John R. Rogers

She's the One--Mrs. Cunningham at Logan Grade School

by Wyatt Newman

One's high school years begins before even entering high school, primarily in the 8th grade. So it was for me at Logan Grade School (or was it "Logan Elementary?") the school on the border between the Rogers and North Central attendance areas. Half my classmates went on to become North Central Indians, none of whom have I ever seen nor heard from or about since graduation day in June, 1956. How I became a Rogers kid I don't really recall. I remember discussing it with a friend, Jack Rojan (who did indeed begin his high school years at Rogers but left considering it a socially inferior school). I think it was he who I followed to Rogers because I remember him telling me the tales of Rogers life his older sister, Vicki had related to him.

Life has those occasional Zap! moments, those epiphanies that affect what one does in his future. So it was with me in Mrs. Cunningham's class, my 8th grade teacher who taught the social studies and English lessons. Science and math were taught by Wayne Connors. I have no recall of Mrs. Cunningham's first name , so she remains "Mrs. Cunningham," the only teacher I had whose first name I can't remember, even though she was the catalyst that inspired me to become a teacher of history and government.

If that Logan classroom on the second floor in the northeast corner next to the stairway still existed as it was, I could go to the second row that faced the front, second seat, and remember that SHAZAM! bolt that struck me as I was listening to Mrs. Cunningham telling us something about history. She was dignified as usual, wearing her usual teacher's uniform, a grey dress. I thought to myself, "I think that's what I'll do, what she's doing. I want to be a history teacher." I would have been 13 or 14 at the time, depending on what time of year it
took place.

She never got angry or rattled. We all respected her. She let us be normal 8th grade kids who could talk with our classmates, quietly, so unlike some teachers, she didn't put any clamps on our social life in the classroom. Her directions for assignments were clearly given and challenging enough to make them interesting. She graded fairly, making me feel good when I did well and understanding what I did wrong when I goofed.

Mrs. Cunningham, as part of our English instruction, I reckon, organized the class into a newspaper staff. We published a few issues of the school paper. I don't remember exactly what my staff assignment was, but I do remember staying after school doing some editing and setting the paper up for printing on the old mimeograph. I've always thought that if I didn't teach, I'd like to be a newspaper man. She, again, must have provided the interest.

I also will give credit to Mrs. Cunningham for her creativity in learning methods. She wasn't a "read the book and answer the questions at the end of the chapter" type. Yes, we did that, but not entirely. The text was a starting point of a lesson, but she would have us go on to more interesting projects. One she had us do, a major production actually performed in front of the whole school and parents, was the re-enactment of the then popular "Sixty-four Thousand Dollar Question" quiz show. She was the production and casting director, determining who would do what. The academically blessed kids got to be program guests who answered the questions asked by the show host, Hal March. Remember him? The cutest girl got to play the role of the lady who ushered the guests onto the stage, an early version of Vanna White. I don't know why she chose me to be Hal March, but I sure had fun hamming it up. In my teaching career, I chose to go way beyond the textbook in my assignments. She's the one who made me realize school doesn't have to be boring.

It also was interesting, and I would use this little tidbit in my own history classes, that I had a teacher who actually saw Charles Lindbergh flying overhead on his way to Paris in 1927. I remember her telling us how she looked up and was amazed at what he was trying to do in such a small airplane. Having seen the "Spirit of St. Louis" myself at the Smithsonian, I understand her amazement.

I've always believed that if a teacher changed the life of even one student, then she or he was successful. Based on that, you were successful, Mrs. Cunningham, wherever you are.


-Wyatt

Mrs. Olivia Harris

By Ed Mauget

Do you remember Mrs. Harris? No, she wasn't a teacher. She was a librarian in the Rogers library.

I thought of her when we toured Rogers during our 40th reunion in 2000. The library had been moved from its center position on the second floor to what seemed to be the entire outer east wing of the second floor. There, I saw the old card catalog poised to be removed. It had been replaced by a computerized database. Part of me wondered why that had only just happened, but at the same time I felt like I'd walked into a wake. Computers have been good to me, but I'd almost rather have not seen the old oak card catalog case poised for a trip to God-knows-where. It certainly was a finer piece of furniture than any computer I've seen.

Mrs. Harris helped me carry out several "database searches" on that card catalog. She referred to me as "Eddie," not as "Mauget," as most of the teachers called me. Of the other hand, I would have been thrown off my guard if Mr. Laverne Mabbott or Mr. Larry Coleman ever called me Eddie.

I needed to study during study hall. This was basically a foreign concept to some of my peers. I had an afternoon study hall in George Molchan's hall. It was impossible to study there, since the skids liked to play scenes from the 1955 movie, Blackboard Jungle, in there. George seemed helpless to prevent this. It was okay to go into the adjoining library to study, so I usually studied in the library. I like libraries anyway, but wasn't much different from the worst of my peers in other ways, at times.

As I write this on Halloween, I remember the time a bunch of us sat at a table and decided to play "séance." We held our palms over the table, lifted it with our knees, and hummed weird musical saw music. I thought we were uproariously funny. Truthfully, It STILL seems funny. Then I did a bad thing.

I was situated at the table corner near the aisle. Mrs. Harris came over to ask us to please stop. I rested by elbow on the table and rested my chin on my fist in a kind of thinker pose. She stood beside me looking down the length of the table. I looked straight across the width of the table, 90 degrees from where she was looking. Thus my arm, hand, and head were right in her line of vision. I decided to show off for the boys. I slowly raised my middle finger beside my head.

There was silence for a moment. Then I heard Mrs. Harris, say in a small disappointed tone that trailed off: "Eddie." I froze, pretending that I wasn't doing anything wrong. Then she gently took my finger and folded it back alongside my other four fingers. I had wrongly assumed that adults didn't know this gesture.

I felt my hot blood warm my neck and face, I was totally embarrassed because I actually respected and liked her and I didn't want her to know me as, it turned out, I really was. I compounded the mistake by not ever apologizing to her. I wish I could talk to her about it now. I'm only left with the long view that this was a life lesson. Mrs. Harris taught it gently, as well as any parent or teacher.

-Ed

P.S. Where is Mrs. Harris in the 1960 Treasure Chest? I find janitors, but not the library staff.  Did I miss a page?