Marshall Dickinson Whately Prep p. 6

Whately Prep

Day 272

7.4.12

Chestnut Plain Road, Whately, MA dee

"I never see The Street under its double row of trees but I bless the man who planted them. Nor go the River Road with Sugarloaf ahead, but a thrill runs up my back to see it there."Fred Bardwell 1883 - 1968

Marshall Dickinson, founder of Whately Prep, was a man of great imagination when it came to educating young minds; he was supremely unimaginative in his vision for the footprint of the school.  Whately Preparatory School for Honorable Young Men and Women was founded in 1851.  Deerfield Academy was already well-established as the premier boarding school in the region.  Dickinson, a Princeton man, was a native of Amherst, MA.  He returned to the Connecticut River Valley to teach at Deerfield.  Dickinson, his wife, Hester and their family, lived modestly on Deerfield Academy’s campus as house parents.  Whatever money he could muster, he used to purchase adjoining parcels of land that was once inhabited by the Norwottuck Indians.  After a decade at Deerfield Academy, Dickinson attracted a following. His philosophy was one of discipline, honor and piety.  He was successful in recruiting a few very wealthy families to lend their support to the new school.  Dickinson believed that a value-driven, spiritual foundation with a strong physical outlet was necessary for a balanced education.  Reportedly, he was known for frequently imploring his students to “Think man, think!”   While there were a few girls on campus, there were no more than a smattering. Teacher’s daughters and local girls who passed the rigorous entrance requirements were granted an education.  Most thought it unseemly and did not apply.  Dickinson required that students from all walks of life contribute to community life - both on and off the campus -- by doing chores. In addition, all students were mandated to attend daily chapel meetings. It was Dickinson’s rigid adherence to the creed that “all men are created equal” that set him apart from other educators of that era.  He accepted “half-breeds,” saying that young men of all color and nations should study history, latin, mathematics, science and english.  If applicants passed his rigorous entrance requirements, they received an education with room and board.  
Dickinson set up and protected a generous scholarship program using funds from several anonymous donors.  Dickinson paid as much attention to the mortar and bricks as he did the curriculum.  It was in this vision that his detractors claim he was lackluster. The school's campus was nothing more than a familiar model of a typical New England town.  Town Hall was the Administration Building.  The Chapel was a replica of the one found on Chestnut Plain Road in Whately.  Classes were taught in The Schoolhouse.  Students were billeted and fed in one of four dorms that were built like typical New England homes.  All the buildings were situated around a central pastoral area known as The Common.  
Unfortunately, Dickinson was ridiculed for trying to inculcate an unnatural alliance between distinct breeds of men; behind his back, Whately Prep was called “Dickinson’s little experiment in the woods.”  However, the carefully chosen cross slice of humanity that shared fibers of intelligence, honor and a strong work ethic paid off; Whately Preparatory School gradually gained acceptance.  It took decades for the men and women who Dickinson took under his wing to find their places in government, industry and society.  However, leaders will rise.  As they did, their common thread was evident.  The change-makers, the trend-setters, the visionaries of the 1870’s to the 1900’s were more often than not graduates of Dickinson’s “little experiment.”  

Pancakes and Popcorn Whately Prep p5

When I come home from my run, I kick off my beat-up Adidas sneakers and toss them back into the shoe basket.  I can smell the scent of popcorn wafting out of the open windows.  Our family is big on the Popcorn food group.  Leftover popcorn with sugar and milk is a delicious alternative to cereal.  At lunch, we melt and broil cheddar cheese on popcorn.  For a snack, Julian sprinkles popcorn with cinnamon sugar.  Our dinner involves popcorn and tomato soup. Thompson started our habit of throwing pieces of popcorn into tomato soup; the first time he dropped some pieces in the bowl, he said, “Look, Mom, the popcorn is swimming.”  Dessert, anyone?  We coat it with melted chocolate chips and...tada!  The chocolate hardens in a cluster of popcorn and chocolate.  Sometimes, we toss in cocoanut and chopped nuts.  I am not the lease bit surprised to smell the popcorn at 7a.m..  

I move into the house, down the central hallway.  My head turns to the right and I take in the large front sitting room with its tall, wide, many mullioned windows. To the left, I see the smaller, cozy den. The next door on the left in the dining room. Across the back of the entire house is the kitchen and family room.  Everyone is clustered around the central island.  The television is blaring and no one notices that I am back. Declan is saying, “Does anyone else want popcorn in their’s?”  I peek into the frying pan and see three pancakes dotted with chocolate chips and popcorn. A growing stack of pancakes sits on a plate by the pan.  I grin,”Oh, the mighty have fallen. And you made fun of me having gone popcorn crazy! I can take it from here if you want to jump in the shower.” Our lips gave a resounding smack when we kiss, evoking a groan from Julian and Thompson and happy, clapping hands from Sarah.  

Declan disappears toward the back stairs to get ready for his job at the magazine.  For years, he worked from 7a.m. to 3p.m.. Now his hours are his to make because of his title as Editor-in-Chief. He is a minority share owner of Perennial Gardens Magazine, a small, national magazine popular with avid gardeners and landscape architects.  The magazine uses some of Whately’s fertile fields for its trials and experiments.  Three greenhouses with lights allow year-round growing.  Declan graduated from U. Mass, Amherst, but never left the fertile Connecticut River Valley.   Never did he plan on falling in love with a local girl with deep roots in the area.  He came to the Valley from Providence.  It was Declan’s ties to Rhode Island that led us to buy our summer house at Miquamicut Beach in R.I..  

Thompson and Julian sit on the stool at the counter next to Sarah’s high chair.  The boys are loudly disputing who’s turn it is to take out the trash.  My running clothes are soaking wet. I peel off my tee shirt, throw that into the laundry room. By the time I walk back in, the garbage is tied shut and the bag replaced.  I notice it is Julian who is washing his hands.   

“Thompson, would you come here and start feeding Sarah some of these canned peaches?”  

“Julian, are you packed and ready for camp? Daddy will drop you at the pickup spot for the bus from the YMCA.  Last night, I put your lunch money in a zip lock bag in your back pack. You need your bathing suit... Thompson, please? Pay attention!”  Sarah has wrested the spoon from Thompson and now I am wearing Sarah’s peaches.  She flung them at me, through the nearby screen door and onto the floor.  Grrrr.  I make a mental note to add that to the list for Rebecca, our longtime, devoted, can’t-live-without-her housekeeper when she gets here today.

With a practiced hand, I flip the pancakes onto the growing stack, slip those onto the counter in front of the boys and call out, “Eats!”  I nibble on one myself as  I sprinkle Sarah’s tray with Cheerios.  I reflect on which of our mugs to use, choose with one that says ‘Angel for a day,’ and pour myself a cup of coffee.  As I add sugar and cream, I have the familiar thought, “I wish I could drink this black.”  

Declan returns to the kitchen, smelling of Ivory soap and clean man. I inhale deeply. “Your turn,” he says. “I’m going to leave when Rebecca gets here.  Why don’t you see if one of the students can babysit and we’ll grab dinner at the Inn?”  

Julian complains, “I don’t need a baby-sitter.”

Declan and I reply in unison, “It’s for Sarah,” then turn back to each other. Okay, I’ll text you.”

Declan asks, “Julian, are you almost ready?”  Julian jumps up from the table, then runs to the other room.  “Where is my glove?”  “Look under your bed,” I call.  His footfalls traipse across the floor overhead. A muffled, “I found it,” ensues.  

Next, I check in with my eldest son. “Thompson, are you working at the Patterson’s farm today?  If so, are you biking or do you have a ride?”  

“They don’t need me until next week since the weather’s dry and the cukes aren’t ripe. I’m playing tennis and just hanging out.”

“Work on that chore list, bud.” I kiss Thompson, bump into Julian and get half a hug, then fist bump Thompson.  Last, I plant a kiss on top of Sarah’s head, before hoisting my mug and exiting.  Already, I have turned my thoughts to what I should wear.  I have a board meeting today.  

Whately Prep The Buttonball Tree p.4

www.wikipedia.org

Kelly’s mysterious absence from the Connecticut River doesn’t make sense to me.  Her last moments were spent on the River.  I was alone with her when it happened.  There was an elaborate investigation to try to pin the accident on me.  That’s how I felt, at least. When it happened, it was unthinkable that life could go on, that I would go forward. I was engulfed in a sorrow so great, that I wondered if I would survive it.

I survived.

The price I have paid for surviving is that Kelly watches over me most of the time. Other people have shadows, I have Kelly.  She is a silent observer of all that I do, both bad and good.  In her manifestation, she has not aged.  Oddly, she has a wardrobe that changes seasonally.  I notice that.  I notice that her chest moves as if she were breathing, but of course, she’s not.  I notice her eyes blink.  Her mouth moves, but never to form words.  I can read her expression as well as I ever could.  This fall, it will be ten years since she died.  Ten years.

When she first started visiting me, I told her to cross-over, find the light, do what spirits do. Go.  Instead, I saw more of her.  I made the mistake of telling people.  Oddly, it was only Declan who believed me.  I asked if he could see her, too.  He said, “No, but sometimes I feel her.”

Thinking I must be having some kind of psychological breakdown, I made an appointment with a psychologist.  Three sessions in, she said I needed to talk to a psychiatrist who could also medicate me.  For three years, I was a compliant and cooperative patient who took anti-anxiety and anti-depressant medications.  I talked out my unresolved issues.  Nothing changed.  Kelly came to therapy with me,  She rode home, or if I met friends for dinner after therapy, she sat at the next table.  Kelly was relentless.  

I used the Internet to research psychic phenomenon.  After trying seances and readings and occult gatherings (all of which Kelly attended), I gave up.  Imagine my utter surprise when, finally, finally, someone other than me saw her.  A prospective parent visiting Whately Prep was in my office.  Ostensibly, we were alone.  Of course, Kelly was sitting in the corner, staring out the window.  The mother interrupted my description of the endowment at Whately Prep.  “Excuse me, I just wondered why you asked a student to join us for this conversation. “

My stomach lurched uncomfortably.  I thought I might be sick in the wastebasket under my desk.  I was so startled that I couldn’t speak for a moment.  Kelly turned toward me. The mother, Clara Carter, said, “Oh, but she looks just like you, she must be your daughter.”  

My eyes glanced at the family portrait taken the year before, absent Kelly.  Maybe it was all an unkind and elaborate ruse.  Clara, sensing my dismay, spoke directly to Kelly, “We stopped in Sunderland to see the Buttonball Tree, I didn’t know they make necklaces.  Is that where you found yours?”  

I had never told anyone, not even Declan, that, on the morning of the day she died, I bought Kelly a silver Buttonball necklace.  As I clasped it around her neck, she turned to me with a broad smile and said, “I’ll never take it off Mummy, never, ever.”  

Headstones Whately Prep, p3

There is a small cemetery slightly off the trail that leads down to the River.  The headstones are old and moss-covered for the most part.  The two most recent ones, my father’s and my daughter’s are carved into smooth, grey granite.  The markers are as simple as a Protestant would allow.  I slow my pace to a walk when I pass the small graveyard that is set back inside of a white picket fence.  This land belongs to the school.  Both my father and my daughter belonged to the school, thus they belong to this land.  A syllogism if ever I saw one. 

My father died unexpectedly.  I have missed him every day since his death.  I am grateful that he did not suffer from a long, debilitating disease that robbed him of his memory or vitality.  The cause was identified; It was as simple as his heart stopped beating. It has been three years since he died.  Accepting his death has been like swallowing a chicken bone; it goes down hard. 

There are times I can convince myself that Kelly is not gone.  The idea is at once. so preposterous, so out of the realm of possibility, that I literally find myself on autopilot planning doctors appointments, hair appointments and trips for Kelly.  I have had to keep secret that she comes to me.  In the house, on the soccer fields, during morning assemblies, I see Kelly.  The only place that I am not haunted by her is when I am along, or in, the Connecticut River.

Whately Prep - Connecticut River Run p2

Early in the morning, just as the first birds begin to sing, I ease out of bed to pull on running shorts, a compression bra and socks. Between school sessions, I add my oldest tee shirt; Thompson requested that I wear it exclusively when there will be no students to read its faded letters, “Smith Women like to be on top.”  I exit our 150-year old house as silently as possible by avoiding the 13th and 7th steps and always staying on the outside of each stair-tred.  Once outside, I snag my sneakers from a basket of sneakers we keep on the porch.  I do the requisite stretches in an abbreviated fashion.  A part of me feels like I am racing dawn. The light is rising and I hope to reach the river before sun up.  

I am not an especially good runner, but I am dedicated.  I run at least five days out of the week, squeezing it in by cutting short my sleep and relying on Thompson to cover the various and sundry demands the children may have between 5 a.m. and 6:30 a.m.. I have been running the same circuit or a variation on it for more than half of my life.  I run around the outskirts of campus, past the library and the dining hall.  I cross Rts. 5 & 10 and head into the woods.  There is a trail that has been carved out over time; first by Indians, then by local farmers, then by the boys and girls from Whately Preparatory Academy.  Every year, they believe they are the ones to have  discovered the path.  Stay with it for less than two and a half miles, and it ends up down by the Connecticut River.  The splendor of the morning light filtered through the towering oaks, white pines and chestnuts fills me with inexplicable joy.  Even the summer rain buoys my spirits; it is warm and falls gently by the time it penetrates the umbrage of leaves overhead. When I get to the Connecticut, I am often enveloped in fog so thick, that my clothes are instantaneously soaked.  As much as I would love to swim, the sewage treatment plant is just upriver, and I have a hard time quieting the voices in my head that object to the idea. Theoretically, it is perfectly safe, but I know someone who works there, and I wouldn’t let them drive me, never mind entrust my health to them.  I resist. Thompson takes a kayak out, often capsizing, with no apparent ill-effects.  Call me silly.

The Connecticut River is one of the defining boundaries of my world.  As are Rts. 5 & 10, the train tracks and Whately Prep.  My great-grandfather’s grandfather, Marshall Dickinson founded the school.  Deerfield Academy, a prestigious boarding school less than ten miles away, had already established its reputation for excellence in education when Grandpa Marshall put his mind to educating locals.  He carved a niche for himself by becoming the school of last resort in Massachusetts.  His principal was sound; someone had to educate the wealthy students who hoped to board but were not accepted elsewhere.  He had a model for education that he felt insured success, even for the most troubled students.  The model is still in place today.  

My life tenancy at Whately Prep was not one of my own choosing initially.  My father was the one determined to respect the family legacy; he bred me to my role.  Whately Prep is the only school in the U.S. that can claim a family tradition of leadership since the school’s inception.  In this case, it was 1857.  I am the fifth head of school, the first Head Mistress.  My morning runs grant me the only part of the day that is not shared with others.  I claim it for myself.  

Whately Prep; A novel of mystery, revenge and intrigue.

dee

 Recently, someone asked me what I intended to do when I completed the year commitment I made to write a daily blog.  Having just surpassed 265 days and 8000 readers, I have been giving serious thought to this very question.  It was this line of inquiry that prompted me to consider what other writers who have gained a foothold in the literary might have done with today’s technology. 

Across decades and centuries, Louisa May Alcott, Henry James, Charles Dickens, Tom Wolfe, Stephen King, and Alexander McCall Smith share success as writers.  Of note, each one of them used a serialized book form to publish many of their most beloved works. What is a blog if not a serialization of sorts?  For two years, I have been slowly researching and organizing my thoughts on a new project, a novel called Whately Prep.  

I decided to not merely take a leap, but plunge into faith.  I am going to begin writing Whately Prep.  It may float your boat, it may sink your ship. Let me know.  Hang in with me, readers, and let’s see where it takes us. Only when the last word is written will we know if it was a journey worth making.  

Book 1, Page 1

The drier tumbles the laundry around and around and around. I catch glimpses of colors and hints of fabrics.  Each tells their own story about my life.  I study the pattern, mesmerized by my afternoon at the Little League field with Julian (blue shirt, brown buttons) bumping up against my night with Declan (black negligee, cream lace).  Tangling together are Thompson’s jeans and Sarah’s Japanese-inspired onesie.  Darks, all of them are in this load, along with the blue and green comforter off of the Master bed on which Sarah’s bottle tipped, saturating it in lovingly pumped breast-milk.  

The light load was filled mostly with little, tiny people clothes in worn whites, seashell pinks and sun-bleached yellows.  Sarah is not yet a year old, but she is a prolific producer of laundry. The hand-stitched baby quilt that my mother made her does the spin with all the rest.  Her little sheets remind me of the Milkyway, running through a bright sky of lights.  Julian’s chinos, with holes and paint stains spin with Declan’s, indistinguishable in size: Julian wears boys’ size 10, Thompson wears size 14.  Recently, Thompson recruited their help painting the trim on the Lake House. My panties and bras, my secret vice, have never seen the inside of a dryer. Especially these big ones built for commercial loads.  The school makes them available for the students, but the laundry room is utterly deserted except for Sarah and me.  She sleeps in her stroller, lulled by the hum, thump, whir of the driers.  The students of Whately Prep have scattered for summer vacation. The summer school programs have not yet cranked into gear.  It is precisely the time I am most visited by ghosts.   

dee