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Photographic Tour
Eliot Middle School 2001
by
Eddie Moses

It was a beautiful summer day on August 24, 2001 as I drove to Eliot Junior High School (now called Eliot Middle School) on North Lake Avenue in Altadena to take photographs for the Eliot page of the John Muir Class of 1956 Web site.  A nostalgic rush immediately overcame me. My mind drifted back a half century as it wandered through the halls, down familiar steps into the cafeteria, then onto the waxed hardwood floor of the gymnasium.  A vivid remembrance of the many sock hops and the innocence of  shy, blushing teenagers dancing to the music of the Rhythm Kings, a band spawned from the many talented musicians Eliot produced. 

I stopped my car in a parking lot across the street from the north side of the school and snapped a few photographs of the old music room that occupied the second story behind the auditorium. The room was accessed from the outside by a flight of stairs that no longer exist.  Band was one of my favorite classes at Eliot and Hugh Palmer, the bandleader, my favorite teacher. 

I drove east on Calaveras Street then turned south along the eastern edge of the school.  I had a clear view of the athletic field, the gym and quad area.  Memories of Friday afternoon football games flashed across my mindís eye.  I swear I faintly heard students cheering from the bleachers ìE ñ L ñ I ó O ñ Tî, or maybe it was just wishful ringing in my ears, or maybe an errant wind. But I took more photographs. 

I got back into my car and turned right at the next corner and drove west along the southern edge of the school towards Lake Street.  I paused to let a car in front of me turn into a driveway leading to the middle of the campus.  Seeing no gates, or security guards I thought, ìWhat the hell, all they could do is tell me to leave.î  I followed the car up the driveway past the old snack shop and watched it park in the area between the rear of the main building and the gym.  Two people got out, a man and a woman.  

Thinking I needed an excuse for being there, (the irony is that while a student, excuses were something I often needed for not being there) I rolled the window down and said to the lady, 
ìI went to this school over fifty years ago, do you think I could have a tour sometime.î 
ìFifty years ago!" she exclaimed.  "Sure, park your car.î

The response floored me.  I hadnít expected that answer.  I thought she would tell me where I should go to apply and what hoops I needed to jump through.  This was too easy I thought, but I wasnít complaining.  I was out of the car before she could take another breath.  

Camera in hand, and a little nervous, I walked towards my two new friends.  As I approached, the man offered a big disarming smile, extended his hand and said, ìHi, Iím Jerry Cradduck, the new principal.î I shook his hand and replied.  ìThe last time I saw the principal of this school, it wasnít under such cordial circumstances.î He smiled and I smiled right back.  This was my kind of principal I thought. 

I flashed back to 1954, to a night when a few members of the gymnastic team, Warren Sullivan, Mickey Luken, David MacGillivray and myself included, gave an exhibition to members of the ìOdd Fellows Templeî in Pasadena.  A few of us (not telling who) were caught smoking by the coach soon after the demonstration. The next day we were hauled into the principalís office, who at the time was George W. Norene.  I vividly remember his approach.  It was stern, but more philosophical than disciplinary. He pointed to a photograph on the wall behind his desk of a tall thin young man, in a USC uniform running in some track and field event at the Los Angeles Coliseum.  He said it was a photograph of his brother who was a promising long distance runner, but was involved in an automobile accident and lost his leg.

The significance of his message was that his brother had no choice in his career ending injury, but we did.  By choosing to smoke we were voluntarily harming our body.  It was a moralistic analogy, delivered with such knack, that Iíve never forgotten the lesson.      

Suddenly finding myself back in the twenty-first century, I was invited into the building.  I followed the two into the ìOffice,î where a few of my teachers had deservingly sent me on many occasions against my wishes.  The office hadnít changed over the years.   I stared at a little glass cubicle and recalled it was once Mrs. Northís office.  

The woman introduced herself as Ms. Irma Hernandez-Conrad the assistant principal, a position held by Mrs. Ohlheiser and Mr. Dorland when I attended Eliot. 

ìWhere would you like to start?î she asked.  

ìWherever you would like to take me,î I replied.

We walked down the hall to the north wing, adjacent to the steps leading to the second floor, where Mrs. Glick and Mr. Dixon held their biology and science classes.  I snapped a few photographs then we walked back to the auditorium.  It was dark inside  but I snapped a photograph anyway. A melancholy feeling crept over me as I sensed the echoed voice of Reverend Bob Richards, a pole vaulter and Gold Medallist in the 1952 Helsinki Olympics.  His yearly inspirational speeches served to motivate many young Eliot minds.

It was just a few steps from the auditorium to the front entrance of the school and as I stepped outside the huge iron gates, I looked up the outside wall of the tower and took another photograph.  Looking south I realized the lily filled reflecting pond was gone, the area now covered by grass. 

Back inside, she unlocked the doors to the library.  It was as beautiful as it was fifty years ago.  The same bust of Charles Eliot stood guard along the west wall, a scholarly sentinel watching over his children.  I marveled at the beauty of this room and wondered why I hadnít spent much time in there as a student.  Actually I spent more time in the office than I did in the library.  My mediocre grades were a reflection of that last thought. 

After locking up the library, we walked towards the southern end of the hallway.  Ms. Hernandez-Conrad proudly pointed out the new lockers and noted that each student was required to buy a lock from the school so all the locks would be uniform. 

Coming to the stairway leading to the cafeteria, we descended.  I was excited because I regularly ate lunch in the cafeteria and this was a special treat to me.  At first it looked different. The room was empty, no tables or chairs, but it hadnít changed a bit.  I envisioned those same familiar cafeteria matrons Iíd seen behind the serving line and cash register during my four years at the school.  I was reminded of the senior banquet where the juniors served us seniors, and that Lois Rothschild wore a pretty red dress that evening.

We exited the south door of the cafeteria onto the walkway adjacent to the school shops.  Seemingly in disrepair, she quickly pointed out that many of the schools buildings were being remodeled with Measure Y funds, a bond issue approved by the voters to modernize the 30 schools in the Pasadena Unified School District.

The last stop was the gymnasium.  I told her I recalled the many dances held in the gym and she replied they still have them in there.  I suggested an alumni dance and she seemed very receptive to the idea.  She said the gym had been remodeled recently but to me, it didn't look any different.  

I thanked her for her gracious hospitality and for allowing an old nostalgic the opportunity to once again walk the hallowed halls of a much-loved school.  I got into my car, drove off the school grounds and sighed all the way home.

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