Woodstock School Alumni Magazine Vol CIV, 2011

8 - Quadrangle
I Remember Woodstock
2012 will mark the 60th anniversary of the graduating class of 1952. Ed Erny ’52 shares his recollections.
Childhood memories are soon
forgotten, at least the greater
part of them seem to become
obscured amid the more ponderous happenings
of later life. But last night I lay
awake for an hour reviewing snatches of
those now blissful days in Woodstock.
No environment could have been richer
with possibilities of boyhood’s dream and
aspiration, nor as powerful and promising
in the fulfillment of them. It was a unique
and congenial society for me and one that
will never be revisited except in memory!
I remember Going-Up-Day. Brother Bob
and I would be so excited we would hardly
sleep. The hours were marked by impatient
examination of the hands of the clock and
complaints about the tediously slow passage
of time.
I remember piling into the green E.I.R.
coaches, unrolling our bisters and settling
down for delights: shooting cattys out
the window, buying chai from the wallas,
throwing the clay cups at monkeys, and
robbing the sugar cane freight cars. We’d
stop at Lucknow and catch sight of familiar
friends. Parties from all over India would
converge for the recounting of the winter’s
happenings. It was an experience only
surpassed by Going-Down-Day, for at that
time the ominous future of bookwork did
not dull our enjoyment, and the occasion
was further enhanced by the excitement of
being with the folks again!
“Woodstock.” The word brings to mind a
thousand visions. Early memories of the
place for me centered in Ridgewood—the
cement-block habitat for the “Chuts.”
There was a guy I’ll call George. He was
in a class above me but I once beat him up.
Yet he was a dominating character we all
disliked and feared. He had the entire dorm
organized, and each man was his puppet.
He gave us all names of comic characters,
English comic characters. I was Merry
Marvo, a fat little gentleman who was
always blowing bubbles from his magic
pipe. We were glad the year George failed
to come back. I disliked fighting. I cannot
remember ever losing my temper with a
classmate. I always saved that retribution
for my brother.
Alec Thomson was my best friend. He was
part Scottish, and his mother
was a widow. We were like
Jonathan and David, people
would say, and we would
never fight. Peter Beale was
my arch rival and yet we
were friends of a sort. He
was a tough blond-headed
guy and always half a step
behind me in a foot race.
We ran the three-legged race
together and usually won.
My first night at Ridgewood
I cried, but that was the
only occasion. I soon found
myself caught up in the exciting fever of
activity: sliding down the khuds; building
huts; hiking to guides’ cabin; flying
paper airplanes; cub scouts with Hullou
(our puzzling name for Mr. Fleming); and
countless other diversions. We liked to
swim in the stream below Middles (the
athletic arena later name Hansen field for
a famous Woodstock flyer lost in World
War II). Of course we had no such thing as
bathing suits and, hence, once in the pool
would take delight in suddenly crying out,
“Dames! Dames!” We never called girls
anything but dames.
A rumor had it that Mr. Wardwell, whom
we called Wardy, had his own private family
pool downstream at a secluded spot,
but I frankly never put too much stock in
that. Wardy was the big guy in charge of
Ridgewood. He had a bulk of a body and
the kind of hair that lay in a flat, tight mat
on the top of his head. We had all heard
fearful reports of what discipline at the
hands of Wardy could be like. He had a
dog named Pip, much better behaved than
his son, who once pushed Mark Landers’
face into a dish of chocolate pudding and
got the daylights whaled out of him by his
mother, in front of everyone. She was a
kindly soul but she could lay it on when
she had to.
Wardy had us line up by tables in front of
the dining hall before every meal and stand
at rigid attention while roll was taken. The
guy up front had to holler “all present and
accounted for”, or else name the delinquent
member of the group. Once in the dining
hall, Wardy would examine our hands and
hair. We all lived in fear of Wardy. He had
a whistle that he blew so loudly you could
hear it halfway to Bear Mountain.
Back of Ridgy was a hollow tree. It was full
of red ants and, once inside it, a small boy
could not help but wonder what it would
be like to be trapped in such an enclosure.
There was also the giant stride or maypole
on which we swung many a happy hour.
But they tore down the maypole and put
in a basketball court. Then the wind blew
the hollow tree over.
Gradually we passed through the succeeding
standards. Each year brought a slightly
different environment: a new dorm room,
new teacher, new dorm mom, new privileges,
and new challenges.
Sports Day was the highlight of the year
for us. We would train months in advance.
Religiously we would jog around the small
track and save up money for spiked shoes
and ankle bindings. Track was my specialty.
I won the silver every year I competed,
and my ability to take first place was the
envy of my classmates. But something
happened my freshman year in high school.
My prowess on the field suddenly seemed
to vanish. For the first time my classmates
began to surpass me in foot races. I was
stunned and my pride was severely hurt.
Dao Zeun Chu, a Chinese boy who was a
newcomer, was by far the fastest but, then
I consoled myself, he was also the oldest.
He was favored to win the silver that year
but in the second race he pulled a muscle.
I managed to eke out enough points to end
up the winner by a single point. It was my
third silver in three years, and I was almost
ashamed to take it.