A MOST HAPPY FELLOW

Ta-da-da–da-da de Dah de dah ta dah de dah!  Dah–de dah…

Every time I hear a John Phillips Sousa march I am taken straight back
to East Side School in the 1950s!  Every day I attended East Side in
Dalton, Georgia, I marched in along with all the rest of the students
to recorded marches blasting from strategically mounted loudspeakers
all around the brick building.  We lined up by classes at assigned
doors at opening bell every morning at eight, and after morning and
afternoon recesses.  There were about 40 children in every line
because that was about all the desks you could cram into one
classroom.  When students exceeded that number, the county had to hire
a new teacher.  Sometimes that teacher had to teach a split
class–perhaps half fourth graders and half fifth–in order to make
the numbers work.  As time went by, the county had to build a
barracks-like building in  back to handle all those extra classrooms,
and, eventually, a whole new brick addition to the original building.

Sousa marches also bring back the smell of wooden floors cleaned by
oiled sawdust, the dusty smell of chalkboards, the popping and
cracking of radiators in winter and, in growing season, the smell of
fresh plowed dirt blowing through open windows.  Then there were the
smells of books–some soft cornered and dark with age, showing hints
of mold–but occasionally we got a new textbook with sharp corners and
crisp pages.  Those books were splendid and seemingly faultless in
looks and content!

Much later I discovered that East Side had the poorest kids in the
entire county.  My siblings and I were among the poorest of those.
But we were blessed with teachers who cared.  With only a few
exceptions, they were outstanding.  Some, including the best teacher I
ever had, did not even finish college. Miss Albertson read to us every
day and she used her own money to buy crayons and paper for “art
period,” which we had maybe once a month.  Another teacher bought
watercolor sets and paper from his own pocket and had watercolor
lessons on Friday afternoon if, and only if, the class had reached the
goals that were written on the chalkboard every Monday morning.  We
had a class tutoring system for kids falling behind in math, reading,
spelling, or whatever.  I needed lots of help in arithmetic, but
helped those with reading problems.

Reigning over this little kingdom was the Sousa-loving principal, John
A. Cantrell, who must have been in charge of music appreciation.  He
was the happiest principal I have ever encountered–as a student or a
teacher, or otherwise.  He was strict when the situation called for
it, but he was fair.  Paddling was reserved for extreme cases. His
praise meant everything.  He visited every classroom just about every
day and he loved to single out people that East Side could be proud
of.  He always had a little joke or two to tell before heading back to
his office to choose which Sousa records to broadcast for the next
end-of-recess march.  At least, that is all I ever pictured him doing.

His methods worked.  Some East Side failures might be out there, but I
never met any of them.  Mr. Cantrell, you did a good job!