Walking to Auburn Heights Elementary

We didn’t walk uphill to school both ways. We walked one-third of a mile each way along shady, pleasant South Squirrel Road to Auburn Heights Elementary. I can see our route as clearly as if that trip was last spring.

In truth, I only attended Auburn Heights Elementary one year, fourth grade (Mrs. Parr). The year before we lived in Pontiac and walked to LeBaron School (7/10 of a mile), and the following year, I rode a bus to Stone School (Mrs. Love).

But that one school year was pure magic.

“They walked three miles to and from school, uphill both ways,” comes from the Tallahassee Democrat newspaper, September 29, 1956.

Walking to school was no hardship. My friend Kay and I strolled or rode bikes to the Heights’ downtown on a regular basis, and we all headed for the School Hills, across from the school, winter (sledding) and summer (especially on the Fourth of July for fireworks).

My brother Dave and I were one year apart in grade, so walked to school together, picking up friends as we went.

Dave never wore a hat. Never. Even in the coldest winter weather, he stuffed his hat in a bush somewhere at the top of the street, and picked it up on the way home. I didn’t like to zip my coat, and we were all embarrassed by mitten strings. Kids are funny.

Our school was built in 1924 on the corner of Squirrel Road and Waukegan Street—and consisted at that time of four rooms. There was a second level when I attended in 1959. My mother-in-law was the last graduating class there, and I saw her class photo twice—once, in the basement of the school, and once in the archives of the Auburn Hills Historical Society. Young Evelyn Ward, with her senior class.

I recall leaf collections due in the fall, with leaves we’d plucked from local trees ironed between sheets of waxed paper and bound in a folder. Rock collections in the spring. Did my brothers have insect collections? Shudder.

Tonette classes for music, which I loved as a child, but must have been a nightmare for our visiting music teacher. All those screeching sounds trying to play a melody.

Many years later, as an adult, I worked at an elementary school in Florida, and was giving a new student and her parents a tour before her first day. We visited her grade-level classroom, the art room, the playground (always a favorite stop), and the music room. A tonette lesson was underway. I stood at the back of the class and made faces at Alice, the teacher, who was unable to respond, since she was showing her happy face to the enthusiastic class.

Auburn Heights Elementary was famous for the annual fall festival.

Duck pond with the tiny prizes, the cake walks, cotton candy and hot dogs in the cafeteria, and best of all, the White Elephant room, filled with knickknacks and undiscovered treasure to haul home.

But we were most famous for Mrs. Potbury, next door, who told Bible stories at lunchtime, baked bread, and sold seedlings for children to give mothers on special occasions, or grow in bedroom windows for future gardens.

Her house had been the Adams farm tenant house, and our neighborhood was once the Adams’ farm—Henry J Adams, grandchildren Caroline, Margaret, and Henrydale, and wife Bessie, the names of our streets.

My brother and I took turns choosing favorite houses on both sides of South Squirrel during our walks to and from school. The Potbury house isn’t red anymore and our school is gone—as are the School Hills—but on my last visit to the Heights, the houses we once passed on our way to school or to the Heights (downtown) were still recognizable.

Maybe, on some chilly fall mornings, my brother and I can be seen making our way to the ghost of our beloved school.

I like to think so.

And we’ll bring home one of Mrs. Potbury’s seedlings.