Double Refined Spirits

Henry   ---   In the light of the passage of time, this little episode would no longer fly these days, but in 1948, guidelines were looser, restraints were lesser.

                                         This has to do with retribution, revenge if you prefer.  I had bided my time.   Internship was over and our residency in Pathology had begun.  The intern, Ray, who pushed my black kitten out the sixth story window of the hospital just to see if it would land on its feet was now a resident with me in Memphis.  As Pathology residents we received the aborted fetuses from the obstetrical service for study and disposal,  and there were many.    Now Ray was in the habit of bringing his latest female guest (potential conquest) to the Pathology lab at night as a quiet place for completion of his seduction.  There he would ply them with moonshine that he received from his east Tennessee  source in half gallon jars.  This was the key to my ploy.  That day I had received a fetus that would fit nicely in Ray’s murky moonshine jar.  That night when he poured his libation for hopeful success for his intended, he had not noticed in the dim light the other contents until too late.  She sipped, she then saw the source, and was violently ill all over Ray and his desk, never to return.   Retribution completed. 

        Now I realize this story is grim in today’s upright, uptight society,  but way back then I figured I owed it to my little innocent black kitten..

The Chronicles of Memphis, cont'd

We have returned from a highly successful family camping trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains wherein we hiked, kayaked, and rode our bicycles 17 miles down an old railroad bed.  What fun!  Each night we played spades, brought out the guitars and sang, and ate great camp food.  More recently I have had the pleasure of putting my youngest in high school.  He had his first day and survived.  It was a bit harder on me than I expected . . .

But the blog lives on, so please send stories from your early days in medicine.  Failing that, I will have to invent stories with unreasonable titles involving tonics for female weakness, the absence of goiters in present day Tennessee, or even a prescription for curing cachexy and grocer's itch.

Not a Hiatus

I hope to meet up with my daughters and their men this weekend.  We are camping in the Blue Ridge within the boundaries of the Mt. Rogers Recreation Area for three nights.  Caroline and Joey will drive up from Charleston; Lillian and Brian will drive down from Buffalo; we will drive across from Morristown.  While there we will bike 17 miles of the Virginia Creeper Trail:  an old railroad bed that winds along a mountain ridge and ends up in the town of Damascus.  


But let not my brief departure from cyberspace deter you from further anecdotes, memories, and characters from your past.  Let the spirit of Mrs. Turley (if not her sweat) be upon you!

A Stich in Time, or "Thanks for the Mammaries"

Henry   ---   Working the emergency room at Memphis as an intern sometimes required the use of unorthodox methods on obstreperous drunks.  When an unruly drunk with razor cuts came in, however, the problem was to hold them down  in order to sew them up.  The old Memphis policeman assigned to the emergency room would come to he aid of the needle wielder with a technique he had devised.  With the patient lying on his side, the policeman would jam his elbow into the drunk’s ear so that if the patient struggled he just bore down forcefully and they usually quit moving as any motion made for more pain.  The patient could then be sewn up.  The policeman called this ‘elbow anesthesia’.

             The sewing technique that was taught was to use interrupted stitches.  This meant that each stitch had to be individually made, then tied and cut.  This takes a bit of time.  It was not unusual for a razor fight to result in dozens of long slashes. It was also not unusual to have several victims of the fights come in at the same time.  In order to save time one had to take a short cut and use a running suture, looping the needle and suture along the cut without stopping to tie off each stitch.  The result was not always cosmetically pleasing, but it got the job done.

              Saturday nights were the busiest with sometimes rather severe injuries from the fights.  One woman came in with multiple puncture wounds all over her chest.  When I questioned her she said she had been in a fight with another woman who wielded an icepick.  “  But you just wait, doctor “, she said. “ When they bring that ice pick woman in you’ll see what I did to her.  I bit her titty off.”  And Saturday night was only getting started.    I think this type of scene would demonstrate the difference between the Memphis charity hospital from the elitist Chicago suburb hospital that your Dad interned at where each patient had a personal private physician.    But I got paid more – a dollar a day, and John got nothing.       Will Meriwether

Mrs. Turley's Boarding House

Henry,
The details may be fuzzy, but this is how I remember Mrs. Turley's boarding house:
Looking for living quarters on our first visit to UT Medical School in Memphis, Will Meriwether and I decided to be roommates.  There were no UT dormitory rooms available, but across the street from the main campus Mrs. Turley took in boarders.  She wasn't "pickey" in her roomers, and we found a good 2nd floor room, and could eat our meals in her house next door. The food was OK, but it was so hot in Memphis in July, that whenever Mrs. Turley chatted with us at dinner, she dripped sweat into all our victuals.  We did learn how to set rat traps in our closet, and caught a rat or a mouse at least 3-4 nights a week.  However, they kept getting smaller, until we ran out of the varmints.  The "cheesy" hotel next door gave us great window views on the art of love-making, if we only had the time.  After 2-3 months we settled  for a real UT college dormitory room with a study.  We missed the old "clientele".
Love,
Dad

 Henry   ---   I never eat mashed potatoes now without it bringing back memories of Mrs. Turley serving us, family style, at her dining table with her sweat dripping into the dish.    Will Meriwether

Ten Home Deliveries

Henry  --  As medical students we were required to do ten home deliveries during our senior year while taking a class in obstetrics.  In Memphis there was ample opportunity for home deliveries among the fecund colored population, so after a call from the obstetrical coordinator, a public health nurse would pick up the student who was next on the roster and drive out to the home of the intended  patient.  The nurse always called us ‘doctor’ but she was the one who really knew the ropes.  The nurse would line the patient’s bed with newspaper and I  would count the time between pains and wait for the climax.  

On one occasion when the time was near the patient began to call on her religious backers for help with each pain, then between pains ask for the slop jar, saying she had to go.   The public health nurse cautioned, “Doctor, I would not advise putting her on the pot as she has the ‘Jesus, help me pains’,  and  that is a sign of a fast-approaching baby.”  In my role of ‘Doctor’, I said, “I’ll handle this, nurse, just put her on the pot”, feeling sorry for the patient.   The next sound was a loud THUNK.  It was the baby,   delivering itself into the slop jar.    I learned my lesson  -  listen to the voice of experience.       Will Meriwether

Stories of mid-twentieth century medicine, cont'd

Gentlemen:  I have made some changes to the blog.  First, please note the "comment" section below each post.  I THINK it is now set up to allow anyone to comment, although your comment may list you as "anonymous".   Second, remember that at the bottom of the page there is an "Older Post" notice that you may click to go backwards.  Blogs show more recent posts first, so if one wants to read in order, one must start at the oldest and then read up.

Now that the subject of cats has been broached there is the potential for all manner of stories. Who lacks one regarding pets or other animals?  I once tamed a feral, tail-less cat whom I named "Bob" for obvious reasons.  After some time I felt it was my bounden duty and service to have Bob "gone over" by our local vet.  After the exam I was told that Bob was female.  She became "Roberta" from then on.  What about the pet turtles, Norm van Brocklin and Johnny Unitas, that my brother and I had?  We buried Norm van Brocklin in a metal bandaid box after his demise.  Six weeks later, Johnny Unitas died.  In an uncharacteristic display of economy, we elected to exhume van Brocklin and use the same coffin.  While preparing the body, you can imagine our horror as van Brocklin came forth from his tomb! Turns out they were hibernating.


So Dad:  what about the rabid fox patient at the Lexington Clinic?  How about an account of the maternity ward in Memphis at the height of the summer?  Don't I remember something about white women calling for their husbands, but black women calling for Jesus?  And who was it whose patient came back to the office with profuse thanks for saving her life?  As I recall, the doctor didn't remember the case.  He asked what her diagnosis was.  "Oh, doctor," she replied, "you said I was moribund, and you were right!"

The Hospital Cat

Henry   ---   We interns in Memphis lived on the sixth floor of the hospital.  A cat lived with us.  I don’t know where it came from, or how long it had been there, but it took up with me, a cat fancier, and would take its naps on my pillow.  It was a black and white female and carried the name of Mary Ruth.  Also on the sixth floor was the hospital blood bank, and Mary Ruth, as cats are prone to do, liked to prowl.  Unfortunately this feline excursion was not fancied by the blood bank director who was probably a dog person as she certainly did not take to Mary Ruth or her presence in the blood bank.  The end result was she did away with Mary Ruth.  It was not a violent end, just a simple gesture, a gift to a blood donor who left with Mary Ruth, and the hospital cat was  never to be seen again.  However, this was not the end of the hospital cat saga.   A stray black kitten appeared, origin unknown, and took Mary Ruth’s place in the interns’ quarters and made its home in my room.   In our interns’ group was a hulk of a fellow from east Tennessee who had a black heart.  One spring day the kitten was sunning itself on my windowsill, and this intern came into the room, noticed the kitten on the windowsill, calmly came over and to my astonishment pushed it off, and out the window it plunged down six floors.  I could hardly believe the callous act.  I said, “ Ray, why in the world did you do that?”  He looked out the window and remarked, “I just wanted to see if it landed on its feet”.  I rushed down the six flights, not waiting for the elevator, and found the kitten, stunned, but alive.   I took it into the hospital, had it x-rayed and found no broken bones.  It recovered, I am happy to say, and took the place of Mary Ruth as the hospital cat.          Will Meriwether

Centre College

Henry  --  I couldn’t help but have a good chuckle at the little boy’s prayer.  I am reminded of the time when I was a freshman in college, (Centre College of Kentucky) where the Presbyterian ethic was still in play before they secularized.  Some of the student ate in the College dining commons and at each meal one student would be asked to give the pre-meal blessing.  When I was the chosen one I blanked out, couldn’t remember a single blessing, so mumbled a confused version of the Lord’s Prayer and sat down.    It is these moments of acute embarrassment that linger in one’s mind.    Will Meriwether

Dr. Meriwether,
I actually attended Sewanee with the great great granddaughter of Ephraim McDowell!  As a Centre alum, you will remember that he made Danville the heart of abdominal surgery for a bit!  
-Henry

Rats

Dear Medical School Classmates,
I am compelled to share a headmaster story.  I've been doing this job for 35 years and have had one unique-thing-after-another occur during my tenure.  There are indeed new things under the sun!

When I was headmaster of the Chesapeake Academy in the tidewater of Virginia, I hired a crackerjack kindergarten teacher. Like most teachers of that ilk, she labeled everything in the classroom in  block letters on construction paper:  "CHAIR" or "DESK" or "DOOR" or whatever.  Her only quirk was that she had two enormous white rats as classroom pets.  One was named Rastus; the other was Medusa.  Their cages were labeled "RAT".

I was not in favor of rats in the classroom.  I routinely encouraged her to get some guppies or a hamster.  Nothing worked.  I found it difficult to explain during admission tours, but since she was such a good teacher, I did my best to support her.

One day Rastus went the way of all flesh.  A child was sent to my office to ask where they could have the funeral.  That put me over the top!  I stormed over to the Kindergarten and in no uncertain terms let her know that we would NOT perform any last rites for a rat.  They could bury the rodent behind the building if they wished, but there was to be no "service". 

Beth Clark, the teacher, handled it beautifully.  She taught a wonderful lesson on living and dying, of returning to the earth, and how Rastus would help other things live.  I observed this homily as we gathered in a circle around the hole with the stiffened rat therein.  When it was time to cover the body with dirt, little Ben Smithers cried out, "But Miss Clark!  Aren't we supposed to pray at a funeral?"

I glared at Miss Clark.  I knew something like this would happen.  But in her competent way she replied, "Ben, if you wish to pray, you may."  Little Ben then caused all of his circled classmates to fold their hands, bow their heads, and then led them in the following prayer:

"God is great, God is good.  Let us thank him for our food."


yours,
Henry

Veneral Commerce

Henry   ---   I think your Dad says he has no memory of this incident.  If so, I am reminded of some of Mitt Romney’s episodes of selective forgetfulness.  It has to do with the time that WW II came to a close and those of us that the Army was sending through Medical School as privates in the Army were considered excess baggage and loaded onto a train and sent from Memphis to the wilds of lower Mississippi to Camp Shelby to be demobilized.  Part of the process was being given an STS (serologic test for syphilis).  As we were about to leave to return to Memphis, lined up for the train, the Sergeant in charge said “Selby, fall out”.  He was escorted to the medical tent while the rest of us were put on the train and sent on our way back to Memphis.  Poor John was left behind to face the fact that his STS had come back positive.  Now Innocent John was the last person one would have thought to fail the test.

                  As it turned out, it was all a mistake, and the test had been fouled up, following the ancient military tradition – there’s a right way and then there’s the Army way. 

Psychiatry

Henry   ---   I share your Dad’s reaction to psychiatry and psychiatrists.  As the story goes, there were two psychiatrists discussing their field.  One said to the other, “Do you really think we help patients?”   The other scratched his head, pondered a bit, and answered, “ I had never thought of it in that way, I always thought psychiatry was just a way of life.” 

                       I remember one day in Medical School your Dad, Bill Gardner and I were in psychiatry class and the professor was demonstrating to the class a patient with senile dementia.  She was an elderly, soft-spoken colored woman who kept plucking at her clothing as the psychiatry professor was demonstrating how she was not in touch with reality.  He was asking her the usual orientation questions as to what year it was, who was the president of the United States, where did she live, etc.  She kept silent after each question and kept picking at her clothing.   The professor turned to the class and said with little show of empathy or regard of the elderly woman’s feelings, “This shows the usual lack of orientation as to time and place in a senile patient.”    She then turned to the professor and said quietly,” I could tell you the answer to your questions, doctor, but it wouldn’t help getting these bugs off me.”   The class broke up in mirth.  We  didn’t like the professor anyway.       Will Meriwether

More on Dr. Beasley

Henry  ---  You have a good memory.  It was the same Rogers Beasley.  Evidently he came back to Memphis after serving as a medical corpsman in WW II, applied for readmission to medical school, was accepted (it helped that his grandfather had been President of the University) and he probably contributed more to the service of humanity than any other medical graduate of the University.  He was instrumental in bringing medical care to Appalachia through the Frontier Nursing Service, worked with Dr. Hertig in Boston to formulate and test the “pill” that brought contraception to millions of women, went to Africa and established a Leper Hospital for those suffering from that disastrous disease, and closed his medical career as director of the medical mission to the underserved in India and Pakistan.  He retired to live at Sewanee where he went to undergraduate school.  I visited him there before he died of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease).      Will Meriwether

W. Rogers Beasley, M.D.

Henry  --  Yes, I did get the picture of your Dad and Bill Gardner.  Brings back memories.   Of the starting class of 40 there were 30 graduating. Now there are only six left, all around the age of 90, give or take a year.   That’s 24 with no staying power.

                            Now for a story  --  During our first year of medical school the main subject was Anatomy with cadaver dissection in the lab.  One fine spring day the irrascible Anatomy professor noted that one of our classmates, Rogers Beasley, had his elbow on the cadaver and was gazing out the window.  The professor said, “Beasley, why aren’t you carrying on with your dissection?”  Beasley,  instead of saying, “Yes sir, sorry sir, I’ll get right on it, sir”, made the mistake of being philosophical and said, “Dr. Miller, sir, there are other things in life to be observed.”  Whereupon Dr. Miller said, “ Beasley, come to my office.”  Beasley went to his office and what transpired will never be known, but we never saw Beasley again.    I suppose there is a moral to this story, a lesson to be learned.  Perhaps it is this -  choose the right moment to wax philosophical.           

                            Which brings up another story about philosophy.   When I was in Korea, standing in the mess line waiting to be served, I struck up a conversation with one of the cooks.  I asked him how he came to be a cook in the army.  He said, “Sir, I was a philosophy major at Princeton, and when the draft brought me into the army they must have had enough philosophers,  so they made me me a cook.    I suppose there is a lesson to be learned here too  - choose the right time to become a philosopher, and that is not when there is a war going on.        Will Meriwether

Henry Selby	6:52 PM (20 hours ago)
to William

Great stories!  But don't I vaguely remember a W. Rogers Beasley who was very instrumental in building up the Frontier Nursing Service?  It seems to me that I even wrote to him once while I was an undergrad at Sewanee .  .  .
I did a quick web search on the FNS but couldn't find any reference to him.  I did discover that they now are a full fledged University!
yours,
Henry

Gardner and Selby

Drs. Bill Gardner and Selby 2012

PaPa and Grandma

Dear Dr. Meriwether,
I have very much enjoyed your stories and have shared them with the extended Selby clan.  They remind me of some stories I've heard from Dr. Gardner, including hillbilly medicine in this part of the world. He tells a hilarious anecdote of curing a woman of food poisoning in a remote cabin up in the Clinch Mountain range.  He instructed her sons to dispose of the "head cheese"  (also called "souse" or "souse loaf" that she had stored on a plank of wood in the shade).  The next morning when he arrived at his office in Tazewell, there were the two boys doubled over and vomiting energetically.

Your stories also bring to mind stories my mother would tell us of working at the "accident room" at Union Memorial Hospital in downtown Baltimore.  The stereotypically stupid-but-kindly Irish policemen usually played a role in her accounts.  For example, after being reprimanded over and over again for not collecting body parts after a trauma for possible reattachment, a cop brought my mother a Roi Tan cigar box full of brains from a jumper suicide.  Another time the ER doc was looking in a transient's ear with one of those old, heavy otiscopes.  "Dent!" he called.  "Get over here!  There's something looking back at me!"  Turned out that the homeless man's ear was full of maggots.  In a very weird small world incident, I happen to know that the doctor's name was Burgwyn.  He was an OB doc on temporary assignment from Richmond.  Years later his son and I were on the faculty at a boarding school together!

Dad also has many stories that we appreciate.  One that sticks out in my mind is when he convinced that giant psychiatric VA hospital in Kentucky to let him start a nuclear medicine department.  You may already know that, despite his choosing a psychiatrist as my godfather, Dad doesn't like psychiatric disorders.  Part of the raw deal he got was being made medical director! (I think the hospital had 1000 psychiatric beds).  Anyway, his very first patient revealed that he had killed his father, cut off the father's head, put it on a fencepost, and conversed with it for several years before being discovered.  I remember Dad saying that "he seemed so normal."

yours,
Henry

Appendicitis and Korea

To  Henry, (formerly known as Hank)   ---   Those waves are really scary. Even worse than Cherokee Lake,I believe. When I was going across the Pacific in a little troop ship for the Korean war we had a storm, but nothing like those waves.  Our ship would rise up in a wave, then go crashing down, sideslipping a bit.  Practically all the troops became seasick.  The lower decks had to be hosed down each day to get rid of what came up. It was in mid-winter, and the troops were made to go up to the main deck in the cold spray while the lower decks were cleaned.   They soon learned that in order to get out of the cold they could come to sick call, and I was helping the two young ship’s doctors handle the load, though I was a passenger myself.   One soldier complained of lower right quadrant pain, and it was decided to operate on him for appendicitis.  I volunteered to give the anaesthesia – open drop ether was what we had.  So the two Navy docs strapped the patient down on a Guerney and proceeded to take out what was a normal appendix after some difficulty as neither had ever done an appendectomy before.   The patient survived, but when the next soldier came in with right lower quadrant pain they decided they had learned their lesson and did not operate.  His appendix ruptured and he was put ashore in Honolulu with peritonitis.     

                          Before going over to Korea to a MASH Unit, I was in Tokyo for a while, and who should pop up from Korea on R & R but your Pop.  I had not seen him since Medical School.

             My father was  named Henry, and my brother, and one of my grandsons, and my wife’s father, and my great grandfather, so that is a very familiar name in the family.         Will Meriwether

The "good" Old Days

Henry   ---  Yes,  Dr. William Henry Gardner  (another Henry) was a good friend, classmate, and we interned together in Memphis.   We interns in Memphis at the University Hospital got a dollar a day, which was a dollar more than your dad got in his internship,  worked a 100 hour workweek, got occasional Sundays off but no holidays and didn’t know we were being exploited as that was the custom.  It is quite different these days I understand.  At the hospital in Memphis the interns’ quarters were in the hospital.  There was no individual paging system and the hospital loudspeakers went on until midnight to call you to take care of the emergencies.  One out of every three patients on the medical wards died, so there were always emergencies.  After midnight the one legged elevator operator would come to get you for emergencies.  He had a peg leg and you could hear him coming down the hall, clump, clump, clump, hoping he would pass by your door.  There were four of us to a room, so there was usually one on call all the time.   Sleep was always a precious item as we got so little of it.  The University Hospital was the only hospital in a hundred mile radius that would admit Afro-Americans, so one had to be very sick to get admitted.  That is why the death rate was so high.  Each ward had 36 beds and a student nurse would be in charge of two wards after midnight.  There were two night supervisor RN’s who patrolled the hospital corridors at night to see that there was no hanky-panky with the student nurses and to help with emergencies.  Those two old crones were really hardnosed  and the student nurses lived in fear of them.  The emergency/admitting area was staffed by three interns over a twenty-four hour period, so that was a highly desirable assignment as you had only an eight hour shift, averaging about two hundred patients per shift to triage, either to admit or send to the out-patient clinics for an appointment.   A medical student was asssigned to the ER to sew up the myriad lacerations that occurred from knife or razor fights .   It was an arduous but exciting time in one’s life.              Will Meriwether

PaPa and the Duel

Henry   ---   Thanks for the news.  It ruined my day.  Anyway, I am reminded of the time when I did the eye pathology for the medical school here at the  the University of Texas.  There were all sorts of eye injuries that resulted in losing an eye, usually involving children.  The most common were B.B. gun injuries and bow and arrow mishaps. 

                        If I remember correctly you are headmaster of a school in East Tennessee. (Morristown  ?)  Your dad lived in East Tennessee for a while, Johnson City, I believe. 

              Now I shall regale you with an anecdote about your dad when we were medical students together in Memphis.     He always was a good tennis player and there were public courts near the University.  One day he had a pick-up game with a fellow who considered himself a superior player.  John creamed him with topspin returns that hit the baseline and jumped up out of his comfort zone and he kept mishitting the ball.  It made him furious and he challenged John to a fistfight.  John wisely replied that he would be happy to fight him but it would have to be the next day as he had to return to class right away.  They agreed on the place and time and I came as John’s second.  When we met up the fellow had calmed down and was quite contrite about losing his temper and apologized.  I think John knew all along what would happen, and I knew that John did not have to rush back to class that previous day.  You have a wise father.          Will Meriwether

imagination

When we think about the five senses, we often wonder about the power of our brains to use the senses in order to interpret the world around us. Touch, sight, sound, smell and taste are the underpinnings of our environmental understanding. At a deeper level, we are amazed that the recurrence of a sensory experience can stimulate a strong memory. A particular fabric might bring to mind a comforting blanket from childhood; a song on the radio might evoke an emotional recollection; a sip of espresso might instantly bring one to an early Sunday morning on St. Mark’s Square in Venice. (Hmm. What brought that to mind?)

The ability to conceive of an idea without the corollary sensate experience is called imagination. When we consider the human power of imagination, it is even more wondrous than the senses! One has but to consider an architectural marvel, the formation of a government, a symphony, or a civic club’s agenda to realize that the imagination is our most powerful tool. Walt Disney is credited with saying, “If you can dream it, you can do it.” Perhaps you agree with this idea.

Despite the magnificent advances in brain study during the past decade, our understanding of the imagination is still rudimentary. Nevertheless, it is something we value. I would assume that we are born with an imaginative capacity. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, when a cursory search of some dubious sources on the world wide web revealed that only 60% of people are imaginative. Let me quickly say that I find such a number to be highly suspect, but let me also say that I’m SURE the number of imaginative people is less than 100%, at least by the time we reach maturity. And if I’m right, we must ask “what happened?”

There is no doubt that spending in excess of 15,000 hours in the schooling process (prior to college) would have some sort of effect on a child’s imagination. A good question would be whether or not sufficient time is devoted to stimulating the imagination. A darker question might suggest that schools are responsible for stifling the imagination.

Imagination fuels innovation. Innovation, by its very definition, speaks to betterment of our lives. I am no brain scientist, but I am confident that the mind’s eye is real. Real teachers, those who “draw out” the inborn genius in their students, celebrate the imagination. Tomorrow’s world will be better if it is shaped by those who can imagine a better tomorrow.

My Visual Autobiography

Daffodils and the Classroom

Daffodils are frequently confused by weather patterns. Right in the middle of winter a few warm days will cause their green shoots to appear. Blooming will usually begin in spring, but even in the same garden they will flower irregularly rather than as a cohort. Daffodils remind me of middle school students.

One of the many things I’ve enjoyed about my career is having wonderful discussions with teachers and parents regarding the behaviors of middle school children. Middle school aged children—let’s just say the ages between eleven and fourteen-- are simply fascinating! Noted anthropologist Margaret Meade once called them betweenagers, and said that we are more dissimilar at this period of development that at any other time in our lives. If I’m in front of a group of adults leading a conversation regarding this phase of growth, I usually ask the group to raise their hands if they themselves enjoyed those days.

Rarely is a hand raised. There is always the tittering of nervous laughter in the room. I suspect that uncomfortable memories are bubbling up.

There’s the girl who is unhappy that no one notices her. Moments later she is horrified that “people are looking at me!” The once docile and compliant boy becomes too physical with his peers, and “keep your hands to yourself” (a fairly common phrase in preschool and kindergarten) reappears after an extended absence. Odd vocalizations and facial expressions, including dismissive snorts and eye rolls, become commonplace.

I have found that rude behavior increases dramatically at this age. The big surprise, however, is that these betweenagers are largely unaware of their rudeness. When challenged, they are almost always baffled by the adult’s “over reaction” to the event. Even when the adult is quietly advising corrective action, the child will demand to know why he’s being “yelled at.” Skillful and wise adults can often reach betweenagers with the news that certain behaviors are unacceptable. When this moment occurs, the betweenagers are horrified at their own actions! Their penitence is obvious.

Many years ago when I was head of an independent school in Virginia, a seasoned middle school teacher came into my office to voice her frustration with a language arts class. “How many times do I have to teach the same point?” she demanded. “Well,” I countered, “how many students do you have?”

That’s an exaggeration of middle school teaching, of course, but the point remains: we are more dissimilar at this age than at any other time in our lives. That’s why I think an academically competent third grade teacher could teach a high school course, and a high school teacher who understood child learning theory could function well in a third grade classroom. Neither would necessarily succeed in a middle school room.

The middle school years are tough on everyone, it seems. Some parents wonder what the school did to their lovely little boy or girl; some teachers wonder if the child has any discipline at home. And all children know at a gut level that their world is changing forever. Their full flower will come later in their schooling career. If we’re lucky, like an early daffodil, maybe we’ll get a glimpse of it along the way. Maybe a former student will come back to tell tales of high school or college.

Our job is to help them grow, supporting each other as well as those to whom we’ve entrusted our children. The great schools of the world will address this remarkable age with curricula and teachers who understand the challenge.