Welcome back! Thanks to everyone for reading last week's Mr. Hull-themed entry. Many mailed me with similar memories of this quirky educator. Former Caldwells' kid Eric Blaier passed through Wilson the Hull-way a couple of years before I did, and revealed, "He would talk about "Saturday Night Live" for half of every Monday morning!" Cindy Deyo dropped a line to say that Hull was "absolutely my favorite teacher ever!"

Yet another another reader did some intrepid research, and found that a "Dennis C. Hull" retired from the Newark Schools district around 2004. Is this our Hull? If so, it begs many more questions than gives answers, and again, if anyone can shed some light on this guy's post-Wilson world, please drop a line. Those who add significant pieces to the puzzle will receive an official Remember When? T-shirt!

Uh, not really–we don't have any. It would be cool to get some made, though. Then again, Mr. Hull himself could just step forward and provide some closure ... I would even interview him right here. So, here goes another try, via mental telepathy: Mr. Hull, Google yourself and you'll find us!

Big Fish in a Big ... School

Back in the early days of the Reagan administration, when that weird street without houses on it next to the former Kings wasn't a one-way, and "Happy Days" was somehow still on the air without Richie, but instead Cousin Roger, junior high started in seventh grade.

After grade six, we were set free from (in no particular order) Wilson, Washington, Jefferson, Harrison (yes, it was still in the elementary grade business), and Lincoln schools and sent to "Grover Cleveland Junior High School."

That's right–it was called "junior high," and not a "middle school." I guess the name switch was made as to not have the building itself suffer an identity crisis, living in the shadow of the high school. The building has always had those foreboding stairs in the front, though.

Going up (literally) to Academy Road from Orton (get it?) was a pretty big deal for me.

A huge building ... all those new kids ... four minutes between classes ... mastering opening a locker ... Chara Calderone. It was a whole new world.

Still, I adjusted fairly quickly, and within a month or two it was business as usual; copying someone's homework, giving nicknames to everyone, creating future Remember When? material, etc. 

But before I share some of those remembrances, I have to retrace some steps back to sixth grade.

Wilson's Own Earth Girl: Ms. Nadolski

I finished up at Wilson under the instruction of Fran Nadolski. Like the two Darrins on "Bewitched" (which I'm watching while on the elliptical machine at Tiger Fitness while typing this) she was no equal to her predecessor, but had a whole unique vibe of her own going on. She also came in under tough circumstances; she stepped in for Hull in the middle of a school year.

Nadolski was a little bit country (I think she was from Indiana?), and favored flannel shirts, Levi's and Lee jeans (a violation of the dress code?), and she was a little bit rock 'n' roll, as in, "out there." One day, she brought in a Jim Croce record (This was 1981, for Cliff's sake–what was she doing with that, then?), grabbed a bunch of us, sat us down on the "reading rug" in the back of the room, and put on "You Don't Mess Around With Jim."

"Listen to the words," she said, sitting on the heater next to the window. She placed one hand on her chin, and stared down into nowhere, in intense concentration. 

A minute or so into the tune, the familiar refrain came on:

"You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit into the wind. You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Jim."

Right after that, she yanked the needle off of the record, making that classic "wwwwhhhhppp" sound that us vinyl-philes will never forget. "Now, what does the singer mean by that, 'you don't spit into the wind'?'" We proceeded to swap "spit" stories for the next half hour. Today, I have to admit I sort of like Jim Croce.

I know that many more readers may be familiar with Ms. Nadolski than Mr. Hull, for as a few years later she herself graduated to the junior high, where she stayed and taught well into the 2000s. Now, she reportedly plays a lot of golf on the West Coast. Anyone have any good stories? 

Supplies! You're Trapped

When I was a wee lad, I bought many-a-school supply from Medi-Mart and Cohen's. You have to give me and others of like mind who stocked-up some credit; in the '70s and '80s, teachers demands for stuff you need for class weren't like they are today. My kids have a huge laundry list of stuff to get ("four boxes of aloe-infused tissues with floral patterns") and they have been on a scavenger hunt of sorts for the last two weeks. As such, I am happy to report that Walgreens in W.C. has cool KISS notebooks. And folders.

Good ol' Medi-Mart (that was a great name, wasn't it?) really should have been called "Trapper Keeper Mart," for when these binder things hit, MM stocked and rocked them, big time. Around 1982, everyone seemed to be trapping and keeping with this Mead-brand paper holder. I had a Chargers blue one.

Sock It to Me

Last night, "The Kid" (Nick) told me that he needed to buy a "book sock." Although I'm a school teacher, I work with computers–books are nowhere to be found in my classroom. So, when we finally found one after two stops (yay, CVS), I thought, this thing is lame.

A big part of junior high was getting issued around 99 hardcover books from all of your teachers, and being assigned to cover them with good old-fashioned brown paper bags. The covers we'd make were thick, offering good protection to the usually ancient textbooks they were on, and offered an excellent blank slate for self-expression; you could draw all over them.

Paper, Not Plastic, or This Alternate Title: The Woz Rocks

I drew all kinds of odd stuff on my books, including art for my planned "Pac-Man Meets Donkey Kong" video game (don't steal that idea). And, of course, plenty of KISS and Cheap Trick logos.

One day, I was sitting in Mr. Wozniak's social studies class, ready to go. I was super on-time, because his class was only one floor directly above where my locker was. Because of my last name, I tended to have to sit in the front of many classes; he was one of those A-to-Z guys. The bell rang, he walked in, and saw my book. Picking it up, he looked at it, and said, "Cheap Trick? They only had one hit song!" I thought that was cool. And both Al Wozniak and Cheap Trick are still working.

I wish there were a paper bag book cover museum somewhere, with covers on display from various decades–they would be excellent snapshots in time.

There was a "Rose" Attached to My Fries

It was a thing of synchronized beauty, with a good dose of unintended comedy. Lunchtime at the junior high was abbreviated from elementary school, but we could buy "food" at school, and not just in pre-determined combinations. French fries were the hottest seller; they tasted the best and you could share them. Among certain members of the staff, they were a constant source of work and perhaps consternation.

It would all start when you, as the student/customer, would walk up to the counter and place your order. Example: "Can I get an order of fries, please?"

Then, the lady–let's call her "Lunch Lady #1"– behind the counter would do one of two things. She would either scrounge up the remains from what was once a pan full of shoestring potatoes to fill a cup for you, or you would have to wait for some to be cooked. In either happenstance, you were just about guaranteed to hear the following:

Lunch Lady #1 would look around as if it was her first day on the job, or as if more fries were located in the air vent. Finally, she would look toward the register, and in a high-pitched senior citizen voice say:

"Rose, call for fries!"

In turn, "Rose"–or if you prefer, "Lunch Lady #2"–would look toward the preparation area of the kitchen. Holding a hand to her mouth for added volume, in a shrill voice she would shout:

"french fffrrrriiiieesss!"

If it were a situation where you weren't being served the hard, sludgy bits from the previous batch, you were really stuck. You could be waiting up to a good half of the 30-minute lunch period, which for me would seriously cut into my talking time with Nat Janoff about Motley Crüe, and bothering girls for money for a chocolate chip cookie.

It was well-rehearsed, but somewhat flawed system. Why couldn't there just be more fries at the ready? There were only three to five items at a time available for purchase, with the fries outselling them all.

A Thorn in Rose's Side

Additionally, I recall there being dissension in the ranks of this chain of communication, and it wasn't just me; the link named "Rose" would occasionally grumble about Lunch Lady #1's calling to her, to call for fries. Often, she would be in the middle of making change when a student would give her a dollar for their pizza, etc. Since she would have to stop counting to do her bird-like call, she would have to start the transaction all over again, "Wait, you gave me a dollar, right?"

One would think that Lunch Lady #1 would have known better than to impose on Rose as she was cashiering. Then again, maybe she just liked to hear the response to her "Rose, call for fries!" just like I did:

"french fffrrrriiiieesss!"

I just know some of you out there have to remember this bit. In fact, without warning I recently recited the whole thing to former junior high student Sal "Meatballs" Maffettone, and he immediately cracked up.

This whole sequence is remarkably burned into my brain. My family knows it, too, as I've said it during times when french fries were around. I've even cast the wife as "Rose" to my "Lunch Lady #1." You have to try it.

Hey, maybe "Rose" was one of your grandmothers? If so, I'd like to cast her in my forthcoming live-action "Rose, call for fries" play.

School (Nobody) Dances 

We had dances occasionally at the junior high, or at least they were called that. Barring a few girls fooling around during a spin of Journey's "Open Arms," although well-attended, everyone just roamed through the cafeteria and gym, and/or hung out by the DJ.

A cool guy would show up with like more records than the the stock of Mr. Melody, Bradlees and the Caldwell Studio of Music combined. They were in dog-eared, white paper sleeves with names of songs written on them in pencil. He would also have an assistant with him, usually a young kid who in addition to just sitting there and drinking soda, would cobble together song requests written on little pieces of paper. And then the DJ would play whatever he wanted.

After a few hours of this, we–as in every last person under age 20 in the school building–would all take to Bloomfield Avenue, and go to Friendly's or Sonny's.

Locker Shockers

The craziest new thing about going to junior high at first were the whole locker and four minutes between classes things.

The good news was, we each had our own freshly installed, five-and-a-half foot vertical storage compartment, which we could even decorate. Can you guess which bands graced my inner door? Sometimes "decorate" also meant creating a trash heap at the bottom of the locker made up of "lost" assignments, etc. 

The bad news was exactly the same: we had lockers.

You see, they also came with built-in combination locks. On the very first day of school, we were given the number sequences by our homeroom teachers (Mrs. Hoph was mine, did I spell that right?), and sent out into the hall to practice.

While some were able to unlock their lockers with ease (were they safecrackers on the side?), most had what was up until that point the most harrowing experience of their lives.

The pixie-ish Heather Washburn (it was that Kristy McNichol haircut) had her locker directly to the left of mine (lucky her). She was gently moving her lock's "wheel" methodically, but it wouldn't open. Her face was turning red with each rotation as well. Then, she cried. 

Finally, we all mastered our Master-brand locks, and we were locker rockers. It was a good thing, because between classes, even if they were located at opposite sides of the building, we had four minutes to leave one class, stop at our lockers (if needed), and get to the other class.

Four minutes. The only other quick-time interval we kids were accustomed to in these parts were Mr. Garvey's "two minutes adults, two minutes" at the end of the adult swims at Westville Pool–but those worked in our favor. 

Some of the teachers seemed to take delight in our plight. On the second floor, for example, Mrs. Delaney would position herself outside her classroom between classes, just to taunt kids: "Let's go! You're late!" she would yell down at us, with a strange look of satisfaction on her face.

Sometimes Animals Got Into My Locker!

The worst of the worst with lockers was when someone got a hold of your locker combination. Ninth-graders Chaz Rapa and Bobby Bellomo somehow got mine (Chaz conned me into revealing it, if I remember correctly.) and trashed my locker a couple of times on their way to Mr. Schwartz's art class.

They even tore down my Paul Stanley pinup once, which had me in a fit. What could I do? It was better than being stuffed into the thing myself, but I did emphasize: "Paul Stanley gets left alone!"

Sometimes break-ins were nicer in nature, but they were still break-ins! When I was in eighth grade, my locker was on the second floor, near M.P. Delaney, but closer to Mr. Becker's room.

At the time, Donna Lupo apparently had a major crush on me; I don't know what makes me think that was the case, maybe it was the numerous prank phone calls, the various messages sent through go-betweens like Liani Garcia, the carvings in the wooden gym bleachers reading "Donna Lupo and Ron Albanese" inside a heart, etc. All of her adoration made me kind of spooked.

One day, I opened my locker in a mad rush, and was surprised to see a present from her. She left me a Kit Kat bar. Give me a break, I thought.

I'm Going to Be Late–Gotta Go!

Readers, that wraps up my Caldwells school memories. I have tons more (I could write a book about Mr. Cozzi; the teachers back then were a real rogue's gallery.), but have to go. Rose is calling for fries, and I have four minutes to get from the cafeteria to wood shop, but also have to stop at my locker in between ... and is that Donna Lupo just down the hallway? Oh, no!