I rediscovered this little gem of a book while cleaning my office and couldn’t resist posting it here. Celebrating the Memory of Donnelsville is a collection of school stories told by local residents of the Donnelsville, Ohio community. This little book is a powerful example of how one small school engaged their community in a ritual of sort, one that allowed citizens to celebrate their experiences at their old school building before it was demolished and replaced with a new one. I worked as a consultant in this building prior to its demise and was involved in discussions about the need to involve the community in the transition. After a series of meetings, Pam Young, the building principal, Kailene Wells, the parent center coordinator and others “hosted several events designed to give people the opportunity to reminisce by coming into the building with others community members and talk, share, etc. The culminating event was our Donnelsville Memory Walk Open House. Approximately 300 people joined us that day. They talked and shared stories of their own while looking through old yearbooks, reading old newspaper articles, and enjoying refreshments. Many of the stories in this book were recorded during that special event. Following the open house, stories continued to pour in and this book was created.”
Each story in the book beautifully illustrates the relationship between school, community and self, essentially revealing the meaning of school in people’s lives. And surprise, surprise – its not standards, or grades, or even academics. It’s friendships, love and care. And there’s more. Many of the stories also illustrate changing school rules and, in particular how adults react to student “misbehaviors”, made clear in the story below, my favorite piece contributed by former Donnelsville student Bill Yeazell.
I was born in 1917. The first few years of grade school, I attended the building that is now Beach Manufacturing Co. The building had 3 rooms, each heated by a coal burning stove. Our water was from a hand pump in the yard and there were B & G privies in the back.
I think we moved into our present building in September of 1929. I was in the seventh grade. Our first principal was Ray Peters, who also taught the seventh and eighth grades in the upper room. One day he told about throwing BBs onto the floor when he was in school. The next day we had wall-to-wall BBs.
The new principal for my eight grade was William H. Kerns. He was an excellent, loving teacher and was there for my sisters Judith, Sallie Jean, Dorothy, and Mary. He called me Willie and I thought it was only fair to reciprocate. He took that in stride. He took us out to someone’s woods to bring in four maple trees. It was winter, and there were no leaves. When the leaves did come, we had Paw-Paws! After he left the building, I wrote on a card,
“Under the spreading Paw-Paw tree,
Professor Willie stands,
With a wish for maples in his heart,
and Paw-Paws in his hand.”
I slipped the card into his locked desk drawer. The next moring the card was posted on the bulletin board. I flatly refused to add mischievous friend Paul Gordon’s suggested: “The muscles of his scrawny arms were strong as rubber bands,” but the next year, my sister Judy inadvertently inserted those words in her recitation of the Village Blacksmith. Mr. Kearns and county school superintendent Charles Ryan were present. They all got a great laugh.
Mr. Kearns had a very positive approach, and told each of my siblings that they had the good qualities of their older siblings, while a certain teacher did the opposite.
We did a circus during my eighth grade. Bernard Schulte was the ringmaster and Paul Gotledon was the front end and I the rear end of an elephant.
There was a famous incident at Donnelsville. A little red-headed boy, Vernon Borstner towed a red toy wagon. When asked what his cargo was, he replied, “Dynamite.” They checked and he was right! He’d picked it up from a construction site. He had the nickname for the rest of his life. He became a pilot. He lost his life in the north woods of Canada.
