Rhoda Lubalin's Aunt Helen

Welcome to Indian Rock Schoolhouse’s Year of the Teacher!
The Association has set aside 2010 as the year to recognize the teachers from the past and present who have worked so hard to share their knowledge with us. Members of the Schoolhouse Association have agreed to write their reminiscences, hoping those writings will strike a note of familiarity in all of you.

A Letter to Aunt Helen

Dearest Aunt Helen,

When you came to visit, as the door opened, an amazing aroma would waft from the bags you carried, conjuring up exotic places. Delicious. Mouthwatering. CHEESE! Not dull, orange American cheese, wrapped in plastic like a mummy. No. Enclosed artfully in heavy paper of some sort, with room to breathe. Often overtaken by, was that mold ? I always wondered what your fellow subway and bus travelers suspected. As you followed the cheese through the door, you generally wore a woven hat from some far off land or a garment that was somewhat unique.

How delicious were the treats you brought to my brother and me. Chocolate in the guise of gold coins, marzipan pretending to be flowers and vegetables. Pomegranates, avocados, artichokes and how to eat them. Silver jewelry from Mexico, of wondrous design. Your letters from foreign lands were long and descriptive as you sought to imbue us with a lust for travel. You rode a donkey into the Grand Canyon before it was fashionable and possibly would have thrust yourself over the Falls at Niagara if it had been legal.

As a teacher you were relentless in stressing education. You fervently wished that I speak French as fluently as you, so that when I went to France I might be mistaken for a native. You were a Spanish-English business secretary and could deliver a speech in German. You were in the process of mastering Russian. Language was, to you, a delicious mouth watering edible.

Earning you PhD with honors in French Literature while teaching elementary school, typing and proof- reading other candidates’ thesis, and tutoring every child who might need it. I marveled at your skills at the typewriter. Your fingers knew exactly where to go without your having to look at them. Of course, unlike mine, your spelling was impeccable.

What a compassionate person you were. Not only on a personal basis but seemingly for every oppressed or maltreated people everywhere. Marching in the May Day Parade was a must. Working for the newly formed Teacher’s Union in NYC. Signing petitions to right a wrong.

When we were little guys you purchased season tickets to the children’s concerts at Carnegie Hall. How delightful was that? The Sorcerers’Apprentice became a friend, and every character in Peter and the Wolf was a familiar personality long before Disney turned them into cartoons. The only thing that might deter you would be a bout with poison sumac, after a hike. But as soon as you recovered you picked up your binoculars and once again sallied forth into the woods and trails.

Aunt Helen, dear, what a constant teacher you were. I’m still trying to emulate you and live up to your expectations. Often it has been a supreme challenge. How did you do it all and with such joy and exhilaration?

Whatever door you knocked on or bell you rang, when asked “Who is it?”
you responded, “It is I !”
And so you were. “It is I”, is the perfect response in any language.

I love you. I miss you. Your niece Rhoda

P.S. It was only later on that I found out what else was in your bags. A newspaper or two, a change of underwear and a toothbrush. After all, one never knows when one might be invited to stay.

Rhoda Lubalin is an artist, a former art teacher and a "Lifelong Learner" in the Indian Rock Schoolhouse Association. She is a charter member who is present at every Arbor Day celebration, every fundraiser, every

picnic and participates with great enthusiasm just as her Aunt Helen would have had she been with us today.

Jennie Cogan is remembered

By Gerry Holtzman

Whenever I think of her, my mind fills first with strong tones of black and gray, punctuated by brief traces of white. Out of those somber shadows, a tiny figure slowly emerges and I see Jennie Cogan once more.


She wears a severe black dress with some sort of simple white neckpiece. Her coarse grey hair is pulled back into a proper bun. There is no jewelry or any sort of decoration on her dress or on her person. Not a ring or pin or even a watch.

Her expression is equally serious. Accentuated by wrinkles, framed by steel-rimmed spectacles and unrelieved by makeup, it is a face of a woman who brooks no nonsense—the face of a woman who has a job to do and who is intent on doing it.

Holding an open book, she stands in front of a room-length, dusty blackboard which is covered with rows of precisely regimented phrases. Not quite five feet tall and shorter than all of her students, this iron-willed and determined woman is reading aloud. She is reading poetry to her 14 seventh graders.

My mind’s eye widens and I see myself in the row by the window. Although many of my classmates appear indifferent, I sit enthralled. The poem she is reading is Kipling’s “Danny Deever.” In fact, whenever I think of Miss Cogan, she’s always reading “Danny Deever.”

I can no longer hear her voice but I can clearly hear the words—I memorized them, not because we had to but because I fell in love with the sounds of those words, the pictures they evoked and the way the rhymes bounced off each other

“For they’re hangin Danny Deever, you

can ‘ear the Dead March play.

The regiment’s in ‘ollow square—they’re

Hangin him to-day.”

As a 12 year old, growing up in the tiny upstate village of Amenia (pop. 987, alt . 573), I wasn’t quite sure where India was or why Danny had “shot a comrade sleepin’” but I was fascinated by the rhythm and the incongruity of:

What makes the rear rank breathe so ‘ard!”

Said Files-on-Parade –

It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold “ the Color-

Sargeant said.

What makes that front-rank man fall down?”

Says Files-on-Parade.

“A touch of sun, a touch of sun,” the Color- Sergeant said.

She pronounced “said” so that it rhymed with “parade.” It became “the color-Sergeant sayed”. I don’t think Kipling intended those two words to rhyme so precisely but, to this day, whenever I read or recite that poem, I still find myself pronouncing “said” the way Miss Cogan did.

And she was, of course, Miss Cogan. Although her spinsterhood was an established fact, none of us in seventh grade knew where she actually lived. George Clinton claimed that she had a room across the street from the school in Mrs. Foley’s attic. But George was only in sixth grade and had been known to exaggerate in other situations, so most of us dismissed this as unreliable gossip. We preferred the more tantalizing theory that she lived somewhere in the school building, the most likely location being in the basement next to the furnace room. We made up some grand stories about her life down in that dingy basement and, being typical seventh graders, added some sex interest by including tales of wild assignations in the coal bin with Red O’Connor, the ancient school janitor.

In all honesty, during the eleven years I lived in Amenia, I can’t recall ever seeing Jennie Cogan anywhere but in her seventh grade classroom. Where she lived was, in fact, unimportant; her real home was in that classroom.

Like all elementary teachers in Amenia, she taught two grades which were both contained in a single classroom. The seventh grade sat on the window side of the room, the eighth grade sat on the door side. Promotion from grade seven to grade eight involved simply moving over two or three rows.

Now here’s the odd part of my memory of those days. Even though I spent both my seventh and eighth grade years with Miss Cogan, I have only two clear-cut recollections of her, one good and one bad. The good one was the morning she read “Danny Deever”, the bad one was the afternoon she whacked me in the hand with a ruler.

I don’t recall why she did it but I do remember that she took me completely by surprise and that it hurt like hell. When I looked up through tears of pain and humiliation, I saw this tiny woman in her drab black dress, standing over me, her ruler at the ready, glaring mercilessly and daring me to react. Although I outweighed her by a good forty pounds, I just sat and hung my head, ashamed at being singled out for punishment and frightened by the ferocity of her attack.

She probably hit me because I wasn’t paying attention. I did that a lot, particularly when I got into eighth grade. I had learned pretty much all the eighth grade work when I was on the seventh grade side of the room.

And that’s about all I remember of my two years with Jennie Cogan—the poem and the ruler.

Jennie Cogan Day 1956

About twenty years ago, there was some sort of tribute to her in Amenia but I didn’t hear of it until it was over. She must have been close to ninety by then.

I wish I had found out in time. I would have liked to have attended and to have thanked her for reading “Danny Deever” aloud. And, if I could have mustered up the courage, I might have even told her that I held no hard feelings about that business with the ruler.


Gerry Holzman has written for Yankee Magazine (Miss Cogan would be proud) and has granted us special permission to publish his memories of Jennie.

Today he runs the Empire State Carousel Museum Empire State located in Cooperstown at the Farmers' Museum (search farmersmuseum.org)-- Amenia is represented by an 16 inch hand-carved name plaque showing the village name and the image of a horse and a cow.

Watch for Gerry's next story of Mr. Lonsdale, Amenia High School former principal, and Herb Ackelman

Mary Maroney Murphy- My Favorite Teacher was my Mom

Smithfield Schoolhouse with Mary Maroney, her class and two
neighborhood dogs who thought they were students too.

My favorite teacher was my mother, Mary Maroney Murphy.

Mom taught in a one-room schoolhouse for nine years before she married. After she married, she never stopped teaching. Just about everything she did was geared to teaching.
Cutting up a chicken was a biology lesson. As she gutted the chicken she would show you each part of the chicken. This was the heart, the lungs, the intestines, to us it was a little disgusting but we learned the parts of a chicken.
We were taught all about trees, flowers, vegetables and everything else in nature.
The most important thing she taught me was the love of reading. She didn’t have too much time to read herself, having six children to raise and a farm to run with my father but she always made sure I had books to read. She always warned me not to loan out my books as I might not get them back. She was right. A couple of times I did loan books and didn’t get them back. My mother always looked forward to getting back to reading after she retired. Sadly, she was not able to do this as she developed macular degeneration and was unable to read. She always regretted this.

We got to know our area by going for rides on Sunday afternoons. We would just take off and pick a road and explore. Many times we would end up visiting people we knew. Mom was a great one for visiting relatives. I am so glad she and Dad knew their relatives as we were able to compile a history of the family which today so many relatives, especially cousins enjoy reading about. It has kept us all in touch.
Another person who taught us a lot was our Uncle Chet Maroney. When you went for a ride with him you did not chatter in the car – you were to look out the window and take in everything that you saw. He always said that we could talk at home, now was the time to observe.
Two other people who had a hand in shaping my future were Mr. and Mrs. Hoose, Charlotte’s parents (Charlotte Hoose Murphy). When they went to concerts at Tanglewood they would take me along with the other their other child, Jane. That is where I developed my love of classical music. Charlotte and I still go to concerts and opera, able to enjoy them very much.

Mary & Bill Murphy on their 50th Wedding Anniversary

Favorite teachers don’t always have to be the ones who taught you in school. Sometimes the best teachers were the ones closest and dearest to you.

Catherine Murphy is a charter member of the Indian Rock Schoolhouse Association and the Treasurer of the Amenia Historical Society. Until her retirement she worked at the Amenia Bank, and in fact was the bank's first female officer.

DRAW WHAT YOU SEE

Indian Rock Schoolhouse art teacher, Tilly Strauss, is proud to present an occasional art class at the schoolhouse each year. She has worked with the community on projects creating fabric flags with symbols of the region, and using color paper to create patchwork billboards, and even to demonstrating the steps to making paper. You don't have to be an artist to have deeply satisfying experiences creating and participating in a project that gives voice to an idea.

Tilly loves working with kids and adults of all ages. She helps the student to learn techniques in creating illusions, using light and shade to draw everyday objects. She also enjoys working with emerging artists to find their path in the art world.


for more information, call 845-489-3264

Welcome Visitors from Kripplebush Schoolhouse

Members of the Board at Kripplebush: (left to right): Gail Hilsenbeck-Many,
Indian Rock's friendly greeter Bill Burke (in dunce cap), Joan Pugliese, Donna Miller,
Toni Countryman, Larry Scalla

Indian Rock Schoolhouse always welcomes visitors and representatives of other schoolhouses. We have met a number of interesting folks from near and far...and Kripplebush is far from Amenia.

Kripplebush is a small hamlet in Ulster County, across the Hudson River. These folks traveled for more than an hour to come to see our little 1858 schoolhouse, and to hear about all of you...our nearby friends.

Kripplebush is near Stone Ridge and High Falls. The schoolhouse is dated 1857 and looks very similiar to Indian Rock. The big difference is that the school building is not alone in the schoolyard. There is another two story Lodge Hall there which will be made into a museum on the first floor. They have no pavilion however.

And what did we learn from each other? We discussed programs in our respective schoolhouses, funding, hours and insurance issues. We enjoyed a picnic in the schoolhouse since it was so cold and damp outside that day - Oct 21st.

Indian Rock promised to visit their schoolhouse next spring to see their large building being finished. If you are interested in a field trip to Ulster County in 2010, let us know and we will

make sure you have directions.

Memories from Noxon Schoolhouse in LaGrange, New York

Memories from a Dutchess County Schoolhouse – School #3 in LaGrange, New York

By: Ginny Russell Stoetzner, Amenia

Ginny attended the District 3 schoolhouse known as the Noxon School on Diddell Road in the Town of LaGrange in 1944. She went to that school for first grade only when she was 5 years old. The school closed in 1945. She describes her schoolhouse experience as follows:

We walked to school a half a mile each way.
My teacher at the Noxon School was Miss VanWagner . She was nice but I never saw her again in later years.

I remember the older boys going outside in the morning to pump a pail of water and putting it on the coal stove to warm. There was a holder with paper cups near the door for students who needed a drink.

The only heat was the coal stove and it was kept filled by the “big boys”. I don’t remember being cold. When it rained, or was snowy, the wet coats hung on hooks near the front door, mittens dried by the stove If you were small you tried not to get too wet or you’d go home with a wet coat and snow pants. I think I had perpetually chapped hands from the wet mittens.
Before lunch we lined up for hand washing. One boy sprinkled powdered soap and another poured a little water. We washed and were rinsed with the water falling into another pail on the floor.
There were no reading groups that I recall. Even though I do not remember learning to read or write, I certainly remember Dick and Jane. We had music class with the teacher - she played the piano while the class sang. I don't remember the desks or a library shelf but I know there was no playground. We played across the road in a field. I also remember one of the older girls always fighting with the boys and one day she chased one into the boys’ outhouse. Big trouble that day!


After school most of the kids had farm chores to do. We had chickens and a big vegetable garden. I only had to gather eggs and pull weeds-but many had to bring the cows in from the field and milk them. My first love in those years were the cowboys on TV on Saturday A.M. westerns (1949).

Before Christmas, the students began to practice for the Christmas pageant. Only two first graders were chosen to be in it, and I was picked! Both of us got to be dolls under the Christmas tree and I got to wear lipstick! I wore my "Sunday" dress and shoes(usually I had to wear old fashioned high-tops), a bonnet and of course - the lipstick. My brother was the Jack-in-the-Box and drove my parents crazy practicing at home.
The only gift I remember for the teacher was at Christmas. My mother made corsages for the teacher with "real" evergreens, holly - berries and ribbons. She made them every year for all our teachers. We did have a school Christmas tree decorated with paper chains and handmade ornaments.

One of my biggest wishes for Christmas was a bicycle…I always wanted one, but I never got it. We lived on a narrow dirt road and had a long but rutted driveway. “ Too dangerous!” according to my parents. I learned to ride on my cousin’s bike one summer while visiting in Newport, RI.



When the Noxon Road Schoolhouse closed, Ginny Russell and her brother took the bus to Raymond Avenue School in Arlington and, according to Ginny, getting a ride was fun after walking to school. She was scared at first but had a wonderful second grade teacher. Ginny ran into her when the teacher was in her 80's and she remembered Ginny’s name.

Tell us your schoolhouse story!

Tell your one-room schoolhouse story on the Indian Rock blog….for the whole world to read on the internet. We are collecting as many stories of the old fashioned one room schools as we can ..anywhere, anytime.

Send your reminiscences about your school days as a word file, and a jpeg photo (or one of your childhood drawings) to IndianRockschool@aol.com. If you are uncomfortable writing the story…just give us a punch list of the facts you remember.

We are especially looking for stories about the kids in your school, some of your most memorable teachers and what the area was like where you lived….what was the coolest prank ever pulled by the class bad boy? Did your teacher keep pet spiders? (mine did)
What was your favorite day ever at school?

Please don’t forget to include your name (and maiden name if applicable).
This is just for fun…so there are no fees involved or paid.

Memories from a Country Schoolhouse

Order Form
Memories from a Country Schoolhouse by John Quinn

Name: __________________________________________________

Mailing Address:__________________________________________

Town: State: Zip:__________________________________________

Telephone: ______________________________________________

Email address: ___________________________________________

Please send ____ copies at $15 each plus $5 shipping and handling

Total enclosed ___________

Please make your check payable to: WCSA
Please mail your payment to: WCSA, PO Box 172, Amenia, New York 12501