When I offer these recollections of Nottingham, allowance must be made for the reliability and accuracy of my memory. Fingers crossed, I still claim that I remember the opening lines of the French text book, “J’entre dans la salle de class,” although not much else, but I’ve forgotten the name of the excellent teacher. My mind was more occupied with the end of class, when we all poured into the hallways where my heart-throb, Nancy Nesbitt, was stationed as a corridor guide a few feet from the door.

Jud Johnson showed grace and agility on the parallel bars in gym, where I could never manage a clean vault over the buck, as I think this hurdle was called. On skis at Drumlins, Jud also demonstrated his grace and skill, carving parallel turns that ended in a shower of snow at the rope tow line. Corridor guides like Nancy, with their distinctive arm bands, took the prestigious job seriously for good reason, with two packs of unruly adolescents herded in opposite directions, up and down two or three flights of stairs.

We thronged into the auditorium for assemblies to hear news and announcements, occasionally graced with a performance by Jerry Sackett's A Cappella Choir. The Choir's and Nottingham's musical reputations were enhanced by famous graduates Sheila and Gordon MacRae, the latter the composer of our alma mater, "Nottingham, Nottingham, faithful and true . . . " The truth was, I was a bit of a nerd, playing chess in the cafeteria and palling around with other nerds and some not so nerd-like, such as the political and intellectual giant, Pete Constable, whom I admired almost as much as I did Jud Johnson.

But nerds were tolerated at Nottingham, where 85% of graduates went on to college.  One could not be looked at as a nerd, however, and find membership in the strongly entrenched fraternities and sororities. Their charitable and community service projects were commendable, but rejection by these organizations was a devastating blow to many a fragile adolescent ego. I do remember other teachers.  Miss Fink's World History, where I learned that there were about two billion people in the world, a statistic automatically recalled when compared with current demographics of five and a half billion and counting.  Frederika Smith in English, who once complimented my reading of a Robert Frost poem by confessing that "I couldn't have read it better myself." There may have been some murmurings about Miss Smith as a role model, because occasionally she had on hand copies of The New Yorker, some with cartoons that revealed comic nudity.

Only a few short blocks from school was Wittig's ice cream parlor, which lured many for the social life of bodies crammed into booths, enjoying banana splits and shakes. Nearby, a more sinister bar and grill also lured the reckless and venturesome, where a star football player was rumored to have broken his hand in a fight during mid-season, perhaps contributing to the team's record of one victory during my three years at Nottingham. Other than struggling to manage four laps during the mile run of track meets, I was no athlete, but found vicarious fun as Sports Editor of The Citizen, with my column, "Bulldog Barkings by Bill." An undistinguished track career, however, did earn me a large orange "N," proudly sewn on a navy blue cardigan sweater that I sent to a grandchild last year after finding it in the attic only slightly moth-eaten.

On balance, did I enjoy my high school years? I can't give a definitive answer to this question. Like life, there were painful and happy experiences, but the imperfect ticking of Nottingham memories continues. Several years ago, when my sister and I returned to Syracuse to arrange for the burial of our father, I visited the "new" Nottingham on Meadowbrook Drive. I'd taken my yearbook with me to inquire at the office about classmates, and to my pleasant surprise located one who had written a long and heart-felt tribute by her photo. It was rather a let down when it became clear that her recollection of me was vague, if not a complete blank. So I'll cling to my own memories of brief encounters with a corridor guide and warm friendships enduring into college, with embers perhaps still glowing under the ash heaps of the years.

By Bill Sayres (‘49)

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