Do the names of these schools ring a bell? Can you still see the face of your first and second grade teachers, Betty Philbrick and Hazel Hamilton? Do you remember Winifred Pifer, our fourth grade teacher who wrote the most endearing words ever heard, "It is a pleasure to work with David. He has a good mind, is interested in everything about him, and is cooperative to work with."

Let's take a look back through those hazy memories and be thankful for growing up in Paso Robles, California.

 

After our short internment in Kindergarten and primary stuff across from the elementary school, it was off to Georgia Brown for many of us. This is where we learned what organized socialization was all about, and our little rascal hearts could start expressing themselves with huge, admiring and sometimes shocked audiences. It was time to show off for us boys. It was time to start flirting for you girls. And it was definitely time for puppy love's tail to start wagging.

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Yes, these are the unforgettable classrooms at Glen Speck Elementary where some of us (in the late 50's) had the honor to enjoy Mrs. Hambly in the 7th grade, way down there on the end of the building. By 7th grade
you should be all grown up. You've started going steady. You can write complete sentences, maybe a paragraph or two. We were well on our way to maturity. Most of us anyway! Some of you may still remember that bright sunny day when poor Dave (that's me) was hauled out the door and around the Vine Street side of the building to receive a little private "lesson" from a less than cool school marm. Face flushed, she went first to grab Bill Osman for a witness, then let little innocent Dave have it rearward with her
handiest weapon - a brass imbedded ruler. Wow! Three strikes
and you're out! More embarassed than pained, Dave nonchalantly
returned to his empty desk, giving his only witness a short glance.
Tony Hurd knew the whole story, but wasn't talking. I know the
whole story, too, but I'm not talking either.

Few of us remember that our dearly loved Glen Speck Elementary
was preceded by a prestigious campus main building that burned in a fire.
The Grammar School at 17th and Vine Street held its last classes
in June, 1953. It would be ashes in July.

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Who can forget P.E., the endearing smells of the locker room, the embarrassing showers and wonderful teacher/coaches--- gracious Bob Osmond in grade school and the unforgettable Marjorie Bobson, Ace Parker and Pat Tully in high school? How many laps did we guys have to run for proving our imbecility? And how many really made it to the top of the hill off Beverly Avenue during cross-country training? And how much did we fudge when trying to break the sit-ups record?

 

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Class of '64

Was Your Favorite Teacher There?
The All 60's Reunion

We came from our various worlds to revisit those familiar streets and unfamiliar faces from high schools greatest decade - the 60's. This first effort to unite our classes was a success in spite of the low participation from the early years. Kudos to the hosting Class of '67 and all who went the extra mile to pull this off. The western theme decorations, dinner and dance were great - thanks!
The opportunity for brothers and sisters to be at the same reunion was a plus. And most of us had friends who didn't graduate in our particular year, so a lot of time was spent playing catch up.

The evening's highlight centered around five of our favorite teachers. Thanks to Leon Kantor, Sandy McGuffin, Forrest Hahn, Frank Barnhart and Gil Asa for telling us how much they enjoyed teaching during the 60's. We were touched as Mr. Asa 's emotional "pep talk" revealed we were more "family" than students to him. And, of course, many of them were more than teachers to us.

 

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A Few Good Links:	School Daze Pics
	Paso Robles High
	Flamson Middle School Homepage
	High School Alumni Database
	ClassMates Online!
	My High School

Here is the unforgettable Miss Ruth Zapf,
who terrified many a freshman with her uncanny, take charge abilities.
Life would never be the same after sitting in a Latin I class,
wondering what you were doing there, thinking Mr. Kebre's
Spanish class would be okay after all and feeling very sorry
for the kids sitting in the front row. Affectionately known as
Auntie Ruth, Miss Zapf never failed to draw lines in the sand.
And how many of us had the courage to say what was really
on our mind? The award winner in that department is
Carolyn Davis Reese, who told me, "One year I was the
only student at PRHS to have her three periods in a row.
Sophomore English, sophomore History and Latin 2.
Yuck! I survived. I was probably the only student who stood
up to her in class and told her what I thought of her and her
ways. I earned Brownie points with my classmates, but my
parents were really upset that I had said something in class!"
The key words here were "I survived." We did more than that.
We experienced a wonderful part of life that we wouldn't
trade for anything. We learned an appreciation for our English
language (I hope). And some of us learned that education is
serious business. And it's sad that we didn't know Auntie
Ruth(ie) outside of class, where she could be warm and
wonderful and giving. There are some positive stories
out there about Miss Zapf. Please let me know about them.

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October 1961 Enough Excitement for One Day The faded memories of that 1961 October afternoon still visit me occasionally. The thirty seven year old colors, sounds and events remind me of a simple, small town existence, where life was in slow motion, where you could only find excitement beyond the city limit signs, and where opportunity was a world away. Or so my teenage assessment told me. Picture two fifteen year young cousins, Larry and me, on a nothing-to-do Sunday, hanging out at Larry's house doing (you guessed it) nothing! Picture capital 'B' boredom while listening to L.P.s, yelling at younger brothers and drinking the house favorite, Dr. Pepper. We didn't know it, but "outside the city limits" excitement was just around the corner. Sixteen year 'old' Jerry, a church-going buddy, brought her over, the most beautiful, most popular, sweetest thing in twon. In fact, she was every red blooded American boy's dream come true . . . a classic, maroon and white, chrome blinding, solid, sleek, immaculate '56 Chevy! "Hey, I borrowed her for the day. Let's go for a ride!" We knew crazy Jerry didn't have all his marbles, but he did have the car! It was decided: we would cruise around, go to evening church, then home. Sounded simple. Sounded wonderful. Sounded too good to be true for us 'poorboy' cousins. That afternoon was a country road heaven for us, a hot rod blur of oaks and fences, scattered leaves and short white lines. We were the three great pretenders, flunkydom freedom riders, enjoying our instant maturity, showing off for the folks in lazy Creston before turning back to Paso. So far, so good.

But here the story tweaks as dark and darkside fall over freeze-framed Paso Robles. We purred past parked cars and faint singing outside the Assembly of God church on Oak Street. "Hey, let's play hooky, guys," offered our driver. Larry and I shot a glance at each other. "Are you kidding? Come on, we better show up or get into big trouble." No sooner said before panic flashed in crazy Jerry's eyes. "My mom's after us!," he yelled while looking at the headlights in the mirror. "I gotta get outa here!" Larry and I confirmed the lights as we raced up 15th Street, down Vine Street and then south of town on Peachy Canyon Road. "Well, I guess we lost her," Jerry quipped ten miles later west of Templeton. To make doubly sure, he headed east across Highway 101. The cousins found themselves in the Valley of Decision, halfway between Creston and Shandon, when in the middle of nowhere, Jerry stops to tell us he's running away to Oregon. We could either get out and walk back to town or run away with him! Double tweak! Shakespeare speaks of "my salad days, when I was green in judgment." Toss fear, ignorance and youth together and there exists what someone has called the "fever of reason." Having fallen victim to this disease, Larry and I huddled in the back seat, two whimpering puppies, kidnapped by a lunatic! And the rest of the story? The Mendota police had a good laugh, catching me (the relief driver) as we soloed through town at 1 a.m. The flashing lights seemed like angels from heaven, sent to rescue the perishing . . . me! Except for a sleepless night in jail (door open), riding home with Larry's dad and the Chevy owner's dad, and my mom frowning in the doorway back home, telling me to "get ready for school," it was all over. My 10 o'clock Driver's Training Class later that morning would never be the same.