Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon Part I

Thank you for joining me on my tour of my childhood haunts in Portland, Oregon. Today we are going to look at my elementary school, Buckman School.

Buckman was an old school when I attended it. It was so old, it was built before paved roads were a real thing in Portland. Here's the proof:

I wanted you to see this photo for a more important reason than to know it was built in 1920. I wanted a picture of the long side of the school. In the basement, the lowest level in the photo, my school had an indoor swimming pool. I was lucky enough to go swimming there all summer long for a dollar a visit, except for the 3 weeks I was kicked out for horsing around in the water (unjustly, I am still mad about that.) According to the internet, the pool is still there and open to the public. Lucky public.

The other reason you needed to see this side view of my school is that I learned my first funny swear word rhyme at this school and I haven't forgotten that either. 

*****DISCLAIMER----If you are sensitive to words,  you should skip down to the end. ****

One morning while I was walking up the hill to school, I saw spray-painted on the side of the building at pool level an unfamiliar word. I was in 2nd grade and making good progress with my reading, so I was feeling proud that I could decipher the word. 

There, in large block letters, was the scrawled word F-#-@-K-M-A-N.

Huh. My 7 yr. old mind immediately went "Whoa! Buckman, F#@kman, Buckman, F#@kman, - Hey! That rhymes! Ha! Ha! Ha! That's so funny!" When I got to class I told my teacher I made up a new rhyme. I proudly repeated the graffiti word along with Buckman. 

I didn't get into trouble, Mrs. White just growled it wasn't funny and not to use filthy language again or I would find myself in the principals office. I slunk away, not sure exactly why it wasn't funny to her. In the foster home I lived in, swear words flew on a regular basis so it didn't seem shocking to me. I didn't know what the F word meant, but I had heard it more than a few times and didn't think it was anything other than funny because it rhymed with Buckman. That rhyme is why I haven't forgotten the name of my first school. Thank you, mnemonic devices.  

The other interesting thing about my second grade class was that I had a black teacher named Mrs. White and a white neighbor down the street named Mrs. Black. I told my foster mother that it was funny that I knew mixed-up people and that I should introduce them to each other so they could swap names, but Dorthy said it was ridiculous to think such a thing. I thought it made perfect sense. 

Lastly, Dianne, the girl in the upper far left corner, was the first classmate ever to invite me to play at her house. She lived in a lovely house with real carpet and a mother who was suspicious of me from the first instant she saw me. I didn't know what I had done to earn her disapproval*, but her dislike was obvious. Everything went great until Dianne's mother asked us to walk to the nearby store and buy a newspaper. On the way home I offered to carry the paper. Dianne was reluctant to hand it over since her mother told her to be in charge of the money and newspaper the whole time. After a few minutes of begging, Dianne gave it to me. While crossing the street I dropped the paper and the brisk Oregon wind grabbed it and flung the pages all over the pavement. We desperately ran to and fro, trying to gather the flying paper, but we couldn't get them all. 

Dianne was crying as we walked back to her house, saying her mother would be furious and she would get a spanking. I said, "Don't worry, I'll explain it was my fault, not yours. You won't get into trouble."  

Yeah....Dianne's mother took one look at the pile of disheveled papers in our arms and told me to go home. I didn't even get to start apologizing before I was out the front door, sent on my way. Not only did Dianne never invite me to her house again, including her birthday party, she didn't play with me during recess either. Our budding friendship was over. 

* Now that I think about it, Dianne's mother probably knew I was a foster kid and heard the stories of my defending my brother on the playground against bullies. I am positive she knew about my infamous Pocket Knife incident. Everyone in school knew about that. It's a good thing I was a student during the 1970's when it wasn't illegal to be a stupid kid. 

Here's what Buckman looks like now. Isn't it sweet? 

Next week: We Explore My 'Hood - Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon Part II