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For reliving the sheer terror and nervous joys of adolescence, there is no better
repository for reminiscing than Tiffin Junior High School circa the late 1950šs.
Like lambs to the slaughter, we seventh graders dutifully left our small neighborhood
grade schools in fall of 1958 for the cavernous confines of the red Gothic citadel on West Market Street.
Having made a summer foray to the school on bicycles with my pal Dave, I thought I was ready.
The principal, Mr. Mazzaferro, gave us a friendly tour on a quiet morning in July.
Yet on the first Tuesday after Labor Day, what could have prepared us for the mob
that awaited us near the Center Street entrance?
The scene was akin to the observatory sequence in James Deanšs "Rebel Without a Cause."
Hapless seventh grade midgets walked into a wall of freshman doorkeepers reeking of
rank, privilege, and Vitalis. One lanky ectomorph with an Elvis smirk required a
shoe shine from a cringing twelve year old with a book bag. Another pompadoured
upperclassman strategically placed his size 11 engineer boot on the narrow steps
to trip the stunned newcomers. Elsewhere, along the railings, another cool phalanx
in starched chinos and Ivy League striped shirts presided over the chaos with
patrician detachment.
Once inside and free from the gauntlet, we found our homerooms. Alphabetical seating was the norm, and I was placed behind an inmate who looked like a younger version of Jack Oakie, the old movie comedian. This guy had been a student at TJHS since approximately 1947 and reeked of Chesterfields and Wildroot Creme Oil.
Every other day, he turned around and wheezed "Gimme a pencil". He had a crush on the girl in front of him. After sticking her with the pencil, he mutterered endearments like "Hey four eyes". Then he'd make exquisite kissing sounds with his lips. If the teacher wasn't looking, he would cup his hand under his shirt and break off a few armpit blasts before putting his head down on the desk for a nap.
As time passed, we fell into the routine. Gym class provided endless thrills. On alternate days, we had gym and health. The gym coach would throw out the balls for a session of dodge ball or smear. He would then leave us to our own devices while he would polish his nine iron form along Center Street.
"Steal the Bacon" and "Swat Tag" were two favorite indoor games. In the latter, we would stand in a large circle facing inward. A wet towel was placed at random in someone's hand. This person could then pursue and towel whip the next person all the way around the circle. As in dodge ball, swat tag settled many scores. Thusly, to cries of "get the lead out", the 'A' students often felt the sting of vengeance for their academic success.
Our health teacher, Miss Fox, commanded much respect. She was about 25 and was glamorous like Della Street on "Perry Mason". All the seventh grade boys developed an intense interest in the nuances of good posture, nutrition, and the basic food groups that year.
Seventh grade basketball was coached by a dapper math teacher who wore bow ties and resembled Robert Q. Lewis. After teaching us the art of the bounce pass and reverse layup, he would bring us to our knees in the sadistic "squeeze the lemon drill". After practice, many Dads would be lined up in warm cars waiting for us at 4:00 during that recessionary winter of 1959.
Friday noon gym dances introduced us to the social scene. Although the wallflowers festooned the yellow brick walls like flies, there were precocious seventh graders who actually danced with girls. Most of us had no idea what to do except gape, while the taller and better looking upperclassmen escorted the seventh grade girls onto the floor to stroll, fly, and pony. Close dancing to Johnny Mathis, Paul Anka, or Connie Francis
was strictly monitored by faculty chaperones who kept things at a safe distance.
Discipline was strictly enforced within school boundaries. However, the A&P parking lot was sometimes the scene of some memorable grudge matches. One, some of you may recall, involved two of the toughest boys in school who duked it out to a capacity crowd while shoppers threaded their carts around the melee..
The freshmen boys drove motor scooters, either Cushmans or Lambrettas. At lunch, the social crowd skipped over to Frankie's Lighthouse for a cheeseburger and fries. The Sandusky River spawned a new strain of pollution from old tests, papers, and workbooks deposited there off the Market Street bridge. We bought savings stamps on Tuesdays and tracked the Cold War in "Current Events" magazine each week.
The hipsters wore heel plates that clicked through the halls. I recall seeing a freshman singing "Volare", the Dominico Meduno hit recording, as he walked down the hall. He was dragging his heel plates and nodding his head as he enunciated the stacatto "oh, oh" refrain. That was the epitome of cool in the fall of '58.
We became increasingly fashion conscious. For younger readers, imagine the cast of "Grease" with a larger population of non descript nerds. The "Ivy League" look demanded "chinos", now called Khakis, (with a belt in the back), striped button down shirts (with a belt in the back), and thin metallic belts with two buckles (with a belt in the back). Tiffin barbers specialized in the new "flat tops" and crew cuts with plenty of Butch Wax.
Girls wore saddle shoes (with a belt in the back) that signified whether or not you were going steady depending on the buckled or unbuckled status of the belt in the back. The poodle skirt era was almost over by '59. Fuzzy sweaters were popular.
Spooked by Look Magazine stories about "juvenile delinquency" and the Charles Starkweather muder spree of the previous year, our parents lived in fear that we might become "JD's" or hoodlums. While TJHS had its share of rebels and tough individuals, most of us were not much different than adolescents from the bygone eras of Andy Hardy or Corliss Archer. Substitute Danny and the Juniors for Glenn Miller.
Our idea of rebellion was smuggling Mad magazine into Mr. Meerbach's music class or engaging in bad taste fashion fads like those promulgated by Bill's Economy store downtown. For a time in '59, iridescent Hawaiian floral print shirts were the rage. Concurrently, it was cool to affect a jaunty corduroy Alpine fedora with two-tone rope band and feather a la Frank Sinatra. I have a photograph of myself at the age of 13 wearing my tent-like shirt and snazzy red hat. Add pegged chino flood pants and stiletto toed loafers, and you have a small town rube ... not James Dean.
We became car crazy, but -being 13- we built AMT plastic car kits and "customized" our bikes with candy apple spray paint and flame decals from Western Auto. I replaced my 26" front wheel with a 20" one and reversed my handlebars. One fine day while whipping down Charlotte Street hill, I drove my stiletto loafer into the pavement near Columbian Stadium and catapulted myself into the stones. So much for a drag racing career.
Our adolescent senses of humor ran wild. One of my eighth grade friends was known for his laughing jags. He would see something, usually a car of some kind, clasp his stomach, and literally collapse on the floor laughing like a hyena. One day, while walking home in front of Bill Tate's Ice Cream Parlor, a gray jalopy pulled up at the light. It was a typical rusty '53 Ford painted with gray primer, teetering on a 45 degree rake, souped up to an extent with a leaky manifold glug-glugging to the nervous foot of its driver.
The driver, a well-known drop out with a nasty disposition, was not to be mocked. Hearing the rumble from this heap juxtaposed against the smirking silhouette of its owner replete with upswept hair with side parts and full waterfall must have pushed my friend over the edge. Or maybe it was the cigarette stuck in his ear. Whatever, my friend collapsed to the sidewalk choking . For an eternity, I stood contemplating St. Joe's steeple waiting to be annihilated. Finally the light changed, and -like Robert Mitchum in "Thunder Road"- the hood peeled out laying rubber for a quarter mile.
For a while, the Soupy Sales show gripped our fancy. We greeted each other at school like Black Tooth and White Fang. "Oh leh, eh, eh." with appropriate inflections, positive or negative after a math test. We'd watch "Lunch With Soupy" on Saturdays and hit each other with the one liners on Monday. Saturday afternoons would find us at the Ritz watching films like "Sink the Bismark" or "The Blob".
Eventually, the school year drew to a close. We finally finished our cedar boxes, book cases, and plastic letter openers with roses in the handles for Mr Cole's industrial arts class.
We put together an impressive display of World War II memorabilia in Mr. Krause's World History classroom. We had successfully navigated split infinitives and dangling modifiers in our English course. We had finally solved the last math problem on Miss Heckman's black board. Summer, 1959 was almost here.
Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper had died. The quiz show and payola scandals were behind us. We were using Clearasil now and trying out shaving lotion. The sixties were just around the corner. Next fall, we would be upperclassmen and would show those green seventh graders a thing or two about Tiffin Junior High.
TCO Posting - 4/14/02
Archived - 9/29/02
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