One of my schoolmates posted this picture of my grade school. I had been searching for a photo for years and was so glad to see this one.
The memories came flooding back. Memories I had forgotten entirely. As I recalled those days, some fondly, and some not, I realized how much they connect me to the person I am today. Links forged one by one into a chain.
This photo was taken about 10 years before I started school, but Lincoln School didn’t look much different a decade later. I remember that it was an old building at the time, built in 1893 for a whopping $15,000. To a 5 year old, it looked huge and castle-like, holding secrets I couldn’t wait to learn!
It’s long gone now, of course, replaced by something much more modern – probably with carpet and air conditioning – neither of which were in the building I attended. It was barely heated!
It’s hard to believe I spent 6 years in this building. It seems long ago and far away.
I learned a lot in that old school. Much of it not “book-learnin’.” Many things shape us in ways we’re not aware of at the time.
Grade school went from first through sixth grade, when students transferred to a Junior High School for 2 years, or in my case two different schools for one year each, before transferring to High School for the final 4 years.
Lincoln School was arranged with 4 classrooms on each floor with a center area that served as a central entry to all 4 classrooms. Each floor had one drinking fountain with four spigots that were turned on with a hand valve underneath. There was no fire escape. We never considered that a fire might trap us on the second floor, with only one stairway.
What was in the attic and tower? I never thought to ask or even realized there was an attic or tower. Of course, one good ghost story would have fixed that.
Restrooms were in the basement to which we descended on wooden steps worn thin in the center and curved over time by thousands of childrens’ footsteps.
The basement also held a room large enough to accommodate two classrooms simultaneously that was used to view movies. Movies were a treat and we all loved movie day! Not every family had a television, believe it or not. We didn’t until I was in second grade and then we only received all of 3 channels, on a good day, by adjusting the rabbit ears.
Those movies arrived in black reel canisters and sometimes much to our disappointment, the film would break, creating a loud flapping slapping sound. The lights would come on, the teacher would attempt to rethread the movie, and we would hope she was successful and that we hadn’t missed too much!
Ahhh, those were the days.
The Lay of the Land
Looking at the photo, above, my first and second grade classroom was the same room, located the back left lower quadrant with two windows showing in the photo. The two taller center windows on the left side were coat hallways, one per classroom.
My third grade classroom was on the second floor, immediately above the first and second grade room.
My fourth grade classroom was the top left front quadrant, with the turret.
I wonder why only one corner of the building had a turret.
My fifth grade classroom was the right top front quadrant.
My sixth grade classroom was the right rear quadrant on the top floor, out of view from this angle.
The playground was in the rear of the building. The school took up about 2/3rds of a block, with the playground taking up the balance of that block.
We didn’t have a public kindergarten. Most kids started school in first grade. It’s a wonder any of us can function today, without pre-pre-school, pre-school, pre-kindergarten and then kindergarten. Somehow we managed.
Oh, and another thing. We walked to school – and home for lunch as well.
Yes, at 5 or 6 years old.
No one kidnapped us and we didn’t get lost either. Times have certainly changed.
We crossed a street too. Or in my case, two streets. One of those streets was “paved” with bricks.
For really busy intersections, as defined by “busy” of those days, which is pretty much deserted today, we had safety patrols. Patrols were either 5th or 6th graders and they helped the younger kids cross safely. Being a patrol was an honor. No adults were involved. The intersection right beside the school had patrols on all 4 corners.
At school, we shared drinking fountains and played kick-ball outside at recess every day except for the coldest days of the year when we played inside instead.
I think, but I’m not positive, that this was the dress I wore on the first day of school. I was proud as punch to be walking all by myself. I didn’t turn 6 until a month or so after school started. I almost had to wait another year to start school.
I was oblivious to the fact that my mother watched me, from a distance, of course, the entire way to school. I’m guessing she cried as well, but I was way too excited and too busy to notice – focused on the future that day, and the school in front of me, beckoning with it’s come-hither promise of secrets soon to be revealed.
Mrs. Malone was my first grade teacher.
I was so excited to finally be old enough to attend school. Not to mention that I got one of the “big desks.” You can see that the desks ranged in height for the students. I was always tall for my age.
I’m the third row back, at the end of the row just to the left of Mrs. Malone’s left arm. I remember how much I loved all of the various exercises. Spelling, compound words, telling time. They were all my favorites! I carry that same type of love and enthusiasm for genetics today.
In the back of the room, the red perpetual calendar on the file cabinet was so much fun because we replaced the month name and arranged the days in the proper sequence each month. And those kites. Each student made one and we decorated the room before the photo was taken. Creativity flowed! It was springtime.
I loved to read the Dick and Jane books. I exasperated my teacher by reading the books right away, then had nothing to read with the rest of the class. By the time I was out of first grade, I had read all of the second grade books and the school was debating what to do with me. “Skipping a grade” in that school system at the time was unheard of. It was discussed as an option, but given that I was already the youngest child in my class, it was also pretty quickly dismissed.
Out of sheer boredom, I began writing my own stories. I still do. You’re reading one:)
In first grade, I learned just how much I loved to read and the world opened up before me. I read voraciously. National Geographic magazines in the classroom showed me how large and interesting the world waiting for me was. Now, I’m a National Geographic Genographic Project affiliate researcher, and the world is larger than I ever imagined, expanded exponentially by our own history written in DNA.
My favorite game was “duck, duck, goose.”
This photo is so painful. I remember those bobby pin curls so…painfully. And Mom cut my bangs too. I HATED that. Ugh.
I wouldn’t smile with my mouth open, because I had teeth missing! Now I wish I had.
In Lincoln School, we had a phenomenon called a split class. That happened when there weren’t enough students for two full classes of a grade, and too many for one. One poor teacher, who I’m sure lost some kind of straw-drawing event, got to teach half of a class of one grade and half of another.
The good news is that the students in split classes were generally the more advanced students in each grade, so there was less need for direct teacher contact. It was generally a smaller total student count too.
My second grade class was a split class between first and second, and I was VERY PROUD to be in a split room. Mrs. Malone was my teacher again.
This was the year I learned how good it felt to excel. I got to help the teacher a lot as well, which I loved.
This was also the year that a dog bit me outside the school before class, although I never understood why. I was frightened and told the principal who just happened to be standing near the steps. He took off running and followed the dog home so I wouldn’t have to take rabies shots. Bless that man. I had no idea what a favor he had done me until my own child had to take rabies shots a generation later.
Mom still cut my bangs. I still hated it.
Third grade wasn’t a good year for me.
The week school started, or the week before, my father was killed in a car accident. No one knew what to say, so no one said anything at all, including my teacher. Everyone simply acted like nothing had happened, but my world was turned upside down with grief.
I didn’t much care for my teacher, Mrs. Copley, not pictured here, and she didn’t much care for me either.
Mrs. Copley asked each child what they wanted to be when they grew up. Boys wanted to be soldiers, policemen, firemen and such. Girls wanted to be secretaries, nurses or teachers. Except me. I don’t remember what I said I actually wanted to be, except that it wasn’t a typical “girls” career choice. Mrs. Copley told me I had to pick something else. I refused by remaining stoically silent. I couldn’t think of anything on the “allowed” list that I wanted to be.
My other memory of that year, which is not fond whatsoever, is that another student was running in the hallway that ran beside each room. We hung our coats in those hallways, on hooks and entered the classroom from the rear.
Running was forbidden. The other student was running in front of me, and I knew she was going to get into trouble, so I dropped back a bit. I didn’t want the teacher to think I was with her.
She ran into the room, and quickly took her seat in the rear. Mrs. Copley looked up to see me enter the room. I hadn’t been running, but the teacher of course thought that I had. She took me into the hallway, called the neighbor teacher to watch and paddled me with a board. The entire school knew. Mrs. Copley knew full well I was not a student who disobeyed or lied, so why she chose to do what she did is beyond me.
I swear, she wanted to break my spirit.
I was horrified and humiliated. I felt dirty and soiled, even though I hadn’t been bad. And worse yet, many of the students in the rear of the room knew I had been wrongly accused and then disciplined, yet not one spoke up on my behalf. I saw them lower their eyes, pretending they had seen nothing.
It was in November of that year that Mrs. Copley and the rest of the teachers were suddenly called to meet with the principal. It was unusual for them all to be called at once into the center “court” between the classrooms, leaving no teacher to watch the students in the rooms directly. We could see the teachers and we knew something was going on, based on their body language. The principal was touching them, putting his arm around some, which was something we had never seen before. Some were holding each other.
Mrs. Copley returned and told us rather matter-of-factly that President Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas. Not one of us had any idea where Dallas was located. I remember staring out the window, into the sky. More death. In the last three years, both of my mother’s parents had died and my father 3 months earlier too.
We had lots of questions and she had no answers. She seemed cold, but I suspect she was trying to be strong. Children take their queues from adults. We knew our world had changed, but we were clueless as to how. Many were frightened. We heard crying throughout the school, and some parents came to get their children.
Third grade was also the year that I fell on the playground, chipped my front tooth and drove a piece of asphalt into the palm of my hand. That asphalt finally worked its way out about 10 years ago.
I was very glad for third grade to end. I surely didn’t look very happy in my picture.
This was the year that I learned life wasn’t fair. Thank goodness for 4th grade, or I’m afraid this year would have begun a downward spiral.
Mom still cut my bangs, but at least it looks like I talked her out of those awful bobby pin curls.
Fourth grade with Mrs. Wartenbee was much better and a very exciting year for several reasons.
First, we got to play the flutophone, also called a recorder and tonette elsewhere. That was a rite of passage. The school provided the instruments, so everyone received their own flutophone and got to play. We were so excited and so awful, to begin with, that we must have surely woke the dead.
Second, we had music class, which I dearly loved. Unfortunately, from third grade, the previous year, we could hear music class next door, but we had to wait until we were older. That had been torture.
This was the year I learned how music touches and lifts the soul.
Better yet was the spelling bee that occurred every May in Mrs. Wartenbee’s class. EVERYONE knew about the spelling bee and couldn’t wait to participate. We practiced for months. The whole school was abuzz about this every year so we had been looking forward to “our turn” for three entire years which seemed like an eternity.
The winners formed the royal court and there was a special afternoon procession. I was pleased for the winners, who were my friends, but I was utterly MORTIFIED by the word that laid me low.
I’ll, I (eye), apostrophe, l (ell), l (ell). Right?
No? So, I got to try again.
Because I knew I was right, I said the same thing a second time.
That was a mistake, because I was out at that point.
I forgot to say the word, “capital” before the I (eye) in I’ll.
Just the same, I was in the spelling court, sitting on the step at right in front. I got to wear my “Sunday” pink Easter dress, my new shoes, and my white gloves. The spelling court was a very big dress-up deal!
Ironically, today, as adults, several of us in Mrs. Wartenbee’s class remember which exactly which word tripped us up. And I’d wager we’ve never misspelled it again.
And yes, bobby pin curls AGAIN. My bangs were so short because Mom couldn’t cut a straight line. She kept lamenting that they weren’t even, and kept trying again.
Fifth grade was a split class again, between fourth and fifth. Mrs. Holtz was an awesome teacher whom everyone loved. She complemented every student about something regularly, finding the best in everyone.
Mrs. Holtz was either widowed or divorced. No one knew for sure. She was very mysterious, and we lapped that up.
She had lived and taught in Hawaii, and regaled us with stories of her life and students there.
She spoke about different cultures and the story I remember most vividly is one where she explained that one of her students had a “pet louse” that came out of his hair and ran around on his face. We were all utterly horrified, but she used that example to teach us about how people in different cultures perceive and believe things differently. My head itched anyway.
Fifth grade was the year I began wearing glasses. I loved them because I thought they made me look smart. Mrs. Holtz told me that! And like cat-woman too. Pretty cool for being 10.
I got to borrow my Mom’s special necklace for my school picture.
Sadly, I wanted to play in the school band, but we couldn’t afford an instrument. Such a letdown after the wonderful flutophone experience the year before. Thankfully, today rentals are available for students and schools provide some instruments as well.
This was the year that I realized how much money, or the lack thereof, shapes opportunity. Somewhere in the back of my kid-brain, I knew that I wasn’t going to let that happen to me once I had an opportunity to prevent it. Mrs. Holtz made it very clear that education was the vaccination against poverty.
And Mom was getting progressively worse bang-trimming.
Sixth grade was also a split class between fifth and sixth grade.
Our teacher, Mrs. Moss was wonderful and so inspirational. This might have been her first year out of college. She seemed more like us, closer in age. The girls talked to her about their problems.
This was the year that the school system changed to “new math” and no one, not even the teachers understood new math. Everyone, including the teachers hated it. I recall vividly, in sheer and utter exasperation, asking Mrs. Moss if I would ever in real life need to use base 8. She pondered a bit, and finally said no, she didn’t think so. I then proclaimed that I was done with base 8 and shut the book with an air of finality.
Of course, years later, when I was studying computer science, I needed to learn base 8 and programmed using base 8 as well as hexadecimal. Karma, I’m sure.
Sixth grade was the year of standardized testing and I remember when our results came back, Mrs. Moss took each of us aside individually and explained what they meant.
No matter what the results revealed, she was very positive, highlighting each student’s strengths with upbeat suggestions about what might help as well. Everyone looked forward to their turn receiving their test scores and no one came away disappointed or upset. That alone is an amazing accomplishment for a teacher.
Mrs. Moss told me that my capabilities were exceptional and that I could be anything I wanted. I learned right then and there what percentile meant and how ranking worked, although I must admit, I was shocked at where I placed. I took her at her word, however, and emboldened once again, pronounced that I wanted to be an astronomer. (Take that, Mrs. Copley.)
Mrs. Moss looked rather stunned, swallowed a couple times and told me that I wrote very well too. She said that I should be a scientist that writes and said she wanted a copy of my first book. She told me she expected great things of me, although looking back now, she probably told every child that, because that’s the kind of person she was.
Self-expectation is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
This was the year that I realized my potential was boundless and life was an open book, literally. A ripe fruit waiting to be harvested.
I wonder if Mrs. Moss would be interested in a DNA report or would like to subscribe to my blog. Not exactly what she had in mind at the time, but authoring has changed dramatically, as has science.
My “first book” was actually a computer science paper, years ago, presented at a conference and included in book format in the conference proceedings. The next books were technical manuals. The first book that was what she probably had in mind was about Y2K in municipal government. I’m not thinking she was interested in that either. The common thread was and is making complex subjects easy to understand. She nailed that one!
I don’t even want to discuss these bangs. Or those horrid spit curls.
It’s OK to laugh!
The fall of 1967 would see all of the former 6th graders from Lincoln School walk another few blocks to Pettit Park. We still walked past Lincoln School, mind you, but we were much too old and mature to even notice. Lincoln School was so last year!
One big change was that we ate lunch neither at home nor at school. Pettit Park, like Lincoln School, had no cafeteria, but it was too far to walk home and back in the allotted time, so a few of us who lived most distantly ate at a small diner/soda fountain type restaurant near the school.
I learned about budgeting my lunch money for the week and that I could buy a large pickle for less than a sandwich and get just as full. I learned about priorities, like shakes instead of hamburgers, for example.
Pettit Park isn’t a lot different today, although it’s an elementary school and not a Junior High anymore. The red quonset hut type structure was the gym and the entire facility was a much more contemporary building than Lincoln had been.
It seemed quite large and sophisticated at the time.
The big change, aside from the school itself, was that we would rotate classrooms every hour. We had lockers and home rooms, but no more class pictures.
My home room teacher was a man, Mr. Michner, and on one of the first days of school, he dropped a “hall pass.” Both of us grabbed to retrieve the slip of paper before it hit the ground, and wound up clasping hands, missing the hall pass entirely. Both of us were horribly embarrassed, and the entire classroom, including Mr. Michner, laughed until we were in tears. At 12 years old, EVERYTHING is embarrassing. I wanted to DIE or at least shrink out of sight.
We had gym class, and horrid gym outfits with miserably embarrassing communal showers, but no more outside recess. Lincoln School never had a gym, so that was new, but not something I enjoyed except for volleyball and square-dancing. Although I hated to square-dance with the boys in those horrid gym outfits.
We were becoming young adults. My mother finally allowed me to wear nylons that year.
This was the year I learned to sew and I began making my own clothes which I dearly loved. Eventually, I made quilts from my clothing scraps. I continue sewing today, but mostly quilts with fabric purchased for that purpose.
And yes, just in case you wondered, I finally got old enough to refuse to allow mother to cut my bangs.
My mom gave me the special ballerina neckace, which I cherished for many years until it was stolen a decade later.
In 8th grade, we changed schools again and walked another mile or so to Lafayette Park. Lafayette Park had a cafeteria and lunch cost either 30 or 35 cents, I can’t remember which. Students weren’t allowed to leave at lunchtime, which seemed odd since the year before, we ate out unsupervised.
I learned that rules often have nothing to do with logic.
The school was flat and nondescript, but the social environment wasn’t. Now three schools had been merged into one, and there were more friends, sports, clubs, opportunities and tween-age drama.
I entered the world of boyfriends, much to my mother’s chagrin.
We had these awkward social events called “sock-hops”, dances in the gym, where groups of girls would cluster together chattering like magpies and boys would egg each other on to approach the girl-cluster and ask one to dance.
Then, both people got to embarrass themselves in front of everyone else on the dance floor. God forbid a slow dance would start. What to do? What to do?
Or, horror of horrors, she might just decline the dance invitation – in front of everyone. He would be humiliated and ruined for life.
Sometimes, kids would “go steady” too. The boy would give the girl a masculine ring of some sort and she would wrap it with angora floss because it was too big to wear otherwise. That ring was an unbelievable status symbol and source of pride. We even carried toothbrushes in our purses, not to brush our teeth, but to brush the floss on the ring. Oh and the floss had to be color coordinated with our outfit of the day too. There were rules you know!
Sometimes she gave him one of her rings too, and he wore it on his little finger or on a chain. Breakups rivaled the worse soap operas in the media today and hormones were raging. Much sobbing occurred and everything seemed like a matter of life and death. Then it all started over tomorrow.
There is not enough tea in china to convince me I want to be an 8th grader again!
At the end of 8th grade, a true transformation took place. Not only were we now officially teenagers, we also would transition to the high school for 9th grade. There, we were “freshmen” not “9th graders” and we would no longer walk past Lincoln School on the way to and from school each day. Once again, we would be free at lunch, which became yet another social event.
Lincoln School was part of the childhood we were racing away from at breakneck speed, eager to be 16 and drive and then grown up – the land of being able to do exactly what you wanted to do, when you wanted to do it. Or so we thought. Little did we realize that freedom came with a pricetag.
Lincoln School was all but forgotten, and wouldn’t be remembered again until many years later, when her students, scattered to the winds, would once again begin to gather on Facebook.
A special thank you to John McClain, my Lincoln School classmate for providing me with the class photos. None of mine survived.
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I love writing about my school experiences, too. You are so lucky to have some school photos of yourself and the class. They never took any of those at my elementary school. How I wish they had!
It if weren’t for my mother saving my photos, and my classmates saving his class photos, I wouldn’t have any at all.
I enjoyed reading about your grade school days. Naturally you were a top student!!! I’m about a year and half older than you judging from the dates in your class photos. Wonder if any of your classmates have taken DNA tests?
Good memories! I share some of them. I hated it when Mother cut my bangs as they were always embarassingly short. I played the Tonette which looked a little different that your Flutophone. My Tonette was black and had a closed end rather than the horn like end on your Flutophone. The teacher passed out the Tonettes and then opened a big box full of colorful cases and let each of us choose the one we wanted. There were so many colors and patterns that I don’t recall there being any two alike. The school i attended was Myna Thompson Elementary in Rantoul, IL. I was both surprised and delighted to find the Annual at Ancestry. It was included in the J. W. Eater school’s book. Eater was the Jr. High that I was so looking forward to. I spent a lot of time at Eater because there were so many extracurricular events and things to do there. Sadly my Dad got transferred the summer between elementary and Jr. High and I never was a student at Eater (other than being in the yearbook). My best school memories are of Myna Thompson and J. W. Eater. After school, Myna Thompson had dance and music classes and other things to do. It sure was hard to go home.
Well my grandmother hit on another way to cut my fringe, cellotape had just come on the market she use to comb the hair down, put a length of cellotape across it and then cut through the middle. This worked a real treat for me as my hair was very straight when it was cut too short in the front it just stood right out at an angle from my head now that was embarrassing.
It is astounding to me that you remember so many details from your elementary and middle school days. You have an incredible memory … no wonder you’re such an outstanding genealogist!
Events that traumatize, embarrass or frighten you stay in your mind forever.
Most of us had a Mrs Copely they are bully’s of the highest order, I always thought ours were old maids frustrated by the war and unable to find a husband. However the reality probably was that was the way they were treated at school and they just passed the method on. (spare the rod and spoil the child) But for a sensitive child it is hell and they seem to know the one they can pick on that will send a message to the rest of the class. Other children dare not support you because they get the fear message. Their is a psychology based on this that shows when you are young your first loyalty is to family and as you get older the circle widens. Unfortunately it can scar you for life and is the reason so many adults hate math or have no confidence in themselves as it was knocked out at school.
I love your stories.
I loved reading your childhood experiences. Mine were quite different because they were in an earlier era. and less “sophisticated”. But the description of the floor plans of my Benjamin Franklin Elementary School were about the same as yours. I still have a picture made long after I attended school there, but as a historical building, nothing had changed. The school burned many years ago, so I am glad I have the picture.
My Junior High School building, not named, was abandoned by the school system and then sold to the Kroger store chain. Kroger renovated it into one of their chain stores with several doctor’s and insurance offices sharing the building. .I have lots of memories of the two years I spent there including walking to school and on cold days cutting through the waiting room of the L & N Depot to warm a little. It was also my first experience with segregation signs.–separate waiting room signs and a sign by the water fountain that read WHITES ONLY. I remember thinking, “there’s something wrong here”. My racial conscience was beginning its education too. Several years later, during World War 2, when I left for college on a train from the same station, the waiting room signs were still there.
I was luckier than you with an older sister who was a beautician I didn’t have to worry about uneven bangs, but pin curls, yes, they were the fashion of the times !
Keep writing, we appreciate your Genetic information and instructions and your family experiences that made you the lady you are! We are twice blessed !
Helen, what a sweet thing for you to say. I too remember the “colored” and “white” drinking fountains, but not in that school. Segregation was in full force at that time. I hope you share your memories too.
I don’t know if I was fortunate or just ignorant. As an “Air Force Brat” I was mostly ignorant of segregation. It just did not exist for me during most of my childhood. It wasn’t until the 60s that I actually became aware of segregation. About 1959/60, my Dad’s AF career took us to his new station in Selma, AL. This was a short time after the march from Selma to Montgomery. I was in the 6th grade. I was still mostly untouched by Civil Rights and segregation as I attended school on base. There were a few incidents in school but they concerned a somewhat disruptive Spanish girl and a white boy with “long” hair. My teacher was cruel to the boy and embarrased him by pinning up his hair. The rest of us often, to my shame, made fun at or argued with the Spanish girl who did not speak English and flirted a great deal with the boys. She was fond of playing ignorant and lifting her skirts. Oh my! We moved on to GA in the 7th grade and I am still here. I remember when the city schools introduced desegregation. I was in High School. Only about 4 children were “bused” to the High School. There was little, if any, trouble that I recall. Students were masters at ignoring those that did not “fit in”. That included me as my ancestors were not born there – Lol! The 60’s may have included discrimination but, there was seldom a dull moment and I was glad to graduate from High School without too much damage and move on to Atlanta.
I remember those brick streets out in front of my grandparents’ place in Ohio. And over those bricks we had a horse drawn milk delivery wagon. Anything you could want from a dairy they had. The Helms man, by comparison, was pretty spiffy in a panel truck and blew a whistle to let folks know he was there. We kids would take the money my grandparents would give us and load up on bakery stuff sure to give us diabetes. And my cousins Butch, Sissy, Danny and MIke lived right across the street. We still had a water pump on the back porch there. We used a saw to drum up night crawlers in the back yard for fishing . Uncle Judy made a different alcoholic drink for every season. Wheat, corn, apples, pears. We knew when he showed up the German side of the family would help him dispose of the evidence. It was different on the ranch in Texas, and not as fancy!
I can’t believe how much your grade school looked like mine in Richmond, Indiana, but only on the outside. Inside, our desks were the old iron and wood kind where the back of the seat in front formed the desk of the person behind, and when the person in front wiggled, your pencil jumped on your paper.
Another wonderful story, Roberta.
As was said in one of my favorite movies, Dr. Zhivago… “It’s a gift!”
You said, “I learned that rules often have nothing to do with logic.”
How true. As a fellow computer programmer… we know…
Alas, only computers are logical…
Except when they are “frustratingly” so.
I’m sure you know what I mean! 😉
Do I ever!
My memories of being in class when we learned about the Dallas shooting stand out too. So many life stories here. Some good, some sad. Life, I guess. A good read.
Same thing here. Also remember the Cuban missile crisis where the kids laid down in the hallways with their hands over their heads for a few minutes.
We didn’t even know about that.
Me too. Forgot about that. Remember Pres. Kennedy speaking on TV that evening. It all scared me. I talked to my husband (who is the same age) about it once, and he didn’t even remember hearing about it when he was young.
I think the whole world stopped with shock when the Dallas shooting happened I was in the workforce standing at the counter where material was sold and I can still remember that scene vividly around me and the feeling of unbelief and shock we all felt as till up till then events like that only happened in History books.
can you please explain DNA, and DNA circles I have a family member as well as my self that don’t understand it. I have DNA circles connecting me one of my great grandfathers and his wife my great grandmother. and he just can not accept it. ty so much
On Tue, Jan 9, 2018 at 2:05 PM, DNAeXplained – Genetic Genealogy wrote:
> Roberta Estes posted: “One of my schoolmates posted this picture of my > grade school. I had been searching for a photo for years and was so glad > to see this one. The memories came flooding back. Memories I had forgotten > entirely. As I recalled those days, some fondly, and so” >
A Circle is created when you match DNA with someone, and share an ancestor in a tree. Everyone in the circle doesn’t DNA match everyone else, but the lines show you who matches who. However, every person in the circle does share that ancestor in their tree.
What a great answer a yours mine and ours situation. Then sometimes you discover that the person you thought just belonged to your cousin as his cousin, turns out to be yours as well with a connection you never even knew about.
This was wonderful!
Thanks for the memories and the laughs! The first picture looks like one of me. I won’t say exactly but close enough. From the first grade picture I see my hair was the same color as yours but my eyes are blue. Glasses were in 5 th grade, I was on safety patrol and remember making the “little kids” wait until there were cars coming so we could so importantly hold up our stop signs and lead them safely across the street. That ended quickly after the principal monitored us due to complaints from the neighborhood motorists! I think our childhood era was such a kinder gentler time than what the kids today are experiencing and despite all the wondrous inventions and electronics I wouldn’t trade my childhood world with todays for anything. After all we had the pledge of allegiance, God Bless America and the Golden Rule to guide us and respect for parents, teachers, and adults in general was a matter of fact not choice.