Here is a creative little piece from a fellow grad - thanks Kent!
Hi Cathy. Use another blog piece? Hope to see a few folks this weekend. Kent
BHS Confession, or Admission with Embellishment
A number of BHS alums wrote "confessions" about days at Burbank High but that expression brings an image of being hunkered down in a sort of a booth trying to come to honest terms about your place as a sinner in need of reconciliation with the Father. Not being brought up eihter Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox my picture is probably more influenced by television and cinematic fiction than fact. Anyway the following is offered as a sort of admission if you will but not an eye-witness account. Well, at least not exactly an eye-witness account given that the writer wasn't there and perhaps no one else will bother telling the story whether or not it actually happened.
So let's say it's the 1965-66 school year at a place called Burbank High somewhere in California and a group of juniors with intelligence scores supposedly reaching into the triple digits are taking a largely literature-based English course from an instructor we will name as Mrs. Saly Harding. Spellings for purposes of this story are optional but this particular instructor does enjoy teaching especially students she believes are capable. She is not above scolding them for the act of plagiarism and that is fair. And so the class journeys on for two semesters through the likes of Billy Budd, JB, The Scarlet letter, The Great Gatsby, and other works including some poetry.
It's a tough course meant to provoke thought and to improve study habits especially given that the teacher completed her Bachelor's degree in a mere three years rather than the traditional four. But her grading standards are high and at the end of the year some students find themselves graded lower than the typical "A" to which they'd been accustomed.
And so, in a spirit of good will and possible naivete, the very bright Mrs. (or was it Ms?) Harding explains to her students that the course was indeed very challenging and in case their admission to the institute of higher learning of their choice should be jeopardized by a relatively low score in junior English here on the chalkboard is her home address in order for the college or university admissions powers that be to get back to her to verify that it was a truly difficult course graded quite strictly because Mrs. Harding will not return to teach at Burbank High the following year.
Wow. What a swell teacher. And so the students go forward with their lives a little less wounded thanks to the knowledge that in the future Mrs. Harding will help them in spite of a grade lower than an "A." Or make that most of the students.
Not to say that Burbank High students have always shown the utmost respect and regard for the automobiles and homes of their instructors. Some unfortunate and briefly-delinquent scholars may have surrendered themselves to the temptation to hurl rolls of toilet paper over the roof of a given coach or other faculty member, but certainly none of them had been the students of Mrs. Harding. Of course.
Which might make us wonder why an automobile carrying three, maybe four, fine young people from Burbank High should be cruising through neighborhoods in the community of La Crescenta in search of a given address on Pontiac Avenue (or was it Potomac?)one fine late-spring Sunday morning which just happens to be shortly after the close of the school year. That is, if it actually happened. And did I think to say that in the trunk of the automobile is a cross of noticeable size even though Easter Sunrise Service took place more than a few weeks before. Oh, and a can of flammable liquid of some kind just in case they need to do an emergency cook-out trekking back through the Verdugo Hills on their return to Burbank. "Be Prepared" and all that.
Courageously venturing onward our unnamed automobile trio/quartet (in no particular order let them be known here as Roos, Reg, Rolf, and maybe Rad) address words of encouragement to one another on the way to destiny:
"You dimwit! I thought you said you looked her address up ahead of time."
"Just shut up and watch the street numbers. We should have been there already. Just let me drive, okay?"
"So why don't these streets go all the way through the way they do in Burbank?"
"You're not in Burbank, Dorothy!"
"I gotta bad feeling about this."
"Maybe that's it. No, another dead end. If we ever find her place we'll probably need another hour to find our way the heck outta here."
"Turn there. Is that the number? Okay, just drive on and let's park around the corner."
"So you have a lighter or matches?"
"No, I just figured we'd ring her doorbell early in the morning and ask for some, and she'll say, 'Oh, what a nice surprise and what a lovely cross! Did you come by to discuss the traditional concept of God and the existence of evil in the world?'"
"Hold it. A cop just drove by."
"Where?"
"I saw a black and white drive by a block or two behind us?"
"LAPD or County Sherrif?"
"I don't know. What's the difference?"
"County don't take prisoners!"
"Oh, (delete)!"
"Just keep an eye out and let's get out of here."
"Hey, put the cross on the ground, THEN pour the gasoline. Not in my trunk. Can't you figure anything out?"
"Just keep the motor running and DON'T leave too fast!"
Well, legend has it that news accounts of "that disturbing incident in La Crescenta" may have had something to do with a story similar to what you've just read. Of course today it would be classified easily as "hate crime" (make that Thought Crime) and someone would have been in Big Trouble. Only I wasn't really there. Honest.
Copyright ©2008 Kent J. Barcus all rights reserved. Permission granted to Cathy J. Palmer for BHS'67 Blogsite.
Hi Cathy. Use another blog piece? Hope to see a few folks this weekend. Kent
BHS Confession, or Admission with Embellishment
A number of BHS alums wrote "confessions" about days at Burbank High but that expression brings an image of being hunkered down in a sort of a booth trying to come to honest terms about your place as a sinner in need of reconciliation with the Father. Not being brought up eihter Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox my picture is probably more influenced by television and cinematic fiction than fact. Anyway the following is offered as a sort of admission if you will but not an eye-witness account. Well, at least not exactly an eye-witness account given that the writer wasn't there and perhaps no one else will bother telling the story whether or not it actually happened.
So let's say it's the 1965-66 school year at a place called Burbank High somewhere in California and a group of juniors with intelligence scores supposedly reaching into the triple digits are taking a largely literature-based English course from an instructor we will name as Mrs. Saly Harding. Spellings for purposes of this story are optional but this particular instructor does enjoy teaching especially students she believes are capable. She is not above scolding them for the act of plagiarism and that is fair. And so the class journeys on for two semesters through the likes of Billy Budd, JB, The Scarlet letter, The Great Gatsby, and other works including some poetry.
It's a tough course meant to provoke thought and to improve study habits especially given that the teacher completed her Bachelor's degree in a mere three years rather than the traditional four. But her grading standards are high and at the end of the year some students find themselves graded lower than the typical "A" to which they'd been accustomed.
And so, in a spirit of good will and possible naivete, the very bright Mrs. (or was it Ms?) Harding explains to her students that the course was indeed very challenging and in case their admission to the institute of higher learning of their choice should be jeopardized by a relatively low score in junior English here on the chalkboard is her home address in order for the college or university admissions powers that be to get back to her to verify that it was a truly difficult course graded quite strictly because Mrs. Harding will not return to teach at Burbank High the following year.
Wow. What a swell teacher. And so the students go forward with their lives a little less wounded thanks to the knowledge that in the future Mrs. Harding will help them in spite of a grade lower than an "A." Or make that most of the students.
Not to say that Burbank High students have always shown the utmost respect and regard for the automobiles and homes of their instructors. Some unfortunate and briefly-delinquent scholars may have surrendered themselves to the temptation to hurl rolls of toilet paper over the roof of a given coach or other faculty member, but certainly none of them had been the students of Mrs. Harding. Of course.
Which might make us wonder why an automobile carrying three, maybe four, fine young people from Burbank High should be cruising through neighborhoods in the community of La Crescenta in search of a given address on Pontiac Avenue (or was it Potomac?)one fine late-spring Sunday morning which just happens to be shortly after the close of the school year. That is, if it actually happened. And did I think to say that in the trunk of the automobile is a cross of noticeable size even though Easter Sunrise Service took place more than a few weeks before. Oh, and a can of flammable liquid of some kind just in case they need to do an emergency cook-out trekking back through the Verdugo Hills on their return to Burbank. "Be Prepared" and all that.
Courageously venturing onward our unnamed automobile trio/quartet (in no particular order let them be known here as Roos, Reg, Rolf, and maybe Rad) address words of encouragement to one another on the way to destiny:
"You dimwit! I thought you said you looked her address up ahead of time."
"Just shut up and watch the street numbers. We should have been there already. Just let me drive, okay?"
"So why don't these streets go all the way through the way they do in Burbank?"
"You're not in Burbank, Dorothy!"
"I gotta bad feeling about this."
"Maybe that's it. No, another dead end. If we ever find her place we'll probably need another hour to find our way the heck outta here."
"Turn there. Is that the number? Okay, just drive on and let's park around the corner."
"So you have a lighter or matches?"
"No, I just figured we'd ring her doorbell early in the morning and ask for some, and she'll say, 'Oh, what a nice surprise and what a lovely cross! Did you come by to discuss the traditional concept of God and the existence of evil in the world?'"
"Hold it. A cop just drove by."
"Where?"
"I saw a black and white drive by a block or two behind us?"
"LAPD or County Sherrif?"
"I don't know. What's the difference?"
"County don't take prisoners!"
"Oh, (delete)!"
"Just keep an eye out and let's get out of here."
"Hey, put the cross on the ground, THEN pour the gasoline. Not in my trunk. Can't you figure anything out?"
"Just keep the motor running and DON'T leave too fast!"
Well, legend has it that news accounts of "that disturbing incident in La Crescenta" may have had something to do with a story similar to what you've just read. Of course today it would be classified easily as "hate crime" (make that Thought Crime) and someone would have been in Big Trouble. Only I wasn't really there. Honest.
Copyright ©2008 Kent J. Barcus all rights reserved. Permission granted to Cathy J. Palmer for BHS'67 Blogsite.
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