We and our regular guests, including my father and a friend of ours from church, routinely do a temperature check on the status of at least one issue or current event plaguing our country and then we invariably launch into a few light hearted stories about "the way things used to be". We love spinning yarns about the stark contrast between "way back when" and today. As you can probably guess, "way back when" usually wins in terms of quality of life, the joy with which we experienced the stories we tell, and the overall successes that resulted from lives well led and time well spent.
My Dad's birthday was this week so Hubs and I took him out for dinner last evening and along those lines, we conversed about the latest news involving teachers, students, the pandemic, and all that is expected from everyone who works in and around school buildings as September encroaches. Opinions were shared about what is being done right and a few criticisms were launched about what is being done wrong; and after we'd had enough of today, we shifted to telling stories about simpler days spent in the schools of our youth.
Taking a trip down memory lane, I recounted being a 4th grader, responsible for 26 kindergarteners during the teacher's lunch hour. Back in 1979, this was known as "Kindergarten Duty".
Let me preface the details by telling you nothing went sideways and we never lost a kid. Everyone came through to the other side of the hour with nary a scratch.
So stop holding your breath.
It's all good.
You see, the teacher needed a lunch break and kindergarten was a half day event back in the 1970s so when the morning class had been sent home, another responsible elementary school student and I would make our way down to the kindergarten classroom to usher in all of the afternoon kiddos and entertain them for an hour while the teacher left the room (and most oftentimes, the building) to eat. In the event of an emergency we were instructed to locate the school custodian, Bob Ovitt.
We were on a first name basis with Bob, even as 9 year olds. He didn't seem to mind at all.
I think back to the level of responsibility we were given and cackle like hell about it by today's helicopter parent standards, but back then, we had an hour of laughter and a bit of learning with those kids every afternoon and I welcomed the "job" three years running, through my time in 4th, 5th and 6th grade. Those five hours per week were one of the highlights of elementary school. We played top 40 records, carefully planned and brought from home (no swear words, no weirdness). We illuminated the little ones with step by step disco dance lessons. On quieter days we read books aloud, holding them aloft and turning the pages once every small fry seated in the big half circle had a good look at the pictures. On noisier days we had singalongs, with the best piano accompaniment we could manage as two non-piano playing children, certainly with more flourish than skill. The one task we were asked to accomplish each day was, in an order only the creators of the program understood, to present the Letter People and teach their individual abilities and quirks to the wee ones so that they could recognize whatever Letter Person was held up (we had inflatable plastic blow up Letter People) and shout out their attributes...for example "Mr. H! Horrible Hair!" "Mr T! Tall Teeth!"
We also created and prepared an end of the year series of skits with the kids, all natural performers at that age, and put on a theatrical style show for the kindergarten teacher during the last week of school. There were simple costume changes, dances, songs, and, without fail, a bemused look of surprise on the teacher's face and a standing ovation when it was over. I think she was repeatedly shocked by the amount of forethought on our parts and the amount of competence with which the children pulled it off.
In addition to my Kindergarten Duty job, I was also a part of the Safety Patrol. All the "SP"s were early arrivers, sporting white belts and ushering children across crosswalks, keeping them corralled in single file lines and offering problem solving solutions when fights broke out before we were let into the building in the morning. As an aside...the "solutions" were simply a suggestion that the brawlers take it over to the Circle of Doom after school in front of an audience. And before you hold your breath again, the "Circle of Doom" was a big patch of nicely mown grass about three houses down from school. A few times a year we were treated to a big ol' slugfest there around 2:40 pm, you know, back in the glory days where kids fought it out one afternoon and shared a tuna sandwich on soggy white bread at lunch the next day with busted lips and dime sized bald patches where hair was yanked. 
So, as you can probably guess, there were no teachers to find if things went awry during morning line ups. We were told to "find Bob Ovitt" if we needed help before first bell.
Hubs, Dad and I all agreed that Bob Ovitt was a gosh darn hero. School custodian and maintenance man by trade, he was literally charged with the management of dozens of students every time there wasn't anyone else who could be available for us. We ran for Bob fairly regularly in the morning, interrupting him as he attempted to prepare for the day, making him stop shoveling so that he could put an end to nasty snowball fights where some of the bigger boys would resort to packing snow around broken icicle bits before launching them, or imploring him to grab a first aid kit so that we could put After Bite on a five year old's bee sting after he picked a flower for the teacher and then realized it had an angry wasp on its stem, stinging his palm repeatedly. Bob Ovitt was everyone's go-to and he liked delivering a strict yet somehow comforting message about our collective conduct.
When Bob Ovitt spoke, you listened.
My 6th grade class spent a week in the Springtime preparing for some Bob Ovitt-themed occasion. I can't remember if he was retiring, or being promoted, or moving to another school, or maybe it was his birthday...but the important part of the story is we honored him as an entire school. Each class either made a dessert or magic marker'd a banner or rendered a song, or bought a gift. Our class in particular wrote an original ditty about all that he did for us and at the end we used the letters of his name to spell out his special qualities. We all screamed "BOB OVITT" at the top of our lungs following the final T (which was probably for TIMELY because the man was never, as I recall, late for anything).
At the end of my elementary school stories, I said, "I need to see if Bob still lives around here. It might be fun to share these stories with him." Nodding, we agreed.
Then this morning, less than 12 hours later, I opened up our local newspaper and found this:
It's Bob Ovitt's obituary, plain as day.
Weird, right? I think the Godwink is that, intuitively, I seem to have been prompted to have something prepared in his honor; some little tribute for him at the ready, even though last evening I didn't quite know why, and I honestly hadn't really thought about Bob in a good many years.
So, here it is. My hat is off to Bob Ovitt and I am happy to reminisce in his honor.
I'm truly sorry I didn't get to chat with him personally, although maybe he heard us last night, somehow.
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