An undated school portrait of Julia Tomashitus of Reinerton, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania.
SCHUYLKILL MEMORY LANE QUIZ
Clue: An extra added attraction to our Memory Lane this week is a verbal trip down “memory lane” written by the little girl whose picture is shown, Julia Tomashitus. No guessing this week – just a nostalgic visit with our Memory Lane subject.
Yes, we’re sure all our readers will get on board and come to the end of this trip with misty – excuse me – smoke in their eyes.
Answer: Life Flows in Echo of Time
In quiet thoughtfulness I sat in a New York bus terminal, somewhat awed at the flow of life passing through those portals, at the same time contemplating on a primary adjunct of life – time. At regular intervals an ebbing flow of traffic was followed by an influx of new travelers, each segment of life hardly aware of the fellow traveler. Time and destination seemed interwoven. After a brief period of waiting and musing, I too, was in the outgoing flow and boarding a modern bus with time and destination scheduled.
With keen anticipation I had awaited this span of ten days’ vacation to spend at will. A time to step out of a routine existence and environment for self-renewal. A time for re-creation. This premium time I yearly chose to spend at a most familiar place, the village of Reinerton, Pennsylvania, where I was born and reared. Going back to childhood scenes and places brought forth memories of carefree living which was indeed a form of re-creation.
As the bus forged ahead, I was already preoccupied with most endeared memories of time past and hometown scenes and doings. The village itself always remained much the same, the growth stunted by the abandoned hard coal mines. A half-century of time had altered the basic layout. The natives remained rooted there, however, by a simple and homespun kind of living, a way of life which had taken a strong hold on me.
The country store exemplified a phase of this kind of living, now almost extinct. A simple trust. A kind of credit given at “face” value. When strikes and flooded workings created hardships, the store book was honored.
The long rumored merger of schools was now realized, creating the first change in the village. The unused school stood in the heart of the village as if in monumental splendor, giving the impression it was just a weekend repose. It was rumored that eventually a garment factory would utilize it to add much needed revenue to the community.
There was an air of sweet nostalgia surrounding me as I transferred to a small country bus which would carry me the last 20 miles of my journey. There would be one more mile to go to reach my ultimate destination. It was the stretch of road which linked my childhood home and school – a road which had served me in bee-line fashion all of my school days.
Alighting from the bus a few steps down the gently sloping road, I paused momentarily to regain a foothold after much riding. As I glanced at the familiar schoolhouse, my eyes rested on a notice tacked to the boarded entrance – “Condemned!” As I read, a feeling of indignation possessed me. How dare they, I thought impulsively, as if actually accosting some perpetrator. Not THIS school, so symbolic of the good in life. Lessons taught, lessons learned – a century of life had passed through this tiny building. These lives, in spans of eight years time, were equipped with the basic tools of knowledge, each molded, enriched, and enlightened.
CONDEMNED! I wanted to somehow disavow this bold certificate. And the echo of gleeful sounds of children’s voices far past reverberated and seemed to embolden me. As if on trial, I, the defender as a first-hand witness, would bear testimony to change the verdict from condemnation to one of sublimation.
As I slowly resumed walking toward the home of my birth, the road became a memory lane as I effortlessly regressed a half-century of living, summarizing my eight years of prime time spent at this school.
I recalled an eager child of six, manipulating a shoe buttoner with childlike dexterity, inquisitive and anxious to start down this road to a role in school life. The first day began with arms out-stretched, as if testing our wings as we sang our first song with childlike gusto – “Chick-a-dee, happy and gay” Chick-a-dee, fly away.”
Miss Romberger, presiding teacher of grades 1 and 2, invoked a moment of reverence with small heads bowed and hands folded. Her day had begun long before the second gong of the bell at nine. A farmer’s daughter, unashamed of her milking duties and farm shores, she often appeared with dew on her hair intermingled at times with beads of sweat.
Equipped with slate and pencil, we began the mastery of fundamental words and numbers. Two years later, and much more sure of our “wings,” we were led across the hall to Room 2, which housed grades 3 and 4. There we met Miss Lyons, a tall, willowy woman, who had dedicated her life to the art of teaching. Aside from the further pressures of numbers and words, who awakened in us an awareness to kindness and thoughtfulness through poetry. Each week, a new poem appeared on the blackboard to be memorized. Here was the unveiling of the beauties of nature and human awareness.
Reluctantly leaving this inspiring teacher, we marched up the stairs with new anticipation to grades 5 and 6. Miss Unger, young and pretty and very much in love, sharing her happiness as she told us that the bank teller was to be her life’s partner. A beautiful happening shared as school progressed. Her diligent coaching for spelling bees had brought honor and glory to the school. Yes, this [1974] is her retirement year! A from this pupil of time past, Class of 1921, as well as hundreds to the time present – Thank You , Mrs. Miller!
Moving back in time to grades 7 and 8, Mr. Daub was at the helm, in essence, the principal minus the title. As overseer he also took charge of the custodial and maintenance services. To keep the coal furnace going required a very early start, and he became a most familiar figure, trudging through the snow with lunch box in hand. The shine of his suit characterized his meager wardrobe, and yet the dignity of his profession was profoundly evident. Knowing that for most students these years would mark the end of their formal training, his efforts were to sharpen the basic fundamentals of elementary training so that each leaving his charge could carry on to his fullest capacity.
As I walked farther away from the schoolhouse, I realized that which I wished to defend needed no formal trial, for these precious memories and recollections were brought forth from my very being, both mind and heart, to stay forever. Yes, the school bell which had started so many of my days would be gone, but the echo of its ringing would remain with me always.
Julia Tomashitus
7 White Oak Lane
Wayne, New Jersey
___________________________________
From “Memory Lane,” West Schuylkill Herald,22 August 1974, Tower City, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, via Newspapers.com. Readers submitted photos. A clue was given. And, the answer was provided in the next week’s edition of the newspaper.
Corrections and additional information should be added as comments to this post.