Life seemed simple then, the only world I knew. The Holt development, was a community of cookie box homes for the post war boom. Located behind the Rainbow Room, off highway 9G, it was nestled into the small valley, with wonderful elevation changes you will never find in developments today.
We would push our bikes to the top of the Madison Avenue hill and ride like the wind down to the bottom. One summer we played cowboys dismounting our bikes like we saw the Pony Express riders do in the Saturday movies at the Roosevelt Theater. That experience was good for at least two of the scars I carry to this day, but boy was it fun.
We had forts, hiding places, and wonderful journey's of exploration in the woods and farm lands that surrounded the development. Having a Daisy BB gun and vast open fields makes a boy a great hunter of small things. In these days where guns, gun safety, and gun ownership is condemned I can't imagine how children will grow to understand the role they do play, and appreciate their value and their risk.
Winters brought snow, and the hill behind my house was perfect for sledding. Real sledding, not some wimpy saucer, but a sled with runners that could scream across the packed snow, or if you were really lucky the ice crusted snow from a heavy fall, and a light rain that then froze on top. A sled you could steer - kind of, to avoid the big tree coming right at you. I guess I am one of the lucky ones, all my fingers still attached and no apparent damage to my frontal lobes.
I started school in Ralph R. Smith elementary, but was exiled to Violet Avenue for second and third grades, having served my time I was repatriated back for fourth through sixth. I still remember kick ball with Mr. Johnson.
We moved to Brower Blvd. while I was attending Haviland Junior High. There is an interesting dynamic in moving from a neighborhood to a single street. If I wanted to ride my bike it was through the cemetery, until I found the paths that took me to town center. Our bus stop was the entrance of the Union Cemetery, and we had to cross 9G to get to it. Somehow I don't think that would be acceptable in today's risk adverse world.
We were the first class to attend the new Roosevelt High for all four years. There were three or four teachers who helped me survive. I was not a motivated student, but Mr. Sanford, and Mrs. U apparently saw something worth helping. Mr. S was the crew coach, and after I outgrew the coxswain position he allowed me to be the manager. To this day, the times on the river linger in a warm place in my heart. Mrs. U opened my mind to the arts by inviting me into the first Humanities class at the school. What a fabulous year that was. Study Architecture, and then go to see the great examples, music -- attend a symphony, art, see the Museum of Modern Art. I.M. Pei or Frank Lloyd Wright stand out, dramatically different in style, but both with great vision. Ballet, Opera, Drama, Painting, she truly opened my eyes to the world.
Mr. King, a wood shop teacher, my Drivers Ed teacher, and World War I flying ace. I had always been enthralled by aircraft and his quiet demeanor hid the fact he had a Sopwith Pup parked in the garage and would fight it out with the Black Knight on weekends in the skies over Rhinebeck. He encouraged the dream for me, a dream that ultimately led to my commissioning in the Air Force. The drafting teacher, whose name escapes me, also was a pilot, with a little homebuilt of French design. I think it was the Cricket, but I am a little fuzzy on that detail.
Well that's about the sum of it.