1 Harvey School September 1957 to May 1958 Michael West, Class of 1958

We were still at Hawthorne Circle… The day my father dropped me off on a sunny September day, I remember my excitement, getting checked in and then getting fitted for a football uniform. As I was trying on a new pair of cleats, my father said, “Well, I’ll be going now.” He turned to go back to the car and drive off - leaving me there. Suddenly, it was like an anvil fell on me from out of nowhere… a deep homesickness hit me in the center of my solar plexus, making me want to cry, something I knew I never wanted anyone to know. Instead, I sank into a prolonged quiet for most of the time I was at Harvey, pushing myself from class to class, day to day. My room was at the end of the school building, on the second floor, with Frank Graves and Tom Marston.

A bank of windows looked out on Hawthorne Circle. Sometimes at night, I would watch the cars carrying people to their homes and I wished I could be in one of them at the same time that I enjoyed just daydreaming about the cars and the people, so near to the excitement and possibilities of NewYork City, so close.

I felt something of the same wistful longing to be like a day student after sports in the late afternoon when the parents of Day Students would drive into the gravel circle in front of the School House to take those lucky kids home each evening. The afternoons themselves had been something of a struggle, meeting the demands of school, now on the sports fields, whereas before, I would leave school shortly after three o’clock and go home, having the rest the afternoon and evening to myself.

Some of the songs of that time – Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, The Dorseys, etc. – are played from time to time now and they remind me of Harvey, something sweet and pleasant from youth, something melancholy. Weekends were the toughest because, basically, they were boring. Mr. Shea was after us to get out of our rooms to ‘enjoy’ the fresh air (and out of his hair). Being bored on top of homesick made the weekends difficult and easy to forget. I do not remember many activities of the weekends, except, perhaps Friday evenings when Mr. and Mrs. Smith invited 5th Formers, including me, to their home where they served cookies and cocoa and Mr. Smith read us stories. It was homey and comforting. He was good at conversing with us young folks.

On Sunday morning, a minister from General Theological Seminary came to lead a church service, also a comfort however short lived, as he would hurry back to his home to enjoy Sunday afternoon separate from Harvey. There were some breaks on weekends when one teacher or another would take a few of us to area prep schools for sports events, such as English teacher, Mr. Neville, driving us in his blue VW convertible to watch Kent play Taft in football. I do remember activities during the week, which was hectic, always beginning with making our beds and cleaning our rooms, all for inspection by the ever neat and clean Mr. Shea. Actually, I enjoyed it that our rooms were required to be kept tidy, Mr. Shea inspecting the bottom sheet for Square Corners and tight fit before the covers were pulled up, all of them uniform.

After breakfast, we gathered for a School Assembly, with a prayer led by Mr. Smith and a song with Mr. Terry playing the piano. (Mr. Terry: Tall and lean, he was a superb musician and superb athlete, who put butter and pepper on his oatmeal, rather than cream and sugar – he insisted his kids eat oatmeal that way, too, to their chagrin, judging from their young faces and slowness in eating.)

After that, we hurried through the day, with me dragging my homesickness, hiding my urge to cry at any time, worrying about doing well scholastically as I went from class to class, learning Algebra with Mr. Smith (“Oh! What a prune!” he would lament loudly, raising his face to the heavens as he paced back and forth around his desk at the head of the classroom, a yellow pencil and open text book in hand whenever we confused monomials with polynomials or whatever else we first-year Algebra students would confuse. ), Latin with Mr. Shea, who was always beautifully dressed and precise, and English with Mr. Magnan, who served up an occasional “Noogie” when Jon Birch or others “hacked” around 2 in class (“Assume the position, Mr. Birch!”). I began to learn and appreciate binomials, good writing and Latin which I continued to study for four more years, finally realizing language was no more my forté than sports.

The disciplines, though, helped me get into Kent, something I finally, now, appreciate a great deal, and my Harvey classes in Algebra helped me get into Kent without being held back for a year, as happened with some others of my Kent classmates. (Note 1: I entered South Kent School after Harvey, but transferred to Kent in the Fall of 1959. I graduated from Kent in 1962. Note 2: I was taken out of sports in the middle of the Football Season in the Fall of1958 at South Kent School when it was learned, at Yale University Hospital, that I had a heart murmur, a reason that I was not strong in Body or at sports even though I was a boy in a family of excellent, strong athletes, my older brother earning Football All State honors in his senior year.

In 1965, I finally went to the University of Michigan Hospital for open heart surgery to correct the problems, and it opened a new life for me as I gained needed weight, suffered less from colds and flu, etc., less tired during the day and not feeling cold most of the time. I could lead a relatively normal life, finally.) I was never good at sports, so I sanded splinters from the benches on game days. It was fun, though, to be part of an undefeated football team, coached by Mr. Magnan who lead our exercises wearing a Marine Corps gray sweatshirt with a hood, starting by raising his hands high above his head while praying: “Allahhhh and down and through, his hands dropping to the grass, his legs straight at the knees. I actually got on the playing field a few times, when, late in the game, Harvey was ahead by a mile and Mr. Magnan didn’t want to run up the score against the opposing team. With me, and others of my athletic prowess, it was a safe bet Harvey would not embarrass any opposition.

With Harvey School sports, it was the first time I encountered traveling to a “foreign” school where the smells and sights were different from Harvey, especially their locker rooms, but they made me start to appreciate Harvey as a home base. It was a first, too, for me to enjoy the tradition of “Victory Ties.” Whenever the football or soccer team won a game, the players enjoyed wearing a “Victory Tie,” “Victory” meaning the loudest, most obnoxiously vile tie you could find. As a team, we succeeded in finding a plethora of the worst of the worst. A widespread choice was the bright lime-greenish yellow or pink, but in any case fluorescent, tie favored by many players for the unmistakable retina-burning, stomach turning affectation that those ties inevitably. From some friends from Rumson, New Jersey, I was delivered a somewhat garish tie with a bright burgundy at the top, where the knot formed, with a beautiful yellow-gold background on the main part of the tie, to highlight burgundy and blue saxophone, piano, guitar and slide trombone, floating aimlessly and at jaunty angles, with colorful musical notes punctuating the effectI wish I could find that tie now, just to gross out people from time to time at parties, or at least serve as a conversation piece. (I’m too sexy for my tie, too sexy for my tie, too sexy for my tie and my shirt… Oh so sexy they hurt!)

After beating Children’s Village at the end of the season, undefeated, Charlie LeFebure favored us with a full neck-around effect of a full rafter of “Victory” ties, not at all concerned that they did not all fit under his shirt collar. By count, he managed to wear eight to ten of them, like a veritable carnival tie huckster. Lee Comfort and Eddie Winslow (’59) were star running backs, Freddie DeRham was a hard-•-hitting fullback and Peter Cook was our steady quarterback. Our linemen – my classmates – were excellent, too. We even beat the vaunted Children’s Village, teamed by some rough kids, the most feared appointment on our schedule. I remember at one point during that game, our center, Michael Burbank, of the New York Burbanks, came off the field with tears in his eyes compliments of the hard hitting by the CV players, most of whom had learned contact sports on the streets of some meaner neighborhoods of New York. Even so, Mike went back in the line when called upon. It was a good example to me and I somewhat idolized this mostly quiet, scholarly-type kid. I met Michael Burbank again when his prep school team came toSouth Kent School to play the SKS team in the fall of 1958.

There were other connections I found from Harvey School: Eddy Winslow’s brother was at South Kent where his best friend was David Fuller, a friend of mine from the Kent School faculty brats group; my father and David’s father served on the Kent School faculty. My best friend from Kent School childhood days, Smokey Smith, was a nephew of Headmaster Leverett Smith, and Leverett’s son, Terry, went to Kent where, oddly enough, he played Elwood P. Dowd in the Kent School production of “Harvey.” (I enrolled in Kent in the Fall of 1959, transferring from South Kent School, where I went immediately after Harvey.) When Kent opened its Girls’ School division in the Fall 1960, Jon Birch’s sister, Tammy was one of the first girls at the school. Harvey grad, Dick Springs was the Senior Prefect at Kent, Class of 1960 and his brother, Lannie, Harvey ’60, came to Kent. The Harvey School Ahlborns were at Kent, too, and the oldest Ahlborn, Lee, came back to Kent after his graduation and taught English – I was one of his students. Bill Mattes, a classmate of mine at Harvey, went to Kent, too, to again be a classmate, but he left unexpectedly, without telling me, one cold winter night, going with another Kentie, escaping the Happy Housatonic Valley in the Kent School Librarian’s beautiful Ford Fairlane convertible. In the Winter at Harvey, I was coached again by Mr. Magnan, in wrestling. Again, the team was undefeated, with Jon Birch leading the team with his excellent style, quickness, balance and strength. Individually, I was not so good. I lost most of my matches, until the last Match of the season when I wrestled for a second time a boy who had beaten me early in the season. My victory came as the result of suddenly being freed from worry about the result of the match as I had lost all accomplishment up to now. I walked onto the mat, having fun and feeling loose, almost smiling, determined I was not going to lose again. What a difference it made! Victory! I remember, too, the look of disbelief and defeat on the face of the boy I had beaten, glad on one hand that I had put that look on his face while feeling a sense of sorry for him because I knew the feeling – that blank stare. For him, it must have been all the more difficult because he certainly must have felt certain of his coming victory – again, having beaten me previously.

Toward the end of the school year, my father came to visit. He and I were visiting with Mr. (Leverett) Smith in his office. Mr. Smith commented, “My one criticism of you, Michael, is that you lack self-confidence.” In point of fact, the entire year at Harvey helped build confidence in me, however slowly, as I progressed through the years, in school and then in the work world. My inexplicable disease, the homesickness, which struck me from out of nowhere and forced me to drag it with me everywhere lasted until mid-April. With graduation drawing near even as the sun shown brighter and warmer again, the cursed sickness disappeared. Its departure could be seen as I came out of my shell and acted like a normal person again. I remember the nurse remarking something to the effect, “Well, where did you come from! You were this silent zombie walking around and now…” At one point I came a little too far out of my shell, carrying on in a silly way over some jokeor other until someone made a comment that embarrassed me back to reality. Suffering through the first year of being away from home at a young age was a helpful springboard to life, going through prep school at Kent and then college, etc. Of course, eventually I reached a point that I could not wait to get out of my parents’ home for a place of my own. The start of it, at Harvey, was painful but worth it.

If ever anyone finds the cure for homesickness, he/she will make millions. It is a terrible suffering. My father reckoned it to “a kind of selfishness.” I’m not sure I understand that idea, but it makes little difference… knowing it did not help, nor did “focusing on things outside yourself” and Harvey had many challenges to focus my attention… homesickness should have been unheard of, unfelt. Still, the ache continued everywhere. Thankfully, Harvey was a good haven for one carrying the disease around. The atmosphere was challenging but non-•- threatening, and sternly disciplined but not harsh. It’s not like being in a training camp for war. There were good moments, too, including the Tuesday, January 28, my birthday, when Bayard Kilgore led the others in singing “Happy Birthday” while presenting me with a frosted cupcake with a candle in it. I remember my eyes tearing up a bit. Bayard noticed it, making the tearing stop.

There were great times, too, like the Boars Head Dinner the school served shortly before The Christmas break. Soon after we all sat down in the Dining Room, the lights dimmed, letting us bask in the glow of candles that had been placed on the tables. Bayard Kilgore, our Senior Class President, came out of the kitchen in a chef’s hat and white chef’s jacket, bearing a large tray with a Boar’s Head on it, decorated with carrots, cinnamon apples and parsley, as we all sang, “The Boar’s Head In Hand Bear I…” led by Mr. Smith, who had a flare for such ‘cultural’ songs and group singing. I learned many songs while at Harvey, from hymns to college fight songs, including Cole Porter’s “Bulldog! Bulldog! Bow wow wow, Eli Yale!”

Mr. Smith kidded us all one time at Sunday afternoon dinner when the school served roast duck. As he carved the meat and passed the plates around for each of us, he inquired of each of us, “Do you want light meat or dark?” We each requested light meat. Mr. Smith smiled broadly, paying no attention to what part of the plate he took the duck meat, until the platter was empty. As we were eating, Mr. Smith said with great satisfaction at having pulled off a trick on us, “I want you all to know, you have been duped. You all have dark meat. There is no light meat on a duck.” Figs in the morning were a new experience found only at Harvey, me never enjoying them before or since. I don’t know why other places do not serve fresh figs (okay, canned, ‘fresh’ figs) as they are delicious.

At the annual Harvey School debate, which all the school attended, I was chosen as a member of the Neperan debate teams, which made me quite proud. We, the Neperans, argued successfully against the Pocanticos that it was better to attend a small prep school than a big one. We also had a variety show one evening. The star was a Third Former, Bill Madigan, who played guitar and presented an excellent imitation of Elvis Presley – voice, hips and hair, which was dark and thick and always combed greaser style, in a “DA,” the same way that “The King” did.

Harvey was a great experience, through and through. I learned about living closely among others, from different backgrounds and circumstances than I had known before, with no escape to a family home. One weekend, Millard Chiang invited us to his house. Millard’s family, of Chinese descent, lived in an estate, like a garden inside a walled enclosure in the midst of a busy New York City suburb. It was all decorated with a Chinese theme, with a hush about it. I remember, too, that they had a color TV, in an age that most homes did not yet have a television. Millard lived at the school even though his family’s home was a short drive away.

At Harvey, I came in contact with a greater outside world that included the “Mustard Kings” (or princes) Mr. Guilden and Mr. French. It was fun watching these two, young teachers compete to get their brand mustard onto the Harvey School Dining Room tables. Personally, I liked Mr. French, but this eighth grader could not help but be impressed by Mr. Guilden’s red Chevrolet Corvette, even though Mr. Guilden was something of a‘heavy weight’ with a “I’m bored and sardonic” demeanor. Mr. French was more animated and playful, dressing in colored shirts, rich ties and tweedy sports jackets.

At the end of the year, various people talked to me about winning some award for citizenship at Harvey. In the end, the school awarded the prize to Karl Norton, a truly nice guy. I was disappointed not to be awarded, after the build-up some people had given me, and I was a goody, goody, never getting stung any marks, not even by Mr. Shea, or put on Professor Howe’s Walk List.

At our reunion a few years ago, Karl Norton was present and together we looked at the plaque with his name on it. It would have been nice to have seen my name there, but, all in all, Karl Norton was the better choice.

Toward the end of the year, we – the Fifth Formers – were notified that we would have to adjust to moving on, that we would no longer have to put up with younger kids (Weenies) because in the fall of ’58, we would be the weenies in new places. Harvey’s school year closed before Memorial Day in May 1958. My old, public elementary school in Kent was still in session when I got home. I went there one day to visit my former classmates, feeling somewhat smug about being out of school, wearing my jacket with a Harvey School “H” on it, and a Neperan hat (burgundy as opposed to a Pocantico blue). It was fun that one teacher, at recess, mistook the burgundy “H” and the name, “Harvey” as standing for “Harvard.” I think it confused her to think “Harvard” while looking at me, terribly young and inarticulate and not nearly arrogant enough to be Harvard material. At home, I had a blazer with the big round, white Harvey School seal, with “Scientias et Veritas” on it, emblazoned in burgundy. Scientias et Veritas was also the theme of the Harvey School song that it took me most of the year to learn. My Kent Center School classmates for seven years were duly impressed at my homecoming, after a year away. I sat in class with them for awhile, surprising my former mates with my response to Mr. Keen, the teacher, when he called my name. I answered, “Sir?” in response to his attention. Everyone turned to look at me, great surprise on their faces, exclaiming, “Sir? You called him ‘Sir?’” I was surprised by their surprise. It was only natural for me, a Harvey School grad, to address a teacher as “Sir.” Until my mates expressed their surprise, I would not have thought anything about it. I had moved on.

In ensuing years, I suffered less of the homesickness when going away from home, except for two or three days after vacations, for a few more years, but it wasn’t personality-changing and debilitating like before.Some of it stemmed from my propensity to laziness. Now, I think of those days in my room at Harvey, amidst Frank Graves’ balsawood model boats and planes, with a touch of sentiment. Now, though, in my retirement, I do not like times that I cannot sleep in my own bed at home – shades of Harvey Homesickness? Harvey School kicked a sense of personal discipline into a young person who was lazy at heart. Harvey’s disciplines of scholarship advanced me beyond what I could have achieved in a public school, of that I have no doubt. Harvey put me on the early path toward independence, which served me well in my work life. Though never a Titan of industry, I did found my own management company, serving many trade and professional associations on a contract basis, sitting on many executive boards and dealing with many different people and personalities, from dairy processors to construction contractors, court reporters, chemical and auto manufacturers and attorneys. The handling of hour-to-hour pressures came easily after the pace begun at Harvey and carried on at Kent and then college. Harvey was the beginning of my learning to handle change as a constant. “If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we will shall find something new.” (Voltaire) It was at Harvey School that I began to learn about and appreciate the lessons left to us by the great minds of the past, and to appreciate Mr. Magnan’s discipline of writing, Mr. Shea’s stern striving for excellence in everything, and Mr. Smith’s appearance of calm even as he lead the school with all its complex aspects and responsibilities. Beginning with Harvey, I have become more comfortable and more confident of myself while still going out in the world to work with others.