Certain images about U. City remain the freshest, even after 40 plus years.

     One is that of sitting across from Harris Jackoway in his office as we reviewed the results of my drosophila flies experiment.  Harris Jackoway was one of those rare, great teachers.  I thought so then, and later, too, when my husband and I chose a Temple for our family because Harris Jackoway had been its religious school director for so many years.     

     Another image is that of John Lang's orchestra classes at Hanley and U. City High from seventh through twelfth grades. Same teacher, same classmates for six years.  I'll always remember the smell of violin bow rosin—a combination of glue and house dust.

    And there was Robert Clipner's journalism class, when he threw an eraser over our heads at the chalkboard, and told us to write a lead about it for a story.  I've always meant to thank the English teacher I had the year before that for recommending me for journalism. 

     In the experimental combination American history/literature class in eleventh grade, our desks were arranged in a semi-circle facing the teachers, a novel approach for that era.  I regret that I had not understood the importance of the Vietnam report that Mr. Weidegger assigned back in 1964.  A written history and colorful map of the place just weren't enough.

    For some reason I remember U. City as it was in spring and summer, whether I'm thinking about the schools or about growing up there.     

    One image is that of sitting in a classroom—at U. Forest, at Hanley Junior High, or at the High School, on April mornings when the skies outside the windows darkened until they resembled nighttime.  Bolts of lightning and claps of thunder disrupted our class; the lights inside our room seemed suddenly brighter until they flickered off and on again throughout the storm.  I rarely see those kinds of storms in springtime anymore, but they were fairly common back then.      

     To a kid in the 50's, summers seemed endless.  Even without air conditioning they were enjoyable.  We played hours and hours of rubber band rope on the sidewalks in front of our homes, we launched into one handstand after another on luxurious zoysia grass, we fearlessly rode our bikes everywhere, even by ourselves, and we walked to Heman Park for swimming lessons, afterwards savoring the frozen Zero candy bars and the mustard we squeezed over our popcorn when we visited the concession stand.

     And of course we all remember our friends.  Some are gone now, and we remember them with an ache in our hearts, but with the same fondness and even love that we have for all the others.

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