On Kingston Time: The hinterlands of a childhood at Wolfle

Mr. Mackey had a hook for a hand. If you’re going to be an elementary school principal, there’s no better way to gain instant respect than to have a hook for a hand. It didn’t matter that Mr. Mackey seemed relatively mild-mannered – all he had to do was walk down the hall of the old Wolfle Elementary and a hush fell. Sure he had a paddle, and he used it from time to time, but for the most part, no one wanted to mess with the six-foot-tall man with a hook for a hand.

Back in the ‘60s, Wolfle – the original Wolfle – sat close to the highway. Getting in and out of the circular drive was no problem because “traffic” only happened for about 10 minutes every evening when the dayshift ended at Keyport and Bangor. There was a big purple-leafed plum growing by the main doors. The steps that led to those doors were short and shallow and had handrails of shiny stainless steel that were just made for sliding on and provided the most excellent entertainment for a child waiting out front for mom.

The day I began third grade was my first day at Wolfle. No “back-to-school night” or “orientation” for us – no, sir. Kids didn’t even get a ride from mom the first day; she just handed you your lunch box (or lunch money) and off you went to find the nearest school-bus stop. Back in those days schools provided all the pencils and paper and crayons and other stuff the students needed. If my fifth-grade son had to haul the pounds of supplies he was required to provide this year to the bus on the first day, he’d have needed a hand truck.

That’s not the only thing that’s changed. In those days parents didn’t volunteer at school – except in the PTA – and they barely knew the names of their kids’ teachers. Of course, we didn’t have computers or calculators; counting on our fingers was good enough for us. Backpacks were for camping. Girls did not wear jeans to school. We ate paste; now they have glue sticks. If it rained at recess, we could go to the library – no pass, no permission necessary. Mrs. Weisenberger, the librarian, always welcomed us. In many ways, we were expected to be responsible for ourselves. And we generally lived up to expectations.

Recess was another example. A favorite activity of the boys was to get as wet as possible during recess. And why not? There was no rule against it. So by afternoon on rainy days there was a steady drip, drip coming from the boys in the classrooms. If they were uncomfortable, they learned that decisions come with consequences. If mom didn’t want to scrub grass stains out of junior’s jeans again – well, that was between mother and son.

But the best part of recess at Wolfle was the freedom my friends and I enjoyed. For many years Mrs. Hahto was the one and only recess aide. And Mrs. Hahto, bless her heart, believed in giving chances. So when she found my little group playing way out across the ballfield at the edge of the woods in our “fort” in the forest, she made us a deal – no going on the nature trail, and no being late to class.

So, for four years we lived by our imaginations in the hinterlands of the school property. Angel dreamed up most of the games. I remember Angel as she was on that very first day when I took my seat in Mrs. Eisenhart’s class: stringy brown hair (just like mine) and cat’s-eye glasses that made her seem slightly cross-eyed. When Mrs. Eisenhart called role and I heard her name, it cinched the deal.

They tore down the old school in 1987. I remember because my eldest son was born that year, and – to my everlasting regret – I was too distracted to visit the old place one last time. Shortly after the demolition they re-graded the entire property, removing all traces of our childhood wonderland. There’s a new Wolfle now, of course, but for me the real Wolfle will always have a purple-leafed plum growing by the door.

Contact wistful Wendy at wordsbywendy@hughes.net.

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