As promised, Steve Blue appears.  Another input totally different from all others.  Long, but well worth the time.  Very interesting and entertaining stuff....

 

“So…Where Did You Go to School?”

 

(Steve Blue, HGHS ’60, May 2020)

 

Young people everywhere throw out this question as an opening challenge upon meeting a stranger who has intruded into their midst.  Asking someone where they went to school is the slightly more polite and genteel version of “Where are you from?  Where did you grow up? Who are you?”   Young people are curious, uncertain, overconfident, impulsive – even apprehensive.  What they are really asking is “Are you like me?”  “School” is a good metaphor for the process of maturing and gaining knowledge and experience.  It includes the structured, formal, instructional environment of the classroom under the guidance of teachers.  And it includes the chaotic, experiential, spontaneous, informal environment we enjoy with our friends, families, social associations, neighborhoods and extended society.   My main mission in life for the first 18 years was to grow up, to complete a childhood highlighted by multiple

moves between three continents and punctuated with incredible experiences, opportunities, life lessons and exciting times.   My “School” came in a wide variety of settings and shapes, each distinctive and unique.

 

So…Here’s where I went to school.

 

I was born in Colville, Washington in April 1942.  Why Colville?  Because my Dad was working on a road project associated with Grand Coulee Dam on the Columbia River, and that’s where my folks were when I showed up.  World War II was barely five months old, as far as the United States was concerned, and the country was spinning its wheels trying to mobilize.  My Dad was

29, married, with a kid, and certainly not draft eligible.  But he was a Civil Engineer and a responsible citizen, the Navy needed talent, so he signed up for Navy Officer Candidate School, spent three months in Rhode Island, then shipped out to the Pacific with the 93rd  Construction Battalion – Seabees.  Spent the next two and one-half years island hopping across the South Pacific – Marines capture an island, Seabees come build a port and an airstrip, Army moves in with troops to hold the island and planes to bomb and strafe the other guys.  Repeat.  My Mom and I returned to Seattle, where both my parents were from, for the duration and I busied myself learning how to walk, then run, then fall down.

 

Dad returned at the end of 1945 and we moved to Napa, California, north of San Francisco.  He worked for the US Soil Conservation Service, dealing with agricultural and soil surveys, irrigation water delivery and helping farmers improve their crop production.  I worked on reducing my rate of falling down, but by the time I turned five I had over a dozen stiches on various parts of my young body.  I had a cap pistol and a Red Ryder Daisy lever action BB rifle that was as long

as I was tall, and that I could barely cock.  There was a happy gang of four to six-year-olds in the neighborhood; we played a lot of Cowboys and Indians, climbed the nearby hill, flew kites in the spring, bossed around our pet dogs, and generally were carefree kids.  On reflection that sounds a lot better than my vision of today’s pre-school and kindergarten.

 

In 1948 Dad signed on with a US engineering consulting firm which had a project in Salta, Argentina.  They needed someone with his skill set for a year long assignment, working with an Argentine engineering outfit and the Provincial public works authorities.  So, we saddled up and headed for South America.  But not until we completed a round of immunizations for various exotic diseases, obtained passports (was on my Mom’s passport) and tried to figure out what would be essential to take along.

 

In 1948 international travel was quite a bit more primitive than today.  Aircraft were generally propeller driven, four-engine types like the DC-4 and DC-6; many airlines outside the US used DC-3’s (twin engine tail-draggers) for local service.  The route from Napa to Salta included: San Francisco to Los Angeles, then to Mexico City, then Guatemala City, then Managua Nicaragua,

then Colon Panama.  At each stop all the passengers unloaded into the local terminal, the crews gassed up the plane and stirred up the baggage, and finally we got back on board, minus a few folks and with a few new ones.  We stayed overnight in Colon, just to get a decent meal and clean up a bit.  Then onward, through Bogota Columbia; Quito Ecuador; Lima Peru, Santiago Chile, and over (actually, between the higher peaks of) the Andes Mountains, to Buenos Aires Argentina.  All this adventure courtesy of Panagra – Pan American-Grace Airways, who ruled the skis in South America for years.  In B-A we connected with Zonda Airlines, the Argentine domestic carrier who loaded us onto a DC-3 and headed north through Cordoba and Tucuman to Salta, Argentina.

 

Our home for the next year was the Hotel Salta.  Salta was a graceful old Argentine city, nestled in a high plateau valley at the eastern base of the Andes, center of a farming and ranching region with the usual combination of Spanish influence, native culture, and seasoning by a range of European immigrants.  Many Germans had settled in Argentina during the 19th  and early 20th  centuries, and there was a huge influx of Germans immediately after the War.  Juan Peron was the President of Argentina and his wife Eva Duarte was at her zenith in influence (“Evita”).  While we were in Salta there were only two revolutions – actually, provincial civil disorders or enthusiastic riots.  Both were quashed in short order; the hotel management told us to stay away from the windows (stray gun fire) but otherwise they were non-events.  I remember looking out from our balcony at troops and tanks in the plaza below, thinking “This is cool!”  It was instead a window into the precarious state of Argentina’s economic and political situation under Peron’s very heavy thumb.  From the early 1900’s Argentina has been a classic example of Paradise Wasted – so much potential, so few results, so many frustrations, so little progress.

 

Finally, I was old enough to go to a real school!  There were two American families in Salta; Bussey’s had two kids.  The three of us walked daily to and from Escuela Normal, the nearby elementary school.  Billy and I were in primo grado, his sister two years ahead.  We wore school uniforms – short sleeved white shirts with a gold embroidered Escuela Normal patch on the pocket, and blue short pants.  Shoes were optional.  The language barrier quickly fell – I soon spoke Spanish, complete with Argentine/Castilian accent, as well as many six-year-olds.  I still have today (thanks to my Mom’s unfailing packrat instincts) a workbook from school – pages filled with written numbers, written letters, the numbers spelled out – “uno, dos, tres…” and short sentences.  All in passable cursive.  My Mom once asked me how I was able to understand the teacher so quickly.  I told her “I don’t know what she’s saying, but I know what she means.”

 

In addition to school we would explore the city, visiting markets and stores, taking in the sights in the plazas and occasionally traveling out into the countryside.  There was a stable at the edge of town where I launched my lifelong career in equestrian catastrophe.  I’ve been thrown by some of the finest horses on the planet, and it all started in Salta.  My horse was called Blanca (white) because she was – well, white from hoof to nose.  She would generally behave, walking and trotting around the ring, occasionally paying attention to the reins, until she’d had enough. Then she would maneuver right up to the railing, trying to scrape me out of the saddle.  After getting dumped a few times I learned how to bend my railing side leg back over her rump and lean down and hang on to the saddle horn.  It wasn’t pretty or graceful, but I kept in the saddle. I have today on the wall of my study two braided rawhide quirts with which I tried to convince Blanca to behave.  To little effect.

 

We returned to the States in 1949, to Salt Lake City, where my Dad worked for the US Bureau of Reclamation, doing more water resource development projects.  We lived in one rental house for a short time, then moved to another, so I wound up attending two elementary schools.  I remember little of them, other than they were within walking distance and were old, one-story brick buildings.  Perhaps the most memorable activity then was Cub Scouts.  I learned later in

life that Scouting is a Very Big Deal in the LDS church (for which Salt Lake City is ground zero). We attended an Episcopal church, and even it sponsored Cub Scout Packs and Boy Scout Troops.  I took to Cub Scouts with a vengeance and soon was on my way to being awash in Goldand Silver arrowheads under my Wolf, Bear, Lion and Webelo’s badges.

 

The Salt Lake City episode lasted just one year.  My Dad signed up with another engineering consulting firm for what was supposed to be a “short term” assignment in Greece.  The outfit was Tippets-Abbett-McCarthy-Stratton Engineers – TAMS - at 62 W 47th  Street (later, 375 Park Avenue) in NYC.  After the War, the US initiated a program of foreign assistance in Europe,

Africa and the Middle East designed to aid recovery from the damage of war.  The Marshall Plan addressed physical, institutional, cultural and political aspects of recovery in several nations, evolving from assistance to overt influence to counterbalance the increasing reach of the Soviet Union as we transitioned from a shooting war to what became the Cold War and the USSR transitioned from ally to opponent.  The initial Marshall Plan assignment in Greece focused on developing water storage and conveyance facilities to improve agricultural irrigation; what started as “short term” grew into several years and many more projects.

 

Note: I just finished reading Wilfred McClay’s “The Great American Story: Land of Hope” and heartily commend it to your appraisal.  It covers American history from pre-Columbian days up through the current administration, at an admitted overview level of detail, but sufficient to bring events to life.  There is a cliché – “History begins the day you were born.”  This captures the attitude of some that past events are largely irrelevant and what really matters is what is happening NOW.  I of course disagree – understanding the past is essential.  As I read the last several chapters, beginning with World War II, I found myself literally saying aloud “I remember that!”  I was no longer just reading history; I was reviewing events in which I participated – if only to a minuscule extent.  I mention this because by the time we went to Greece, I was eight years old and could remember what went on and was aware of the historical significance of some events.

 

Heading for Greece entailed many of the same challenges as did heading for Salta.  More inoculations, passport updates, travel plans.  Now we would be flying across the Atlantic, so the aircraft was upgraded to the venerable Lockheed Constellation – a four engine aluminum tube with a triple tail and a droopy nose and a very narrow cabin into which they squeezed many, many six-seat rows.  The route of travel was equally convoluted.  We left New York’s Idlewild Airport on TWA (“Travel With Angels”) bound first for Gander, Newfoundland, then Shannon, Ireland, then the milk run of London, Paris, Rome, Athens (our destination) and finally Beirut.

 

The foreign community consisted of diplomatic corps folks, various military types, and expatriate civilians like us.  Americans, Brits, French, Swiss, Belgians, a few Scandinavians.  The Yanks and Brits had already set up a school system – the Anglo-American School – which was staffed by a veritable Commonwealth of talent.  There were actually two school facilities – the elementary school (1-5) in the village of Psychiko and the secondary school (6-12) in Kifisia.  In the elementary school we all attended one home room, with one teacher who covered the basics of reading, writing, arithmetic.  Many of the parents ferried their kids to school, but the

AAS also provided a bus system of sorts – comprised of a fleet of British Army troop carriers –

olive green, with wooden benches along the sides and a gate door in the rear, driven by a

British Army soldier.  The challenge was to commandeer the front passenger seat – the one that could be raised and the hatch above it opened to expose the machine gun mount (sans machine gun).  We tried in vain to enforce a “boys-only” rule for this seat – didn’t work.

 

Life at the elementary school was pretty laid back – I don’t remember any particular challenges on the academic side.  We had plenty of outside time – two recesses and lunch break – and time for games, soccer, playground equipment like swings with wooden seats hung on chains, teeter-totters with splintered wood seats, merry-go-rounds with steel pipe handles and slick

metal surfaces (none of which would pass safety muster today).  Marbles was a big thing among the boys; the girls did jacks.  Several of the boys worked to perfect their mumblety-peg skills – virtually every kid had a jack-knife in his pocket.  One day, for no reason I can remember, I got into a scuffle with another kid in the playground.  He was way taller than me, so it took a while to get him down onto the ground, where I proceeded to straddle him and punch the dog- stuffing out of him – until a teacher hoisted me high into the air and I swear, was ready to toss me over the fence.  The dust settled, we both grudgingly apologized to each other and shook hands and that was the end of it.  I thought.  Turns out the kid’s parents found out what had happened, and his old man wanted revenge.  And it turned out the old man was the United States Counsel, second dude to the Ambassador – a genuine big shot.  The principal convened a full assembly in the cafeteria, and I had to stand up in front of the whole crew and sincerely, publicly apologize.  Man! Did that chap my _ _ _!

 

It was also an object lesson in the class and caste system in place there.  The Americans and the Brits were primus inter pares, with the remaining Europeans relegated to “other” status.  And within the alpha group, the CD’s (Corps Diplomatique) and the military were first in line, and the rest of us were just expats.  The blessed ones enjoyed a commissary, a military exchange and a military hospital; the rest of us foraged on the economy.  But we did very well.  Some

interesting facts of life at the time:

 

•   We had running water.  Usually for four hours, two or three days a week.  Each house had a large tank on the roof, which we filled when the water came on, then did laundry, bathed, boiled water and put it into bottles for drinking, and accomplished other chores needing water.  Flush only when absolutely necessary.

•   Heating the house was via hot water running through radiators, with the water heated by a coal furnace.  Every couple months the coal truck came, dumped a load in the street and I got to shovel and wheelbarrow it into the coal bin beside the house.  Then I got to fetch periodic scuttles full of coal and feed the furnace.

 

•   The stove had a glass cannister that fed kerosene through tubes to each burner – an asbestos ring with a lever mechanism that raised or lowered it into a pool of kerosene. Kerosene came in large cans; it was definitely an outdoor project to punch a hole in the can, tilt it to fill the glass cannister, then take that inside and invert it into its stand at the back of the stove.

•   The most popular form of local conveyance was the horse-drawn carriage, similar to the carriages people pay large bucks to ride in Central Park (at least they used to).  As kids our gambit was to dart out onto the street as a carriage rolled by, run up behind it, and hop onto the rear axle.  Done properly and with finesse, the carriage driver didn’t know you were there.  But land too hard or have him catch a glance of you out of the corner

of his eye and expect the tip of the whip to come flying over the back of the carriage.

 

After a couple years I graduated to the upper school in Kifisia.  The school was close enough to our house that I could ride my bike to and from.  Here we had separate teachers and classrooms for different subjects, and the intellectual rigor ramped up significantly.  Mister David King was the headmaster, a Brit with a neatly trimmed mustache given to wearing vests with his coat and tie.  Science teacher was Graham Bruce, a young bachelor New Zealander who drove a 1936 Bugatti roadster – one of only six of that model made.  Mrs. Dickey, an American, taught music for those inclined to instruments and music appreciation to the rest of us.  Mrs. Papadopoulos, a Greek, taught math.  There were others whose names and expertise escape me now, but overall, I was impressed by the quality and dedication of our teachers.  There was never any question of classroom discipline – no one dared misbehave and risk getting sent to Mister King!

 

The school also sponsored the Scouts, so I was able to graduate from Cub Scouts into Boy Scouts and continue learning all kinds of useful skills.  We had a summer camp each year, went on overnight camping outings into the nearby countryside, and undertook various projects at our after-school Troop meetings.

 

Most of my friends were classmates from school but I did become friends with a few Greek kids who lived nearby; generally their fathers worked in some role with the expats so they had a little skill in English and understood why we were there.  These friendships and the fact that we spent a lot of time our in the local environment interacting with the population resulted in my achieving a fairly high level of fluency in Greek.  It has served me well over the years in encounters in Greek restaurants – drop a few select phrases with the owner

and often the meal would be comped and the ouzo flow freely.

 

There were two interludes in the six years we spent in Greece.  The first of these was in

1954 when my Mom had a severe back problem requiring surgery, so we all flew back to

Seattle where we had family to assist in this exercise.  On the way back to the States we

 

took a side trip through Africa, visiting Kenya, Tanganyika and Uganda on a motor safari around Mt. Kilamanjaro and to Victoria Falls.  Stayed overnight in Treetops, the bush hotel in which Princess Elizabeth and Prince Phillip had stayed and where they received word of George VI’s passing in 1952.  Then on to Johannesburg for a short tour of South Africa.

 

Dad returned to Athens and for about half a school year I attended Nathan Eckstein Junior High School (he was a local businessman and school board member) and got another taste of a “real American” school.  I have two memories of the place.  First, it had an excellent music program; I got signed up for coronet, sat in my first class, was fiddling with the piece of shiny brass, raised it to my lips and in a moment of bad judgement let loose a toot.  The instructor stopped in mid-sentence, stared at me, pronounced: “Well, you seem ready to take over this class.  Why don’t you come down here and teach us all how to play?”  That

was the end of my music career.  Second, I took Spanish as an elective.  And I aced that class

– it was unfair to the rest of them, but I never admitted to my year in Salta at Escuela Normal.  Mom’s operation was successful, and we returned to Athens.  The return flight was scheduled for Coos Bay, Labrador, then Shannon etc.  but half-way there we were

diverted by storms to the Azores.  Sat there for hours then returned to the original itinerary

– wound up spending 36 hours in planes and airports on that trip.

 

The second interlude occurred about a year later when Dad had to go to Lebanon on a short project assignment.  Mom and I set up a home study program with my teachers, and I attended the elementary school associated with the American University in Beirut.  We

were there for about three months and between the AU school and my home study program, I returned to AAS in Greece well ahead of the game.  At the time, early to mid-

1950’s, Beirut was considered the Jewel of the Mediterranean.  It was as cosmopolitan as Paris, with a history extending back at least five thousand years to Phoenician times.  Again, we camped out at a hotel for convenience, and were able to take in many historic sites both in and around Beirut and in the interior, such as Baalbek, a gem of ancient Greek and

Roman civilizations.  To remember what Beirut was, and to see what it has become today, is tragic.  Sadly, this destruction has been repeated throughout the Middle East.  So much culture and antiquity and history wantonly destroyed.  For nothing.

 

Our six-month short-term assignment to Greece had extended over six years.  The work opportunities for TAMS – and many other competitors- continued to expand.  From the initial beachhead in Athens TAMS had ventured into Lebanon, Turkey, Egypt, Ethiopia and Iraq.  Finally, in 1956 the workload in Iraq demanded more full-time resident staff, so Dad was tapped as office manager there, and we prepared for another move.  We, and a couple other families from the Athens operation, packed up and hauled our caravan east to Baghdad, on the Tigris River, in the heart of ancient Mesopotamia.

 

If Greece had been rustic, Baghdad was downright primitive.  Same deal with water – tank on the roof, service a couple times a week.  Kerosene stove.  No central heating; grab a sweater.  In Iraq – throughout the Middle East – if you planned on building a house step one was to hire a Bedouin to camp on the property and guard it.  Step two was to build a wall (broken glass shards on top) and install gates.  Then you could start working on the house. We rented a house that came with a wall and a Bedouin family that lived just outside the back wall – they were included in the rent.

 

There was an entrepreneurial Lebanese in Baghdad by the name of C. John Halkias.  He had, among his many irons in the fire, a furniture rental business so we had John’s crew deliver the necessities – living and dining room furniture, a stove, a refrigerator, beds, lamps, some floor rugs.  We had brought over our 1950 Chevrolet to Greece and it followed us to Iraq. Dad could drive, Mom could not (oh, she was capable – in fact a very good driver.  But in Iraq in 1956 women didn’t drive.  Period).  The office maintained a small fleet of 1955

Plymouth Belvedere’s with Iraqi drivers; these were available for shuttle service.

 

Most of the expat community sent their kids to boarding schools in England, Switzerland or France.  The local expat school served grades 9 – 12 and operated out of a small building near the American Embassy within walking distance of our house.  The faculty consisted of one teacher, a genuinely nice and personable and dedicated young lady whose name escapes me.  The student body consisted of sixteen kids – one senior, three juniors, five sophomores and seven freshmen, including me.  Our teaching tools were individual packets of instructional material tailored to the appropriate grade level – a senior pack, some junior packs, etc.  These were put together by an educational group at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, who had a contract with the US Government to provide remote learning support

– the paper and pencil and mail pouch equivalent of what is today called “distance learning”

and which has recently become quite popular.

 

In a nod towards structure we all tackled the same basic subjects – math, English, social studies, science – at the same time each day.  Other than that, you were on your own.  The packets contained reading material, assigned writing material, quizzes, comprehensive tests.  Each covered about two weeks of class time, at the end of which you bundled up your material and turned it in.  Teacher consolidated these and sent them off to U of Nebraska where each submittal was reviewed and evaluated – graded, with comments and suggestions.  These were packed up and returned to us.  The turnaround time, even using the Embassy diplomatic “pouch” instead of international mail service, was about three or four weeks.  To summarize:  complete module N; submit for review; start module N+1, complete module N+1; submit for review; start module N+2, receive comments and

 

feedback on module N; try to figure out what they are saying and why and what it has to do with what you are working on now; complete module N+2; submit for review; and so forth.

 

One of my classmates was a junior girl who kept a horse at a local stable.  After I dropped several not-to-subtle hints she invited me to go riding.  We would head out from the stable to a nearby levee, which had a wide flat dirt top, and use that as an equestrian trail.  Ride out a short distance, then return.  Switch riders. Repeat.  It was fun.  I headed out one day, on the third or fourth cycle, and when I tried to turn back the nag decided to get frisky. Took off in the wrong direction, at a dead run.  I shortly lost the right stirrup, strap and all

(English saddle) so I was askew in the saddle, right leg flailing, as we reached a sharp turn in the level  Frisky charged down the slope, encountered a creek at the bottom, leapt across with head lowered, and launched Steve into space, landing in a heap.  I awoke several minutes later lying on some blankets inside a mud hut, with several Bedouin women clucking over me, one dabbing a wet rag on my face.  Sounds outside – voices in Arabic and English – my pickup crew had arrived.  Relieved.  Another chapter in my riding career.

 

That was my freshman year in high school.  Although some of it had to have rubbed off my folks (to whom I am eternally grateful!!) decided this U of Nebraska program was not going to deliver what they expected of me.  My Dad negotiated a reassignment to the TAMS New York office, and in July 1957 we left Baghdad.  Since there was a whole office full of folks who lived in New York there was no lack of suggestions and recommendations for where to live.  Eventually they led to Chappaqua, and then to Seven Bridges, and then to 33 Ludlow Drive, a story-and-a-half brick and frame house with a large triangular lot, front and back lawn, white picket fence, some large trees, running water all the time, electricity that stayed on, a forced air furnace, an electric stove with an oven, telephones that worked, and –

television.  I had not been exposed to this cutting-edge technology and quickly became a big fan.  Up to this point my most exciting entertainment had been coaxing a short wave radio into delivering a signal from the American Radio Relay Base in Tangiers, streaming down the Mediterranean, with episodes of the Lone Ranger, the Shadow, the Count of Monte Christo, Straight Arrow, Tom Mix, Jack Benny,  Amos and Andy, and Fibber McGee and Molly.  And now here was Ed Sullivan, Steve Allen, Sugarfoot, the Rifleman, Dragnet, Sunrise Semester, Wagon Train and much, much more.

 

In the fall I started my sophomore year at Horace Greeley.  Initially I rode the yellow bus that came by each morning and dropped me off each afternoon at the intersection of Ludlow Drive and Seven Bridges Road.  Within a year I graduated to my fire engine red Model A, then to the Pontiac tornado. It took a while to adjust to this new environment but the more complicated and challenging classes became the more satisfying it was to study and learn.  I soon discovered I enjoyed high school. And then, in a flash, it was over.

 

When I pause to reflect on the years 1957 to 1960, they were filled with experience and learning and knowledge, the value of which I would not come to realize until many years later.  A few of the many folks who influenced my life over the next 60 years:

 

•   Dotti Tippa, head cashier at the A&P store in Mt Kisco, who taught me that I never, ever, wanted to be a union slug in a dead-end grocery store job (say, produce clerk)

•   Harold Bischoff, Ken Tice, Clarence Houmiel who introduced me to mathematics and science and the potential of engineering to improve lives

•   Sylvia Kurson, who introduced me to the beauty of the spoken and written language and its power to influence, persuade, guide, intimidate, coax and nurture others

 

Their guidance, and that of many others, will be the subject of another essay.  Or two.  Or more.  I have many more adventures to share, many more continents and countries to report on, and many more horse tails to tell.

 

A brief post-script.  As the senior representative of TAMS in Baghdad my Dad entertained several Iraqi and other dignitaries at our house.  Most travel in town was by chauffeured private car or taxi.  He had prepared a brass plaque on which was inscribed “John W Blue” and the Arabic phonetic translation.  This was mounted on the wall outside our house so drivers could see they were at the proper destination.  When we settled in at 33 Ludlow Drive, he mounted the plaque on the post by the entry gate holding the mailbox – just for the heck of it, why not?  Well.  The locals saw the plaque.  The locals didn’t know the difference between Arabic and Hebrew script, except they all looked like a lot of squiggles. This is 1957 and Seven Bridges and WASP central – my God!  Did we make a terrible mistake?   Letting these folks in?  Our next-door neighbor casually – too casually – corralled my Dad that weekend.  “So, Jack – very interesting plaque on your mailbox.  Tell me about it.”  So, he did.  “Arabic, huh?  Not Hebrew?”  “Yep.”  And Seven Bridges breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Case closed when we started attending St Mary’s Episcopal Church in the village. It was a revealing and consciousness-raising introduction to being back in the United States after living for years in societies made up of every conceivable race, religion, ethnicity and political persuasion one could imagine.

 

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