I remember

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. Flemming); 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.

Following Sports Day was the interschool meet, magnificently called the Olympics. Before Sports Day and Olympics, I never could sleep much, a fact which did nothing to help my performance. Olympics was always an awesome affair; we'd walk several miles over the hills to St. George's or Oak Grove. The great climax to my sports thrill was the day Alec and I took every first place but one event in the under-14 division. We both got big brown chenille Ws for our achievement, and the opportunity to attend the sportsman's banquet to which we were expected to ask a girl - an ominous prospect for one totally inexperienced in that field. I asked Jeananne Constance to be my date. It was a terrifying evening.

Sixth standard was the last standard we stayed at Ridgewood. From now on we would be recognized as "hefts," no longer chuts. Still, as long as Bob was in school, I was known as "Chutty Erny." We had a set of slang expressions quite peculiar to Woodstock, most of which have doubtless passed out of usage. "Buck off" meant show off; "squinch," cheat; "chut," small; "heft," large; "packa ding chaunce," terribly good; "bra," brother; "sas," sister; "taws," marbles; "airzes," airplanes; "gaff," fun; and "homey," homework. Most of this quaint vocabulary has slipped my mind but there were enough of these words to fill a small dictionary.

The dames lived in what was called the College and at our age only sissies paid any attention to them. During the noon hour, we often bought treats from the ubiquitous cake wallas. Usually there were landslides after each heavy rain. I remember the Tehri Hills, Danaulti, Magru, Bear Mountain and Bears Cave, Pepper Pot, Bundar Poonch, Kellogg, the chakars, Mulingar, and skating parties. We sang "Shadows," the Woodstock hiking song, and "Cheers for the brown and the gold." I also remember "Charley's Aunt," "You can't take it with You," and "Tobias and the Angel," and also prize-giving day, going-down-dinner, capture the flag down at the gravey (graveyard), the Hostie, Kincraig and Dehra, the buz (bazaar), Sobha's (Sobha Ram's), and a thousand other words, the mere mention of which brings back the indescribable flavor of all that was Woodstock to me.

My great sorrow was that Dad was elected OMS president in 1950, forcing us to leave India and Woodstock after my freshman year.