Mr. & Mrs. Squibb
Memories by
Erik Holtsmark, Class of 1955
February 1998 - August 2004

With a special introduction by Fred Frye, MD, Class of 1952

This note is an introduction to the new Midland E-mail Notebook. The purpose of this page is to ask those of you alumni who attended Midland from 1932 to 1952 under the direction of our headmaster Paul Squibb, to reflect on your experiences “Squibbian”. Erik Holtsmark has written a wonderful reflection of the Squibbs and his experiences at Midland. This will be the first article to appear in this e-mail notebook. There has been a biography published by Gary Lewis in 2001. Mr. Lewis communicated with many of you in preparation of the writing of this book. I am sure that some of you did contribute. However I am equally sure that you have since thought of other stories and recollections that you did not submit, but perhaps on further reflection, you would like to do so now. Here is your chance.

None of us is getting younger and our memories do tend to fade. Some have had a chance to send offspring or grandchildren to Midland, and have a sense of where the school has gone since the departure of the Squibbs. Louise and Paul left an indelible imprint on our lives. After leaving Midland they did the same for the community of Cambria. In fact, their home is now a Bed and Breakfast. The community celebrates “Squibb Days” when all citizens clean up their environment.

I am sure that you have memories to share, both good ones and bad ones. The most important feature is that you will be sharing. Please consider this and enjoy the remarks of your fellow schoolmates in the first twenty years of Midland’s history – “The Squibb Years”.

~ Fred Frye, ‘52

My parents were referred to Midland School by both Thatcher and Webb schools, which they had visited in search of a better alternative for me and my older brother to the relatively lax California public high school system of the early post-war years. Their first knowledge of Midland’s existence came, however, through a friend who was a teacher there, Bill Wood who was married to the sister of the senior “master” at Midland, Ben Rich.

I had come to the United States in 1945 along with my mother and brother, to join our father who had come in 1940 via Siberia and Japan after we were bombed out of Oslo in April 1940. My brother and I had started schooling in Sweden during the war, then continued at La Jolla Elementary (with one year back in Sweden) and on to LJ Junior High. Our parents wanted us to gain a high school education as fulfilling as the rigorous programs of Europe during that era.

I first met Mr. Squibb in the spring of 1950 during an “introduction visit” to Midland with my parents and my brother. I was 12 years old at the time. My parents introduced my brother and me and we chatted informalities with Mr. Squibb for a few minutes before I was relegated to one of the boys for a tour of the facilities, and my brother went with another student. As I went off, with the lowered murmur of my father and moreover the quaint accent of Mr. Squibb fading into the warm afternoon breeze, I felt as if I had known him from before. He appeared as a package of my two grandfathers, one in Sweden and one in Norway, as well as the fictional gentleman image that I held from some of the tales by Dickens or the Grimms Brothers and H.C. Andersen.

It was soon time for sports, and I was taken along to participate in the intramural baseball game across the creek. I fortunately distinguished myself by getting a solid base hit and later snagging a line drive at second base and doubling Whittier off first as he ambled unseeingly past me with head down and elbows swinging high.

At the subsequent “tea” I gained my first encounter with Mrs. Squibb, sitting behind the raised wooden plank that supported a milk pitcher and an array of sturdy once-white ceramic cups. She spoke in short cheerful commentary to each boy and included me as if I were already one of them. She complimented me on a good game (I wondered how she knew since it had concluded only a short while earlier and she hadn’t been there). She pointed me to the boxes of Graham crackers sitting on the bench beside her, advising that I could take three double squares. She added very matter-of-factly that I could select a candy bar as reward for being on the winning team. She acted so nonchalantly, as if she had always known me, and within less than a minute I felt just as I had with Mr. Squibb, that she indeed did know me and I knew her.

Shortly my parents came walking slowly from the upper yard with Mr. Squibb who was pointing out something toward the corral with an extended arm and close-fingered flat palm performing a pronounced gesture of slight vertical waves of the lower arm as if the elbow was steadied on a table. It seemed to me such an unusual way of pointing, yet so far more appropriate than using a single finger. I thanked Mrs. Squibb hastily and joined the threesome at the lower gate. Mr. Squibb immediately addressed me with some statement that elicited a comment from me without my having been asked a question. He placed an arm behind my back without actually touching me, symbolically separating me from my parents, and turning the two of us toward the corral. I ambled along beside him, trying to match the speed of his long strides with that of my short quick shuffles. I can’t remember the topics of discussion but I do remember that I found myself talking more readily than I normally would with such a prominent elder. As we neared the corral three or four horses assembled eagerly opposite us, whereupon Mr. Squibb “introduced” me by the name of each. He placed something in my hand while still addressing the horses, and then told me to hold out my palm with one sugar cube for each horse. I had ridden a plow horse once in Sweden, and hitched rides on horse-drawn carts during the war, even ridden a few times along the La Jolla Shores as part of a riding school, but this was quite different. I was somehow much nearer to the steeds, and Mr. Squibb made it feel like such a natural part of an every day occurrence.

My upbringing in Sweden had taught me not to speak unless addressed, to use the respectful plural pronoun or title and surname for elders, and indeed for any strangers, and to bow nearly 90 degrees when shaking hands, and even clicking heels when special respect was warranted. My four years in America had tempered my bow to a mere nod, but when I was offered a parting hand shake from Mr. Squibb a significant bow unconsciously reappeared, and I articulated a sincere “Thank You, Mr. Squibb”. Possibly it impressed him, or perhaps amused him. Nevertheless I was accepted to start in the 8th grade the following September. For financial reasons my brother was slated to start a year later since he was a more self disciplined student than I was.

On the long drive back to La Jolla, my father and mother expounded with exuberance on all the virtues of Midland and all the benefits I would reap. I was less enthusiastic at the thought of leaving my friends and the fun life in La Jolla, but I was swayed partly by the prospect of unlimited horseback riding and more by the affable personalities of Mr. and Mrs. Squibb. My father gave me a short summary of what he knew about Mr. Squibb’s background (presumably having gained the knowledge from Bill Wood), and told me the story of their first visit to Midland in the winter of 1949. The first figure they had encountered when driving across the creek was a lanky handy-man, sporting a tall broad-brimmed straw hat, bent over some task near the bell. They asked where they could find Mr. Squibb and were directed to the rear office in the Main House and were requested to park a bit differently. After the short delay of moving the car, my parents entered the Main House to find the “handy-man”, sans sombrero, sitting at the office desk.

I had the grand fortune of spending two school years with Mr. Squibb and Mrs. Squibb as Headmaster and (for lack of any formal title) “First Lady” respectively, my 8th and 9th grades from fall 1950 until their retirement in the spring of 1952. I virtually mourned the fact that they would not be part of Midland for my subsequent years…. And my mourning turned out to be well justified. Midland started a subtle but progressive fading from the genuine “New England in the Western Outback” character and aura imbued by Paul and Louise Squibb.

I reflected so often on certain incidents that I started many years ago to jot down anecdotes that I could remember about them. On a visit to San Diego in January 2004 Fred Frye (Class of 1952) gave me a copy of the book “Dominion over Palm and Pine, Paul Squibb and His Students” by Gary Lewis (class of 1945). After returning to my home in Sweden I did nothing but the most urgent chores as I became totally engrossed in the book. I finally learned of their earlier backgrounds as well as the formative years of Midland and its activities prior to my arrival in year nineteen.

For over fifty years their personalities have influenced my life and in many cases directly affected my actions by asking myself what Mr. or Mrs. Squibb would have advised in a specific instance. I have not been back to Midland since Thanksgiving 1976, but twice visited the Squibbs in Cambria. I hear from old classmates about all the changes at the school as well as in the immediate valley area, and it sounds so drastic that I should perhaps not see it and spoil my image. No matter which way Midland changes, however, the influence on my life by Mr. and Mrs. Squibb was so indelible that it is their influence of the early fifties, my early teens, that was of importance, not Midland.

So, here, a half century later, is a collection of all my bits and pieces in print for anyone who cares to read them. My stories are not in chronological order since I am not sure of the exact dates in most instances, and many of the items were repetitive occurrences that were the essences of their personalities, mimicked in respect by all of us.

The Grand Republic of Midland

Although Midland (= Mr. Squibb) prided itself on being austere and frugal, almost in the style of Thoreau’s Walden Pond, it was endowed (by Mr. Squibb) with a very complete system of self rule. The “concept” as developed by Mr. Squibb emulated all basic aspects of life in the “outside world”, with the result that Midland operated very much like a tiny autonomous nation. The prime purpose of Midland was, of course, to provide a top level education in preparation for university studies. Due to the remote location and severe economic restraints Mr. Squibb made many improvisations to meet the needs of survival. This provided a unique experience for boys in preparing for all the similar aspects of the world beyond Midland.

The prefect system was the backbone of the “government” outside class and organized events, with first line responsibility by house prefects, and second line by the Council, which consisted of First and Second school prefects and president of each class. Masters intervened only when absolutely necessary, but naturally were the authoritarians during classes and events under their auspices. Mr. Squibb was the final authority, serving veritably as the benevolent dictator of the Republic of Midland. The school board was never involved in any daily operations, and most boys (including me) didn’t learn that one existed until years after leaving Midland.

Midland had its own seal, just like any respectable nation. The artistically simplified representation of an oak tree had been developed in the first year or two by Miss Louise Chrimes, whose main role was to drive the daily transport to town and also filled in for Mrs. Squibb at “tea service” and many other tasks that did not have an assignee or needed a temporary substitute, even filling in on KP as needed. Although many of the boys regarded her a bit of a frumpy old maid, I found her to have a quick and wry wit, and she provided me with many highly appreciated cheerful encounters during my first few months at Midland. I sensed that there was a very unique bond between her and Mr. and Mrs. Squibb, almost as if they were a trio, like a small “cabinet” of the “Republic”. On the few occasions when I managed to wrangle a ride with her to Los Olivos or Solvang half holidays, I relished her saucy chatter as she raced boldly along the narrow dirt road as if trying to outrun her own trail of voluminous swirling dust. She was a portly woman with a naturally tanned complexion quite similar to that of Mr. Squibb. When she realized that I was taken in by her comments and insights her words poured more freely through a restrained yet quite noticeable smirk. The motto of the Midland seal, “In Robore Virtus”, was possibly also her coinage, albeit certainly with participation or at least concurrence of “The Trio”, and the over-all design was unmistakable one hundred percent Miss Chrimes. She also made the varnished wood plaques with the boys’ names in beautiful calligraphy that adorned the walls of the chapel. For each of the first few years the whole rank list was done, but as the enrolment grew too large the list for each year was limited to only the names of the new boys. A cross was placed after the name of each alumnus who died, and a star was placed for those who died in war time service.

Mr. Squibb created the Midland Bank, which served in all aspects like a normal bank but only within the confines of Midland. Each boy had an account, a check book, and was introduced to the whole process of a bank in making deposits (from funding by parents and certain paid student jobs discussed below) and making payments by check for costs incurred or to withdraw cash. Kids in the “outside world” during the 30’s through 50’s mostly did not learn to handle bank accounts until they were in college or possibly even after graduation.

Midland had its own unique Fire Department quintessentially à la Mr. Squibb. At virtually every corner of each building there was a large metal garbage can filled with water and a series of hand buckets submerged one in the other in such a way that each could be pulled out already filled with water in a continuous rapid process to squelch any fire in its infancy. Mr. Squibb drilled us all very hard on the urgency of being alert for fire and the importance of subduing it at the earliest possible stage. We were all required to have a memorized map in our heads of where each garbage can with water and buckets was located. He would hold impromptu drills at meals or assemblies, wherein he would give a hypothetical location that a fire is spotted and ask, by a quick directional palm-chop, a specific boy at random to announce, without hesitation, where to go for the nearest fire can. It was hugely demeaning and embarrassing for any boy who did not respond with the right answer immediately upon being called. I can’t recall if laps were given for failure, but certainly the public humiliation was severe.

There was a “Building Department”, consisting of Mr. Squibb. He conceived and handled the majority of the new building erections and maintenance of existing buildings. Any projects desired to be undertaken by anyone else, even the smallest improvement, required submittal of plans and issuance of a building permit, by Mr. Squibb. When approved, the school paid the costs of materials for the project.

Like any great republic, even smallest town, a newspaper became the chronicler of Midland events since the very first year. The Midland Mirror was the official organ for disseminating notable Midland events, past and future, as well as for imparting the doctrine of the regime through editorials by Mr. Squibb or other faculty members and Midland Reporters.

Every boy had a job on rotation assignments that changed each term and served to run a great deal of the school functions. In addition to these compulsory jobs boys had the option to take on additional jobs and earn money in the process. There was gopher hunting (within specified areas) that paid ten cents per tail, and wood cutting from windfalls beyond building areas that paid one cent per pound. Mr. Squibb provided gopher traps and wood cutting tools on loan without charge. In order to keep accounting of the earnings and to control adherence to rules, Mr. Squibb created the positions of Gopher Broker and Wood Broker that were attained after one had earned a certain level of earnings and by seniority and only when the position became available through “retirement”. The pay was 10% of the amount logged in, paid by the school in addition to the money earned by the hunters and cutters. I served in both posts at different times (after Mr. Squibb’s departure) and found that they were both thankless posts that did not pay sufficiently for the time involved and the responsibility of policing the activity. Gopher hunting was to be done only within building grounds and particularly at the soccer field, but boys found the results more rewarding further out where there was no benefit to the school. Wood cutters could only cut on windfalls and were required to cut up all portions equally, but faster money could be gained by stripping just the bark which was quicker and heavier than the branches. Of course, wood well saturated with water weighed more than dry wood so it was advantageous to bring in one’s haul right after a rain, or even augment the weight by giving a thorough dousing just before weigh-in. All in all these systems were nevertheless excellent training for entrepreneurial pursuits later in life.

Tutoring other students was another way of earning extra money, and I believe the school paid 25 or 50 cents per session in the early 1950’s. A boy who had earned an honor grade in a subject could in subsequent marking periods tutor other boys who were having difficulty, either at the boys own request or at the insistence of the Master in the class. The sessions were held in the Lumber Yard during specially assigned times, with several pairs spaced out at the Midland benches in private. I experienced both sides of the system and gained positive results both as tutored and as tutor.

The judicial system took several forms. The basic one was the lap system which everyone knows about and I shan’t reiterate all of its aspects. A more severe form of justice, quite arbitrary and greatly misused, was the system of swatting: “Turn around, bend over, and don’t flinch” was the standard terrifying command that lower schoolers dreaded. It was administered by house prefects with various implements of their own choosing: mostly normal leather belts folded double, but also more painful instruments such as canes, studded straps, corded army belts, and even electrical cords. The School Council administered official “Rounds” (one hit by each council member) of swatting for serious misconduct or having accrued too many laps, normally after a short “hearing” by the prosecution without the victim having any form of defense. I suffered house prefect swatting several times as a skinny little 8th grader and a couple times in the 9th grade, but never had to face the Council, and never receiving as severe beatings as some unfortunate boys in manners that I would classify as barbarian. I won’t go into names of individuals or describe any details in consideration that by today’s standards all of these occurrences would be grounds for major lawsuits in public courts with significant monetary retributions and most likely jail sentences for the perpetrators. Back in the 40’s and 50’s the only upshot was that some boys would “go over the hill” and in some cases the parents would bring them back and tell them to tough it out.

Another system, for handling minor disputes among boys, was established through the use of older boys as school attorneys that were appointed by Mr. Squibb after each passed a test on all the basic “laws” peculiar to Midland. There were only two or three attorneys as I recall and one Head Attorney. They were mostly seniors but possibly also juniors and the disputes were generally about rights to “choices” (dibbing for a person’s dessert as a result of a lost bet; we were not allowed to bet money, but “choices” were OK). If a boy felt unjustly pressed for his choice, or felt unjustly denied his right to a choice, he could hire an attorney at a nominal cost. If one of the parties disagreed with the decision of the attorney he could appeal to the Head Attorney, again at a cost (I think pay was also in choices). If a party still disagreed the matter could be taken to Mr. Squibb for final resolution.

Mr. Squibb was really a product of a 19th century British school system, and he based Midland on those principles. Although a few flaws might have become part of the system, the overall product was a magnificent one in terms of preparing young boys for manhood, not just the educational aspects (which were superb) but the lessons of life and how to cope as an individual in the far more ghastly world that waited outside.

Brothers All

Students were all addressed by last name by masters and amongst themselves. Mr. Squibb, however, addresses the students as “Brother So-and-So” and the masters as Mister, at least within earshot of students who in turn addressed them as “sir”. If two students had the same last name the first initial of each would be used; if the initials were also the same the second initial would be used. Normally this only occurred between brothers, but there were three Hoyts, the twins A Hoyt and E Hoyt as well as their older cousin W Hoyt (the guitarist-song leader in the Old Studio).

When my brother came as a 10th grader during my second year (9th grade) Mr. Squibb had a first dilemma with the system because both of our initials were EB. He couldn’t really call either of us Holtsmark 1 and the other 2 since I had been there a year already even though my brother was a year ahead of me. Mr. Squibb didn’t want to bestow such lordly titles on us as the Elder and the Younger, so he solved it by naming us Holtsmark 9 and Holtsmark 10 for the grades we were in. I asked him what we would be called the following year when I was the 10th grader and my brother would be in the 11th grade. He said: “Brother Holtsmark, that shall be the dilemma for Mr. Rich”.

As it turned out my brother was given the nick name Jack-o-Lantern by his prefect Harris Kirk, who admired his constant broad smile. So he became J Holtsmark and I was E Holtsmark. By the following year everyone called my brother Jack and he still uses it to this date, as do his wife and closest friends. In fact, I think that I am the only person in the world that who calls him Erling. And Mr. Squibb still called me Brother Holtsmark decades later when I visited him in Cambria.

The Rank System

One of the first things I learned when I started at Midland as an 8th grader was that “Rank has its privileges”. Since it was only a few years after World War II there was an almost military enforcement of the system. The lower ranking individual in any situation was always required to perform casual tasks that popped up. This made it a bit perilous for me, as second lowest ranking in the school, to hang out in the Main House to play chess or cards during free time. If the fire needed wood any of the other boys could command me to make the long and often cold trek to the wood pile to bring replenishments. Almost worse was if a phone call came in for a master or other boy; I’d have to go find the individual.

One day I had the opportunity to voice my complaint to Mr. Squibb and asked why I was second lowest out of the eight in the class. I learned that whoever was class president automatically went to the top and the rest were in order of first visit to the school. I pointed out that I had visited in the early spring and that, for instance, Tom Young had never visited before arriving in the fall. Mr. Squibb invited me to come to his office so that we could research the matter. I felt immediately elevated, almost reverent, standing in his office for a private discussion with the door open so that everyone in the Main House could see me. Mr. Squibb checked the dates for all boys and found that I should indeed be ranked above Young, and the rank list was duly altered for the next posting. Since Young was the boy I mostly played chess or cards with I was then safe from always being handed the tasks, but we agreed to share them since they interrupted our games anyway.

Breakfast Sign-in

Every boy was required to make an appearance for breakfast and sign in on the rank list inside the front door of Stillman Hall between the set time allowances. The bell at the lower yard gate was rung for start time and twice for final warning time. The List was removed at the split second of the last clang of the last bell. Boys who had not made the sign-in would be assigned for a specific period of time as helpers to the Graveyard Duty Boy who had the right to call on whomever he wished and even to rouse them as rudely as he desired from their slumbers for the early drudgery of setting up for breakfast. This was another form of Squibbian law enforcement where the punishment not only related to the crime but the community had direct gain from the infliction of the punishment. The sign-in list was a normal school rank list with either some pronouncement at the top or some question that could sometimes be answered in “yes” or “no” columns but other times required a moment of thought to jot an answer. This was Mr. Squibb’s way of getting the boys’ minds primed for the day’s school work while at the same time imparting items of news importance from the outside world, or getting opinions and thoughts from the boys.

Swedish Lesson in English Class

As a member of the 1950 8th grade, I was in the last class ever taught by Mr. Squibb at Midland, namely Eight Grade English. The main class activity was reading books from the library and later submitting written reports or giving oral reports to the class. There was only a half dozen of us (my room mate, Brian Blodgett had gone over the hill three times, brought back the first two but not the third) so we met in the New Studio. Mr. Squibb would come at the beginning of class to check what each of us was reading and how we were progressing, then leave for other duties and return at the end of the period to collect or listen to book reports.

I forget the exact circumstances, but for some reason I made a desperate excuse for some errors in English that Mr. Squibb had corrected, by claiming that everybody else had a huge advantage since I had only started to learn English five years earlier, and one of those years I had been back in school in Sweden. To my huge surprise and bafflement Mr. Squibb showed sincere (id est, mock) concern for my trumped up dilemma and suggested that we should all learn some Swedish. He asked that I submit some short poem for the class to memorize. I couldn’t think of any appropriate poem but thought that my childhood bed time prayer would go over well as I thought of Mr. Squibb as a deeply devout Christian (See “Chapel” below). It was a six line item that started “Gud som haver barnen kär…. Se till mig som liten är (God the keeper of children wee…. Take care of little me)”. I was asked to say it out loud several times for the class at the start and end of each day for a week, and everyone was supposed to memorize it and be tested on it. Nobody was able to get through the first line and I was given a symbolic 100 to make up for my down-graded scores on earlier written book reports.

After each of us had given a recital, with me last and perfect, Mr. Squibb stood up and recited the whole six lines almost perfectly. Over the next two years he would often greet me by saying the first line, I would say the second, he the third, etc. It became a beautiful private thing between us. Even a quarter of a century later on one of my visits to Cambria Mr. Squibb and I repeated our little skit.

Filibuster in the Rain

By early March of 1951 the coldest part of the winter had passed and Mr. Squibb moved our English Class from the cozy warmth of the New Studio with its cast iron stove, to the Lumber Yard, which had no rear wall. Without our realizing it, this ruse gave Mr. Squibb an easier chance to keep an eye on our performance while he carried on other activities nearby.

The most aggravating (to Mr. Squibb) of our group was Bruce Maclean due to his constant jabbering and petty arguing of any topic that came under discussion, and his tendency to get by through conniving or “skidding” (a term used at that time to denote borderline infractions or cheating in order to attain something). Consequently Mr. Squibb had dubbed Maclean “The Senator”, which was a subtle way for him to express simultaneously his disdain for politicians, a fact that escaped us at the time, so the moniker didn’t stick; we cruelly nick named him “Shoulders” instead because he had very narrow ones.

One rainy day Maclean was engaged in some distracting prank as usual when Mr. Squibb appeared abruptly from around the North side wall and caught The Senator in the middle of his mischief. Without slightest reference to any misdeeds, Mr. Squibb ordered The Senator to take the dictionary and stand outside and read it aloud as a practice in filibustering. Maclean, standing close in under the rear overhang to avoid the rain, appeared to thrive in the task as he chattered on loudly. Mr. Squibb immediately told him to back further out so we couldn’t hear him, and threw him his coat saying to use it to protect the dictionary only. The rain pattered pretty hard on the roof but Maclean increased his volume correspondingly. Mr. Squibb ordered him to keep reading while backing up until he was told to stop. Poor Maclean was half way to Stillman Hall before the stop signal was given, and there he remained for the rest of the period, filibustering in the rain, albeit a warm rain.

Many years later I realized the significance of the exercise: Mr. Squibb obviously detested the practice of filibustering that was quite prevalent in Washington in those days to delay issues until time for voting expired; ergo, the symbolic unheard filibustering in the rain by The Senator at Midland.

Super Sunny Corners

As the spring warmed up, Mr. Squibb moved the 8th grade English class out from the Lumber Yard into Super Sunny Corner, which consisted of three redwood plank walls and roof as a freestanding unit without floor. Depending on the time of day and angle of the sun the unit would be lifted by the students and positioned to best advantage for capturing the solar warmth, as directed by Mr. Squibb. Once he had us carry it around to the back side of the Lumber Yard (normally it was in the small field between the Moores’ house and the north side of the Lumber Yard), facing toward the Glass House. During the ordeal of this major relocation someone, probably Maclean, asked why we had to take it so far. Mr. Squibb advised that it was to keep us from getting so warm and lazy that we wouldn’t be able to read. The real reason soon became evident. Mr. Squibb was engaged in some project near the Glass House and wanted a direct line of sight to monitor our behavior.

My Special Award

In my second year I roomed with a 10th grader named Bob Fonda in the northeast corner of the Phoenix House. There was only one bureau, which Fonda had requisitioned for himself, or perhaps he had brought it. At any rate, there was no other accommodation for storing my clothes except for the suitcases I came with. Fonda was in the upper bunk, which had a fixed wooden ladder, and I was in the lower bunk, which was quite high off the floor and a bit awkward to get in and out of.

I decided to build a modified Midland Bench, to serve both as a stepping stool to my bunk and a storage space for my clothes. I applied for and received a building permit. My design used one inch redwood in lieu of the two inch planks of a standard Midland Bench, and the space inside the bottom section of mine was closed off on all sides with the first step being a hinged access door. Mr. Squibb was quite complimentary for my innovation and gave me a special award, a blue felt cloth patch with the initials “MS” and adorned on either side by a set of red felt cloth wings. The award was not an official occasion; just something he came and gave me. I asked what the “MS” stood for. He responded that it could stand for anything I would like it to stand for, then adding the suggestions of “My Special Award”, or “Midland School”, “Middle School”, “My Self”, or, as he suggested with a slightly sheepish smile, “Mr. Squibb”.

Strangely I have had that little felt cloth patch pinned to my wall in every home I have lived in since then: La Jolla and Midland, UCLA, Berkeley, Oklahoma, Paris, Tasmania, New York, Helsinki, London, Piedmont, Paris again, and now in Sweden. I gained many other awards at Midland, over a dozen sports letters and even one or two academic awards, and many others in my business life and as an architect, but they all lie buried in boxes somewhere, whereas the “MS” award is on prominent display and I hold it in highest esteem even though most assuredly nobody else has ever noticed it, and I have never explained it to anyone……. until now.

Dining Room Announcements

Stillman Hall at that time contained 10 tables with benches, two rectangular on either side as one entered then a square one on the left middle side and another square one in the alcove opposite, and finally two more rectangular on either side beyond the middle (possibly also a square one on the far wall). Each table seated eight bodies headed by a Master or the First and Second Prefects (the one in the alcove). Mr. Squibb headed the square one in the middle opposite the alcove. Students were assigned a new table every week, with a balance of ages being represented at each. The lowest classmen had the jobs as waiters for the tables to which they were assigned.

Mr. Squibb sat in one of the two places on the bench against the window and the senior student for the week sat next to him. Mrs. Squibb sat at the opposite of the two places on the bench on the other side of the table. Mr. Squibb preferred to make his announcements towards the end of meals rather than at the student assemblies that were run by the First and Second Prefects before chapel, which was before supper (though he sometimes attended assemblies to listen or express some urgent concern). There were often situations that required the show of hands, and we all relished watching him chop the air with his flat-palmed vertical arm swings as he worked around the hall logging the total.

On one occasion some wiseacre raised both arms at the far end and Mr. Squibb flowed through his count without seeming to notice. At the end he casually announced the tally and added “Three laps for Brother So-and-So for raising two arms”. Other announcements had to do with misuse of property or misconduct or events on the horizon. Sometimes the misconducts had occurred during the very meal and we all marveled at how he had managed to notice.

It turns out that Mrs. Squibb was the spotter, using the reflections in the windows to espy the transgressions and convey them to Mr. Squibb through some secret code or signals.

Chapel Sermons

Chapel services were held “once a day and twice on Sundays,” always after Assembly and before dinner (plus Sunday morning services). Seating in the chapel was arranged by the Rank System, with lowest ranking sitting in the front row and working back to the seniors. As third lowest ranking I sat in either middle or aisle position of the front left bench. There were three boys per bench, and whoever of the three of us had Altar Boy duty sat in the aisle, except when one of the boys on the right bench had the duty, in which case I sat in my usual aisle position.

I liked this position because it provided a direct view up to the speaker at the podium, which was on that side of the altar. When lap masters or seniors read their monotonous and uninspired rote, my mind could wander while inspecting their contorted features from this unusual angle.

But when Mr. Squibb gave sermons, which was quite common, at least on Sundays, I was mesmerized. He would normally start with his head bowed into one hand and the elbow leaning on the podium, bringing me face to face at no more than a two-foot distance. His eyes would be closed as if he were composing himself for the start of the sermon, so I could study him very closely without his observing me. I remember wondering based on his weathered features and character wrinkles how old he was, does he laugh a lot, was he a prankster when he was young, was he an athlete or a book worm, what had he done as an adult before starting Midland, and was he a real preacher? Why did the nicotine stain his mustache, and why wouldn’t it come clean in the shower? Why were the veins on his hands so enormous and pronounced?

Then all of a sudden his eyes would open and he would raise his head and direct his arms out to the congregation, well above and beyond my head, and he would begin with one of his favorite messages: “Every star is numbered”, Every hair on your head is counted……etc”, or “Big is not better….. “, or “Don’t kill the goose that laid the golden egg”. He even preached against “Belly wash” which was his term for any soda type drink, mainly directed at his disdain for Coca Cola. When we kneeled down or our scraps of cut up carpet remnants to pray, I would be in even closer proximity to Mr. Squibb kneeling such that his head was almost against mine. I snuck a few upward squints but even if Mr. Squibb noticed them he never opened his eyes or made any indication to me then or after chapel.

I’m sure past students can remember numerous sermons that escape me now a half century later, but they were memorable and entertaining to boys of our age. We would repeat them in mock and parody, but the proof of that was that his messages got home to us and we had them memorized almost word for word. I recall particularly Murray Innes doing renditions of Mr. Squibb’s sermons and if one closed ones eyes he sounded eerily like the real thing. I reflected years later that Mr. Squibb must surely have known that we parodied him, not just his chapel sermons but all his other expressions and sayings and mannerisms.

And the last laugh was truly his, because he got his message across and gave us a magnificent role model that one could never forget. I for one have in many instances thought about and tried to emulate (not too successfully) certain situations based on his behavior and philosophies.

Private Cook House

The food menu at Midland was certainly not one of its more attractive aspects. Hard boiled eggs on Sundays were considered a delicacy. Stillman Hall fell silent on meat loaf dinner days as everyone tried to choke down the grainy foul smelling dish with lumpy mashed potatoes and a gravy containing long slimy coagulates. Even more horrid to me was liver day with boiled broccoli or cauliflower (none of these three ingredients have passed my lips since I left Midland). An all too frequent dessert was a quivering Jello mass, blackish blue-red without any fruit in it, that we called “purple death”. At breakfast we were treated to an oatmeal porridge in the form of starchy clods floating in questionable cold liquids. There were big baskets of cold toast which we could put brown sugar on and sit about the pot belly stoves while holding them on sticks in the flames to create a special melted topping treat. Sometimes we did get apple pie for dessert, but I recall too many occasions when I had to give up mine to any of those with whom I had lost silly wagers. Any extra piece at a table was raffled off by our simultaneously raising of fingers and counting off the total in order. I was quite lucky at this and would sometimes gain a delayed satisfaction for my earlier salivations while the others had eaten their first pieces.

One day after several months when I was seated at the Head Table I asked Mr. Squibb if we ever got pancakes. He confounded me (and all the rest at the table) by stating that certainly we did. He went on to explain that on Sundays any boy could book the little shack in front of the New Studio (I think it was called The Cook House, whereas the real cook house at the back of the Main House was called the Kitchen) and prepare any breakfast he wished in lieu of eating at Stillman Hall. I opted for that immediately and booked the following Sunday. I can’t recall what ingredients were supplied to me, possibly eggs, butter and bread, but I seem to recall we had to buy our own pancake mix and syrup, probably through the town transport.

Anyway, I enmeshed myself in this first time endeavor, the cast iron stove fired up with special small fire wood that I had prepared. I followed the directions explicitly, but was either trying to scoop out fat flops while the batter still oozed out of them or they burned into flaky black rags. At the peak of my culinary catastrophe Mr. Squibb came along and sat down asking for a taste. I was totally flustered and embarrassed at the cruddy concoctions coming out of my pan, but Mr. Squibb made no comment as he took one of my fragmented offerings and gulped it down in three or four massive swallows, all the while making small talk. He thanked me and wandered on to other Sunday activities. I couldn’t believe that he had actually eaten one of my fat failures and I promptly closed down my operation and waited hungrily for lunch to come around. I only tried that routine once more, some years later, and realized it wasn’t worth it. Many years later when I had to cook for myself in college (after 2 raucous years in a fraternity) I reflected on my cooking attempts as an 8th grader and could only remember vaguely what I cooked and ate, and I recall less about the second time I tried it, but I remember vividly Mr. Squibb’s drop-by and serving him what I later learned was a flapjack, and not a thin pancake as is customary in Sweden and as I had intended to replicate. Perhaps Mr. Squibb had not been just polite or considerate of the feeble efforts of a thirteen year old. Perhaps they had been American flap jacks the way Americans are used to.

Dribble in the Soup

One cold winter day, seated at Mr. Squibb’s table next to Mrs. Squibb (where lowest ranking student of the table normally sat), I noticed that Mr. Squibb had a very runny nose as he served up the soup. Large clear liquid drops were actually plummeting into the first bowl he was filling, all the while telling the table how wonderful it was to have hot soup on such a chilly day.

The nose dribble hardly escaped anyone, but who could speak about it? The first bowl would have been passed to Mrs. Squibb, but with relief to all she announced quite unsubtly: “Oh Paul, you keep that bowl. And wipe your nose. You might want your dribble in your soup, but we certainly don’t want it in ours”. He smirked almost imperceptibly and complied, then continued serving and expounding as if nothing had happened. That was the only time I ever witnessed anyone correct Mr. Squibb under any circumstances, and Mrs. Squibb’s forthright New England words still ring so clearly in my mind.

Croquet Tournament

Mrs. Squibb was an avid croquet player. She played rapidly with assurance and accuracy, often commenting in continuous sequence almost as if narrating the intentions as well as results of each stroke as she played, and even as others played. I too was an avid croquet player and always gladly accepted her offer for a friendly game after lunch. Some boys claimed she sometimes fudged the ball if it was in a difficult lie, such as a depression in the dirt surface. The court was located between the Main House and the site that later became the Squibb’s residence and New Library. Since this was a semi secluded area before the Library was built (summer of 1951, I believe), nobody had reason to pass through there, which rendered a game as quite a private activity. In the beginning of my 8th grade year she won easily, but after I adopted her stance of straddling the ball and hitting with a strong follow through, one hand gripping low and one hand high on the club, I became a serious competitor.

There was a “ladder” wherein one could add his name at the bottom and challenge one or two spaces up, with a victory allowing a move to the defeated player’s position. I worked my way up quickly and near the top defeated Mrs. Squibb and whoever was in the actual first place. I managed to defend the position for several months.

In the spring of 1951 somebody, possibly Mrs. Squibb, suggested a grand school tournament with a new set of rules for which I can’t recall the details, but I believe it was something along the lines of a tennis tournament. Mrs. Squibb and I were in opposite brackets and beat all opponents until we met in the grand final. I think it was either a three out of five or more likely a two out of three game final. In whatever was the final and deciding game Mrs. Squibb gained a significant lead on me, but incredibly she flubbed some key and quite easy shots and I came from behind to win. My name was placed, as winner of the first annual tournament, on a new wood plaque that Miss Chrimes created. I was, of course, ecstatic at this honor and remember so well my pride at seeing my name on the wall in the Main House. I also won a prize that was of minor significance compared to the plaque, and I can’t recall what it was; probably it was a selection of several candy bars.

A couple decades later when reflecting on this incident it struck me how I had managed to make such a miraculous recovery to win the tournament. Mrs. Squibb had purposely missed her shots to let me win. She knew how infinitely much more it meant to me than to her, not just at that moment in time but for well into the future and even overflowing into other endeavors in the life ahead of me. And, she was very, very right!

Wildflower Collecting

Afternoon “Tea” was served by Mrs. Squibb at the bench to the left of the Main House every day after sports or at four p.m. on half holidays. Tea consisted of three double Graham Crackers and two refills of milk in cups that were just a bit too narrow to allow full dunking. As I recall we were allowed a second filling of milk, and she knew that boys were sneaking second helpings of Graham Crackers as well. It was almost a form of game wherein we would glance at her first to see if she was going to ignore the pilferage. If she purposefully did not look our way it was a sign that she’d let us have some more. She probably felt we needed the fatting up. Normally on the third attempt she would look your way and say that you could have only one more, meaning that was the end, or she would look off in some other direction and express in some diplomatic fashion to the horizon that each person was allowed only three double crackers.

On special occasions, or as a reward for some action, deed or contest, Mrs. Squibb distributed candy bars. Her favorite activity was wild flower collecting in the spring, wherein a candy bar was awarded for the first ten different flowers brought in and identified, and another candy bar for each five after that. That turned out to be one of my favorite activities as well in the spring of 1951. I recalled the pressed flower collection of my grandfather in Sweden (a medical doctor), and all the notes he wrote about them and their medicinal values; I later came into inheritance of his notes and even those of his father, also a doctor, describing how to concoct cures for all the prevalent diseases of the 1800’s.

The variety of wild flowers in the Midland Valley was so abundant that I was getting at least one candy bar per day. I was up to 50 species within the first few weeks. Mrs. Squibb actually did the identifying after my first 20. At spring break I gathered a slew of new species from along the coast in La Jolla and brought back in a tin box. On an “Honors Student Holiday” (full free day) with Sam Edwards hitchhiking and mostly walking to Lompoc I found another batch of new species. On a camping trip to the other side of the Figueroa Mountains I was able to find a whole new world of wild flowers along the Sisquac River. Unfortunately I forgot my tin box at the camp grounds, but Mrs. Squibb gave me two candy bars for describing some of them. By the end of the semester I had collected and identified something like 125 different wildflowers, but was beaten out by Maclean who managed 126 (or one more than whatever I had).

I believe that was the last year the contest was held. Every spring, wherever in the world I am at the time, I take great joy in the wildflowers in the countryside, in the fields, along the roads, and think particularly of the seemingly endless flow of blue lupines on the lower slopes of Grass Mountain, and moreover of Mrs. Squibb bent over her books to identify the scraps of foliage that I’d bring. She was truly engrossed and radiant with joy during those sessions.

Dickey Birds and Littering

Mrs. Squibb handled the kitchen and domestic affairs at Midland, even acting as first nurse until Miss Maxson was hired in the fall of 1951. The system of handling trash was quite far more ecological than any organization has come up with until this day. Nothing was wasted. And very little was discarded. The Second Hand Store re-sold books, clothes and a variety of items that retained even the slightest hint of possible remaining usefulness. Newspapers, magazines and larger combustible trash was turned into the Trash Burner above the Quad, and several times a week the boy with the job of Trash Burner would fire it up in a Squibbian contraption that created hot water for the Trash Burner’s personal enjoyment. He frequently invited close friends to join in this rare luxury of extended hot showers. Completely decimated objects, such as mangled bed springs, shredded clothing, bottles, and other non-bio-degradable matter, were discarded in Trash Canyon for periodic out-haul. Food scrapings were placed in a garbage can that was fed each day to the horses by the “Pig Boy” (a euphemism for this assigned job in consideration that the horses ate it all up cleaner than pigs could have done). Littering was, of course, a major offense that carried harsh punishments for an offender caught in the act. We were, however, allowed to toss away anything that Mr. Squibb deemed that a Dickey Bird (the appellation covered all forms of birds, mammals, and insects in the region) would eat on an ongoing and immediate basis, such as apple cores. Many discussions among students as well as Masters revolved around what a Dickey Bird would or would not eat.

Rock Throwing

It was forbidden to throw rocks at birds, or at anything at all for that matter. In order to allow boys to vent their uncontrollable need to throw rocks, Mr. Squibb hung garbage can lids on the fence above the Tool House at the start of the trail to the top of Varsity Hill. Boys were allowed to throw at this target. Cunningly it accomplished two things without boys suspecting it. It vented their frustrations as stated above, but it also cleared all the loose rocks lying in the broad dirt field between the lower and upper yards.

Top of Grass Mountain

All Saints’ Day Sunday was the only full day holiday of the school year (except for special rewards for individuals who attained honor status in the previous term). My first year (1950) someone (possibly Mr. Squibb) suggested that the quintessential outing for All Saints’ Day was to hike to the top of Grass Mountain and sign in on the list there (reward was a candy bar), or to hike over the far end valley range on Beard’s Ranch (*) to Zaca Lake. (* referred to as such although Beard was merely the foreman, whereas the property was owned by Mr. Easton)

Even though we were allowed to do whatever we wanted, including going to town or just lying around, I decided to do both of the “biggies”. I can’t recall whom I went with, but I was off quite early with one of my classmates, clutching bag lunches that were provided for hikers. It was a grueling climb that I was completely unprepared for. The top seemed just to become another top further up the higher we got. We rested several times and my hiking partner suggested returning to school, but I was determined to “have done it”. Finally at the top we found the box (or possibly it was can) on a post with a list inside. I was extremely surprised to note that there were only a couple dozen names on the list, which meant that in the first 18 years of Midland only a small handful of boys had made this essential qualifying trek. But I was very pleased to note that among the first few names (can’t recall exact order) were Mr. Squibb and Mrs. Squibb.

I wonder now (54 years later) how many boys and masters have made the climb. Perhaps the list should be brought down from the summit and copied in the Mirror. Needless to say I did not do Zaca Lake as well that year, but another year, probably my sophomore year, I did make it to Zaca together with Wheeler Coberly.

Firearms

The pioneering vein in Mr. Squibb allowed rifles to be an important aspect of a young boy’s upbringing, and he used them freely himself. He had a private war against sapsuckers …….. as well as against gophers, Baboons (anyone who damaged or defaced property either purposely or by accident or through stupidity or carelessness), and anyone who drank Belly-Wash, i.e. Sodas. He could frequently be seen with his pellet rifle aiming and shooing at the detestable sapsuckers in the trees even in the lower yard.

In the fall of my first year (1950) there was a firearms auction of guns from departed students held on the 3rd and 4th team soccer field across the creek (last such auction ever held to my knowledge). There were dozens of rifles for sale, including air rifles, 22 caliber, 30-30’s (or 30-06?) and even shot guns. I had owned a pellet shot air rifle a few years earlier in Sweden but there was a small caliber 22 at the auction that I thought would be right for me. I couldn’t afford the price, however, so settled for a BB gun and went off proudly hunting sapsuckers and quail (we were assigned individual areas up the valley for “hunting”, and only one person could be in such an area at the same time). After three or four such expeditions I managed to nail one poor sparrow, and then lost interest. Mr. Squibb re-encouraged my interest by introducing me to the check-out of school 22’s for target practice in Target Canyon. After one outing I lost interest in this as well.

In the spring an incident occurred that turned me off guns forever. There were wild cats that lived in the wood pile next to the dish house, and they would stalk the area to eat the slop on the ground that had missed the garbage can during scrape-offs by waiters. A female started coming with a brood of five or six very young kittens, only a few weeks old. One day Mr. Rich’s German Shepherd caught one of the kittens and broke its back. Mr. Squibb calmly went into the main house and fetched a 22, loaded it while shooing away a few boys that had gathered. While the helpless kitten looked up with big eyes and a squeaky voice, its upper body sort of planted to the ground while the other half lay at an awkward angle behind it, Mr. Squibb pointed at a two feet range and fired. A red hole appeared immediately in the kitten’s forehead and she continued looking at the gun for a full second or more before closing her eyes and slumping. Mr. Squibb picked her up and went away without saying a word, presumably to bury the corpse or somehow discard it. Shooting sapsuckers seemed uncharacteristic for Mr. Squibb, and shooting the kitten, though the only humanitarian option, was an act that in my mind didn’t fit with my image of Mr. Squibb. Yet I could tell by the way he left, in silence and without looking at anyone, that he was not happy with having to do it, and probably even quite upset about it. Now, after reading Gary Lewis’ book and learning that Mr. Squibb was an ambulance driver during World War I and an advance scout behind enemy lines, I realize that he must have witnessed so much horrible carnage that he was well inured to something as banal as the kitten incident.

The Tool House Sign

Just above the Post Office and Store, next to the start of the path to the top of Varsity Hill, there was a small shed which was called The Tool House. It very appropriately contained an array of heavy tools, like shovels, rakes, picks, etc. that students could check out for a desired project or, more commonly, during the forced clean-up periods or when working off laps for some master. Next to the check-out list there was a classic scribbled Squibbism in bold black on the wall above a couple mangled shovels, stating: “THESE SHOVELS WERE USED BY BABOONS AS PICKS AND NOW THEY CAN NO LONGER BE USED AS SHOVELS”.

The Fire Ring

The fire places in the Main House, the pot belly stoves in Stillman Hall, and all shower room stoves used for making hot shower water had metal rings or squares on the floor at a distance of a foot or two beyond the fire. No firewood or combustible objects of any kind were allowed to be within the “fire ring” (excepting the wood in the fire, of course). In the Main House the hearth depicted the fire ring, and on cold days and nights it was very comfortable to pull up a chair onto the hearth in order to get closer to the heat. This was technically a “lapable” offense (i.e. placing any combustible materials inside the fore ring) but generally tolerated for an interesting reason that showed the very wide latitude of compromise or acceptance Mr. Squibb would make for the benefit of practicality. He had a very logical and perfect way of laying fire logs, using two equal thick ones lying parallel and pointing straight into the fireplace; this provided perfect draft while throwing off maximum heat toward the room. Smaller pieces would be placed periodically between the two larger logs which would be poked together as they burned down. On occasion in the early mornings Mr. Squibb would haul in a six to eight-foot long log to use as one of the pair, with the end sticking well into the room. This log would be pushed in progressively as it burned and the shorter log pushed toward it and replaced when it wore down beyond its usefulness. It was well monitored by Mr. Squibb from the direct view at his desk in the office, and well timed so that the long log would be a short stub by evening. I have prided myself all my life on my ability to make a good fire, and even to break the cardinal rule of the fire ring in order not to have to spend effort on cutting a long log. Several times while he fussed with a fire I heard his lecture to anyone listening that standard fire dogs or cradles that require logs to lie parallel to the opening are self defeating. By Squibbian definition those implements were among the design errors of mankind that were most persistently used in ignorance. He was baffled why anyone would make a fire with logs blocking the heat from reaching the room. In the subsequent half century I too have been baffled why it is so hard to convince people the correct way, the Squibb way, the way I have used happily and successfully ever since.

Rainy Day Fires at the “Corners”

On rainy days that were not half holidays, Mr. Squibb arranged outings to some part of the ranch in lieu of sports. The locations were generally no more than an hour’s hike away, and always entailed some spot that very few if any of the students had ever been. The near corners of the Midland property were favorite places.

By the time the first students straggled to the appointed location, soaked to the skin, shivering with cold, and tired from dragging heavy muddy boots over hills and through dales, they were greeted by Mr. Squibb fervently feeding more logs and branches onto a huge blazing bonfire. The rain cascaded off his saturated clothes as if they could absorb no more. The multitude of droplets glistened from the light of the fire and Mr. Squibb was aglow. He always seemed to be at the height of enjoyment, almost in ecstasy, broadly smiling, almost laughing, as he called out above the roar of the inferno to each arriving group or individual student to warm up by the fire. The only obligation was to sign in on the rank list, and then one could return to the school grounds. But there were also candy bars as treats and marshmallows to roast on small fires that Mr. Squibb created by pulling out some of the smaller blazing branches. I normally came early and hung around for a while to enjoy the strange atmosphere of an inferno in remote wilderness in the midst of torrential near monsoon conditions.

We all marveled at Mr. Squibb’s fortitude and stamina, and moreover at his ability to get such a marvelous fire started while being sprayed from the sky as if by a barrage of fire hoses. He had to get there so much earlier than we in order to have such a large bonfire performing so magnificently against all odds. It wasn’t until many decades later that I learned the secret from some other alum: kerosene.

Tennis Ball Soccer

On some rainy days that occurred on sports days Mr. Squibb would schedule an outing up to the end of the valley instead of to one of the corners. Again, he would have the bonfire blazing, and he would mark off a small area of the muddiest part of the field and place us in two teams with mixture of ages (up to 20 or more per team) to engage in a soccer match using a tennis ball. He insisted that it was excellent practice to use such a small ball, like warming up with heavy bats before going to the plate in baseball. It may not have served much to improve our soccer skills but it did give a chance for younger boys to play as equals with the older boys. A boy named Charlie Dennis (’53, I believe) left a strong impression in my memory of relishing this pig pen play; he came up with many new tactics that were one by one outlawed. I’m not sure that Mr. Squibb invented the tennis ball idea. It might have been Mr. Barry or Mr. Rich. At least I recall Mr. Barry leading the activity. And I do recall on one such occasion Mr. Squibb exhorting us and having many a good laugh at our antics as we squirmed around in the mud.

Butch Wars

Probably because of the lingering effects from the military aspects of World War II it was common for teens to have very short hair in the early 50’s, either a flat top or a straight butch. Eighth graders, and formerly seventh graders (ended the previous year), normally still wore longer hair styles as dictated by their mothers.

In order to bring these young boys up to the times, Mr. Squibb sanctioned a game called “Butch Wars”. The lower classmen (all 8 of us) were given a head start one night after dinner and the older boys hunted us down like wild boar in the jungle in order to massacre our hair with half-hacked versions of butch haircuts. There was a time limit (can’t recall but perhaps it was two hours) for the older boys to find us, so I ran up to the far end of Trash Canyon and waited it out, never being discovered. When I returned, after the time limit, all my classmates had grotesque scalpings and the older boys were furious with me for having escaped. But they could not “legally” scalp me anymore. The class pictures were taken a few days later and I prided myself on being the only one with my original long hair style.

When the barber came shortly thereafter (about once per month or so) and set up operations in the Glass House, my classmates all went to have their styles cleaned as best possible. Although I didn’t plan to have my golden mane trimmed, I sat and chatted with them as they waited by the rank system order of queue to take their turns (any higher ranking boy could come at any time and get placed before a waiting lower ranking boy).

Mr. Squibb came along and, although virtually bald, asked for a haircut, getting priority in queue by rank just like the others. I have an indelible picture in my mind of him sitting down with a chuckle of a smile stating to the barber: “This will be the easiest dollar you’ve ever earned”. When he was finished he asked who was next, whereupon I sidled off in order not to get entrapped. But he called out to me pointedly and I mumbled that I didn’t need a haircut. He kidded me lightly to go for the short cut, but I held out …… until the following summer when I started surfing and opted for a flat top.

The Talking Magpie

During the late spring of 1951 Bruce Maclean and I were enjoying room study privileges, and were duly engaged in a tournament of checkers in Lower School 6, an open dorm with number 7 contiguous. Sitting on the bed against the back wall, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Squibb’s tall straw hat passing the window of number 7, obviously on his way to monitor our study session. The windows on the rear wall had already been removed for the warm season (*), so I made a reverse summersault out the opening onto the rear slope.

Maclean was dumbfounded as I had not had time to say anything, and he probably looked a bit foolish sitting there playing checkers with himself when Mr. Squibb stormed in. Maclean was already on Mr. Squibb’s black list (See “Filibuster” above), so Mr. Squibb was doubly angered by the misuse of room study privileges. I made it to the cover of the Feed Barn to watch Maclean, with an affected foot-drag limp, being marched sternly toward the Lower Yard, Mr. Squibb leading him by several strides. I skirted around the back of the Feed Barn and along the toe of Varsity Hill and behind the Tool House, looking for my chance to regain the Lower Yard in time for my next class. As they rounded the Post Office I ducked behind it in preparation for making it around the Old Studio to Stillman Hall.

Just then a magpie cacawed from a low branch just above Mr. Squibb near the Lower Gate. He turned to Maclean, who was scampering best he could to keep up the brisk pace, and pointed to him with his normal arm/palm motion and barked in the harshest voice I’d ever heard him use: “Do you know what that magpie said?!!!! He said ‘You area dirty… (slight hesitation, but he continued) ….son of a BITCH’ “(with heavy emphasis on the final word. Maclean had stopped dead in his tracks at the point of the word “dirty” and just froze when the rest came out. I could hardly contain myself from laughter. Later on Maclean and I reviewed the incident with a mixture of hilarity and deep respect for Mr. Squibb’s clever way of degrading Maclean without it coming directly from himself.

(*) A slight aside: The first room that I was assigned in the Lower School, number 5, had no windows on the front side, in fact it had a full opening above railing level. The windows had reportedly been removed during the previous hot spring and somehow been lost. So I went through the winter with an open wall, requiring that I line newspaper under my mattress and between the standard issues army quilts, of which I connived to acquire a full seven. It turned out to be a very cold season and I woke up several times with a powder of snow right up to my chin.

Baseball Coach

In the spring of 1951 I was on the 4th team in baseball. Mr. Squibb was sometimes one of the coaches for 3rd, 4thand 5th teams that competed maladroitly against each other at the “diamond” and “backstop” at the far end of the soccer field. He had really only one instruction, and he was adamant and persistent about it, even passionate. It was “Meet the ball! DO NOT try to kill it!” He insisted that anyone could be a good hitter if he would just resist the urge to swing as hard as possible at the ball and instead swing just enough to bring the bat across in an even arc parallel to the ground and follow the ball’s trajectory with the eye until it connected with the bat.

All season Mr. Squibb’s admonition rang in our ears, but it was very hard to hold back from an attempt at a big wallop, which more likely ended up as a strike-out. The few times that I did follow the instruction, I did in fact get a single or at least a solid slow grounder that could easily be run out or even go for a double or triple with the help of a few wild throws or flubbed catches by the fielders. Even at major league games I have seen the occasional soft swing or even checked swing go for a single, with the apparition of Mr. Squibb hanging over the field.

Model B Trips

The Model B Ford wood sided station wagon was still the daily work horse when I arrived in 1950. It was used as regular transport to town and pitched in along with masters’ own cars on team sport trips. On my first road trip (can’t recall what or where, but probably 4th team soccer to Cate or Thatcher) I was assigned the undesirable Model B, with Mr. Squibb driving. It was a very cold stretch over San Marcos pass with the wind breezing through the open sides as we sat huddled in blankets, yet singing and chatting happily.

The tradition was that if we had won the game we could announce our triumph to the school by banging the sides and yelling as loud as we wanted on the last stretch in from Thatcher Gate, even if it was after lights-out. Mr. Squibb led or joined in all the singing and, since we had been victorious he joined in the side banging as well.

After that I might have had two or three trips to town in the Model B, normally with Mrs. Squibb driving, but never again a team trip and never again with Mr. Squibb. The next year came the big blue bulbous “carry-all”, and then other non-memorable vehicles, and the Model B was soon phased out. Of all the team trips I ever took for the rest of my five years at Midland and later three years of soccer at Cal, I never enjoyed a team trip as much as that first one in the Model B…… with Mr. Squibb driving.

Heroes

The maintenance of existing facilities and construction of new buildings and plant was to Mr. Squibb the most vital aspect of existence, and it was his ability to keep this physical operation functional, within a virtual “Walden Pond” economic style, that made it possible for Midland to exist. As I later learned, Mr. Squibb did not scrimp on salaries for teachers that he felt were necessary to the educational forum that obviously was the central raison d’etre, and to compensate financially for this he ran as tight a ship as ever possible in respect to the physical plant (still, the faculty rostrum, in hind-sight, was really a pretty motley assemblage of odd-balls).

Mr. Squibb was not a trained carpenter or plumber or electrician, but performed all these functions as necessary. Some masters who had more ability in any of the construction and maintenance fields would, of course, be asked to assist or take over as necessary. Yet it was Mr. Squibb that I recall doing the actual cleaning and repairs on the water tanks, on the broken pipe line from the reservoir, and up on roofs patching leaks. In my first year he was the one who repaired the planks over the Lower Yard cesspool, and went into, yes, went into, the Upper Yard cesspool to put the cinches around a horse that had to be pulled out after crashing through and suffering a distasteful death. When the worst jobs were needed, Mr. Squibb did not ask anyone else to do them; he did them or at least started to do them until someone volunteered to assist or take over. He also had a very cunning way to get masters and students to beseech him to be allowed to perform some building project.

The school was, of course, run greatly through the system of assigning jobs to all students. The noblest of these jobs were in the elite corps that he had dubbed with the laudatory term “Heroes.” This included the head and assistant carpenters, plumbers, and electricians. This corps performed the day to day tasks of maintaining the school under Mr. Squibb’s auspices. More significant and time consuming jobs were, however, done by himself or, in extreme desperation, through hired help from town.

In spite of the extreme stringency of the school operation, Mr. Squibb did extend his form of quasi charity by hiring some lesser fortunate citizens in the valley. I recall a few men of questionable mental capacity and particularly the diminutive one-armed man, appropriately named Solomon, whose main job was to cut firewood from the large main pile of logs (from “windfall” that Mr. Squibb hauled in) and to replenish the covered troughs next to the several shower rooms, a task that did not really need outside help since the wood brokering system by the boys sufficed amply for this requirement. Each fire boy at each dorm for the week was required to cut wood each day from this same pile as he required, but on rainy days was allowed to use the wood in the covered troughs.

Some interesting recollections about the Heroes are worth recounting even though they occurred in the two years after Mr. Squibb’s departure, albeit as part of his plan. In the fall of 1952 Steve Oyster was Head Carpenter. That year Oyster built a new dorm room, a small cabin below the Old Quad that was named New Quad 53 in reference to his year of graduation. The following year, as 10th grader, I became Assistant Carpenter, thereby making me a proud member of The Heroes. I built another new dorm cabin next to Oyster’s. Mine was named New Quad 54 even though I built it in the fall of 53 (with some help from my room-mate, Ned Bulkley). My 11th grade year I became Head Carpenter. Since I had received an award for my Midland Bench-Steps-Storage as an 8th grader, and since Oyster had been awarded some expensive tools as reward for his dorm, I had expected something grand for my cabin, but none was forthcoming. Mr. Squibb had, of course, departed by this time so I surmised that the awards for good projects were being phased out. Months later, during late night room study period, there was a knock on my door. I hollered “Come in” and there appeared Mr. Squibb saying “Gud som haver barnen kär” and grinning in his on-the-verge-of-laughter look. I responded the second line to the verse. He looked all around the interior, asked a few questions, shook my hand and complimented me on the cabin then made a hasty excuse to depart. I had received my award “cum laude”.

The following year I also built an extension to Mr. Bill Bertka’s house (previously Miss Chrimes’ house) but received no immediate award for that effort, although I was allowed to work off part of the 100 laps Mr. Rich gave me for hitchhiking to LA one Sunday to visit my girl friend. The year after my graduation I came up from UCLA for Thanksgiving, and I received from the post Squibb mentor of The Heroes, Mr. Vic Bryant, a life time membership card as a Hero, although it didn’t contain that term. It was titled “Midland Plumbers & Carpenters Union, Local Number One” (Why were Plumbers first, and why were electricians omitted?) and its motto was “In Robore Snafu”, all printed with green letters. I still carry that card and treasure it more than my real Carpenters Union cards (first the local in San Diego in the summer after my 11th grade year, and later local 36 in Oakland) that I obtained in order to work as a full paid journeyman during my college years.

Flood Tide on Alamo Pintada Creek

In the winter of 1951-1952 the rains were so heavy and consistent that the creek flooded up to the Lower Yard. Mr. Squibb had long logs at the ready, which served well as an emergency crossing in normal years, but this very high flood virtually cut us off. The only way across was by bringing the leaky little scow down from the reservoir and use it as a ferry on a rope line.

As I recall Mr. Squibb had parked one car on the other side of the creek before it became too high to ford. There had been another high flood, even higher I believe, back in the early 40’s, so Mr. Squibb was prepared. Rigging up the rope line proved to be quite an adventure. Mr. Squibb encouraged boys to volunteer to try the crossing, using inner-tubes, wading, swimming, and someone even tried stilts. Finally I believe someone had to go way up river to cross and come back to secure the line for the “ferry”.

Meanwhile Mr. Squibb made quite a day for everybody, offering prizes (probably candy bars) to the one who could float to Los Olivos down the river in an inner-tube. Three or four older boys jumped at the chance and the rest of us ran in the unrelenting downpour along the banks cheering as far as we could, until the thickets half way onto Chamberlain’s ranch curtailed our escort attempts as the boys disappeared along with the muddy flow into a dark tunnel of twisted thickets. Some hours later they straggled back one by one with horrid yet heroic tales of their ordeals on the rapids. Apparently as soon as they were out of site from the rest of us the flow developed into Niagaran magnitude. Peter Mack was the last one to return, tattered remnants of clothes soaked and stained with mud, face gaunt and drawn with pain, clutching a deflated inner-tube, barely managing to drag one foot past the other, collapsing with outstretched arm to the few of us who still waited by the main crossing. To me, at the time, it sounded as if he had reached the confluence of the Hades and miraculously escaped the multi-headed beasts. Mr. Squibb laughed uproariously and placed his arm across “Brother Mack’s” back to lead him to the comfort of the Main House fire. The three or four “punters” received prizes and all of us were treated to warm chocolate drinks that Mrs. Squibb had prepared in Stillman Hall.

M-Rush

I don’t recall the history for the starting of the M-Rush, but it must have been a way that Mr. Squibb thought he could get some life into the older boys when spring fever set in. A huge letter M had been constructed out of telephone poles laid out on top of M-Hill, which was the colloquial name for the crest above the first base line of the main field. It was a function lasting two full nights late in spring, with school classes as usual, wherein Juniors would defend against the Seniors trying to whitewash the M. Seniors could take prisoners and tie them up in the Quad showers. They could also play conniving tricks to sneak attack or any other means to whitewash the M. There was no way to decide who really won and I think the M always got whitewashed.

There were “cease fire” smoke breaks with both sides at the Old Studio, and the result of it all was a good camaraderie developed between Seniors and Juniors, and served as the first step in “turning over the reins” to the next class. Mr. Squibb had cancelled the event and removed the M towards the end of WW II due to Juniors getting caught distilling and consuming , but it was reinstated much later, possibly even after Mr. Squibb left. We did hold it both my Junior and Senior years. Certainly it was an unusual event, with no parallel that I have ever encountered anywhere in the world.

Mr. Squibb had definite reasons for everything, and the purpose of the M-Rush must have been one of his ways to build spirit and gung-ho. But it apparently led to the wrong type of spirit. I would be very interested in hearing anecdotes from students who participated in earlier years.

The Pride of Mr. Squibb

During one of the vacations during my senior year, I went with my room mate, Punch Frye, who lived in San Diego, to meet with some of my old class mates at La Jolla High School. Since Midland vacations were longer than those of the public schools they were in session before we had to return. We were apprehended by the assistant principal, Mr. Clark, who remembered me from my 7th and start of 8th grade years. He told us nicely that we should not be disrupting classes with our presence and that Mr. Squibb would probably not approve that we did so.

Punch and I were absolutely flabbergasted that Mr. Clark would have remembered that I had moved to Midland and even more staggering that he would know Mr. Squibb, or in fact even know that Midland and Mr. Squibb existed. He said some very flattering words about both. Punch and I gleamed with pride and floated away on a cloud.

Visit in Cambria

I visited Mr. and Mrs. Squibb only two times in Cambria over the three decades following my graduation, once with pre-warning on my honeymoon drive down Highway 1 in 1962, and once without warning the summer of 1976 after moving back to the US from a dozen years on various foreign assignments.

I was driving slowly along the main street with my new Norwegian fiancée, trying to recall where the house was located when I spotted Mr. Squibb striding along the sidewalk toward us. He was wearing the same straw hat, light blue denim shirt, and beige pants and coat as I recalled him wearing on most occasions at Midland. I pulled over and jumped out of the car and rounded the front to greet him. Mr. Squibb smiled broadly and extended his hand while saying “Gud som haver barnen kär”. I responded the second line to the verse.

He then explained that he had an errand at the bank but that they had been expecting us and Louise was preparing lunch for us. He directed me to the house and advised he’d come along in a few minutes. When we arrived at the house Mrs. Squibb came out to greet us and had two glasses of juice on the ready. Somehow Mr. Squibb had managed to get the word to her during the three minutes it had taken us to find the house. He returned shortly, we all had a grand tour of the garden to see how it had grown since my last visit, then a lunch and chat as if we had been seeing each other like regular neighbors.

My dream in 1984

I dream quite frequently, almost every time I sleep, including naps. Some dreams are faint and the memory fades almost before I am sufficiently awake to try to recount them. Some are so vivid that it takes me several minutes after waking up to adjust to the fact that they weren’t real life. In 1984 I had one such dream about Mr. Squibb that continued as if in a series of chapters that lasted all night. I recalled it very clearly and described it in detail to my wife in the morning, explaining that it puzzled me why I should have such a strong dream of him, having had only a few scattered ones that I could recall in the more than 30 years since his retirement from Midland.

I am not in any way given to the slightest nuance of spiritualism, or even any form of religious belief, being rather a staunch realist with logical scientific explanations for all facets of the functioning of the universe.

I was therefore exceedingly astonished to learn a few weeks later that the dream had been the same night that Mr. Squibb had died.