would require papers to be typed. He wasn’t trying to turn me into a future office secretary - he knew better. And yet, I rebelled. Typing was girls’ work. Typing was for girls on the “Clerical” track in high school. Typing was not for me, on the “Academic” track, writer for the high school newspaper. I used pen and paper.
“Uggggh Dad, I’m not gonna sit in some stupid typing class with dummies and burn-outs this summer.”
“Yes you are,” he commanded. “You need to get to at least 45 words-per-minute, and then you can quit the class.”
I walked into the classroom at 9 am on a Monday morning. It was already hot, and the classroom had no air conditioning. A big plastic box fan blasted from the teacher’s desk. A handful of teens slumped towards their typewriters. I found an open typewriter near the back, and said ‘hi’ to a few kids as I walked past. One said ‘hello’ back — a girl with long blonde hair, heavy mascara, and a huge macrame purse dangling from her chair. I noticed a hairbrush and a pack of Marlboros inside.
The teacher entered, and because he knew all the kids except me - they’d all flunked and were remedials - he made me introduce myself. It was, to say the least, painfully awkward. If The Breakfast Club had been released by then, you’d get the scene.
I paid attention, learned the QWERTY keyboard, and pecked away. The friendly girl was already pretty fast, but apparently she made lots of mistakes. I knew my goal was 45 words-per-minute, but it also had to be close to error-free. The flunkee-typists needed to be 95% accurate to earn a passing grade.
At the end of the first class, the friendly girl and I walked out together. She asked where I lived, and I told her. She made a fancy whistling sound, and said it was on her way home. She asked if I had a car. I did not. I’d walked and planned to walk home. She offered a ride. I took it, even though I knew her opinion of me would change. I desperately needed a friend that summer.
Three weeks passed and my typing steadily improved, although I can’t say the same about the others. On the day I notched my 45-word-per-minute / 95% accurate score on the typing test, I walked with my friend to her car. We drove to my house, where I said goodbye to her for the last time. She lit a cigarette, wished me good luck, and said “keep typing.” And I did.
“No more pencils, no more books
No more teachers’ dirty looks
Out for summer, out 'til fall
We might not come back at all”
~~~~~