I have many memories about attending school when I was a child. I loved learning, but sometimes there were personal obstacles I had to face that made school a little less enjoyable. Some obstacles I learned to overcome quickly, but others took more time.
I began my school years at Sacred Heart in Danbury. I never questioned why this child from an Episcopalian family was attending a Catholic school. I often wonder why I didn’t ask, but before it occurred to me, everyone who might have known the answer had died. In spite of that, I think I have come up with the most obvious reason for my attendance there.
The school was located only one street away from where I lived. Because my mother worked nights, my grandmother was my caregiver during the day. She had a heart condition, so perhaps it had been arranged that I would attend the school that was closest to where we lived so she didn’t have to walk me to school. A friend told me recently that Catholic schools did accept non-Catholic students then, but an extra payment or donation would have been required in addition to tuition.
At first I was really afraid of the nuns in their long black habits, veils, and rosary beads. I had never seen anyone dressed like that before. I was so upset one day that I ran home during lunch hour recess, hoping my grandmother would let me stay. She comforted me and then sent me right back to school.
I never was tempted to do that again. I became comfortable with the nuns, especially the one who taught our class. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her sweet face and nice smile. And she was very nice to me. Perhaps she felt sorry for me because I was so uncomfortable with the unfamiliar church services and religious instructions that were part of our school days.
That was the year when I caught almost every childhood illness and overall lost about a month of school. Years later I found my report card and was pleasantly surprised that the teacher had praised my efforts in catching up with the class despite my frequent absences.
For grades two through eight, I attended the Consolidated School (now Center School) in Brookfield. It was a difficult transition, from Catholic school to public school. Because of my mother’s marriage to Stanley Gurski, I also had a new father as well as new grandmother, uncles, and cousins. It was a year of many changes, so it’s no wonder that I have no strong memories of second grade.
Third grade was different, and perhaps it was because I received some special attention. I owe it to our teacher, Mrs. Martin, that anyone is able to read my handwriting. My printing was adequate, but my cursive was so very small you couldn’t distinguish the letters from each other. I remember the time she spent with me after school, showing me how to write larger without overly compensating. She had so much patience.
I don’t know what was going on during fourth grade, but nothing seems to stand out. I loved to learn, though I was not so thrilled about oral reports and current events. I think fourth grade was when I first became uncomfortable speaking in front of the class.
From my desk I could participate, but there was something about standing up and having all eyes on me that made me want to run for cover. This shyness lasted throughout the years until high school, when one of my teachers there helped me confront my fears and have more self-confidence in making oral presentations.
One of my teachers obviously loved flowers. While covering an event as editor of The Brookfield Journal years ago, I spent a few minutes talking with Mrs. Tucker, my fifth-grade teacher. She told me she would always remember how I had once brought her a fringed gentian, now an endangered species but plentiful in the woods on our farm.
When I was 12, I received a gift of my first camera, and I often took it to school to take photographs of friends and teachers. I treasure these pictures as well as the photograph of our graduating class. Those 30 girls and boys are an important part of my memories of the Consolidated School. That June was the last time we would be together. Most of us went on to Danbury High School, but others attended private or other local schools, such as Newtown High or Henry Abbott Technical School. Our time together was at a close.
The teachers at the Consolidated School were among some of the best I ever had. They prepared us well for high school and for life. Many of the things that I enjoy doing today and the way I live my life were rooted in that small, white schoolhouse on Obtuse Hill.
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