Sept. 05, 2007 - 22:20 MDT

NEW DIGS

At the ripe old age of twelve I was a big guy, ready to take the big step into Junior High. The school was just a block away from our house, but boggled my mind to be in school with the real big guys.

Of course every time I passed by the school the scene of my infamy stood tall, right on the corner of street and avenue. The flag pole which had flown my pants several times, thanks to the "big guys."

So I wondered what was in my future there.

The school had been Denver's original South High School, well built, brick and sandstone of older design, but a beauty none the less.

I was awestruck when I entered the building, it was all wood. Floors, wainscoting, doors and magnificent staircase.

I will always remember the smell of the floor mops that the janitor put some kind of scented oil on them to help pick up dust. Every school I went to as a child had that same smell, But Grant Junior High had it in spades.

It was where I learned much of who I am today. The print shop where I learned to set type and read upside down, the smell of the printers ink, the thrill of seeing paper printed with type I had set. And it was in real words too.

Art class where I learned the romance of making pictures of my own, making a book that had my words and dawings. How to draw margins in the proper measurements and proportions, it was all a thrill to me, next semester we each built our own book, fine paper, put together exactly as our textbooks were, sewed by each of us, and bound in the binding we manufactured. That gem has autographs from those days. It lives in daughter's house in Oregon today, she treasures it, don't know why but she does.

My main love, words was a source of joy and grief - both. I remember reading Prester John by Buchanan (I think) and getting deep into the story, we were introduced to poetry in Junior High as well, which fit into what Dad read to Mom and I at home. One semester I had an English teacher who was also an artist, she worked mostly in charcoal and had examples of her work around the classroom. That was the joy part for me. But the bloody bones of the English class was the grammar. I could speak perfect English, but the rules of grammar stayed behind in grade school where I missed a year. So, I failed miserably, each time we were tested. No matter how much the teacher stood up in front of the class and taught - - it was all Greek to me. The dear artist teacher used to spend time after school with me trying to tutor me and her hard efforts were in vain. To this day I don't know a participle if it is dangled in front of my eyes. A verb I know, a noun is a name - - - but what the heck is a pronoun ? And an adverb ?

The other dungeon was math, I had missed enough math in that year from school that I never caught up. And, looking back I realize that my eyes were getting bad about then. Our teacher would put lines of home work on the board for us to copy and do as homework, I got what I could, but it was too small for me to copy accurately.

But I learned much there, shop was another place, I could work with my hands as well as my mind, I hated to only have one semester of that.

So the school building, the beauty a block from my home with its sinister flagpole was a place of great joy and sadness. I did learn a bit about getting along with kids my age, was a member of the stamp club there which I enjoyed much. And I wasn't ready to leave there when the time came.

I guess every one took pity on me and graded me high enough that I was able to get into High School -- the New South which stands yet today, a super beautiful building.

And when September came I took my half fare (students rate) boarded the trolley, transferred to an eastbound bus South High bound to my NEW DIGS . . . . . . . . . .

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