I can’t remember many specifics for third grade. I attended Washington School on the west edge of town and about a quarter mile from home on Bald Eagle Avenue. Washington was a three-story big brick cube. The bottom classes were half in the basement. You walked up a grand set of steps for the first-floor rooms. For forth grade class was on the top floor. The coolest thing was the fire escape. It was a long metal tube, or enclosed slide that ran down the east side of the building, top floor to the ground, In our classroom was the top door, a pair of mirrored swinging panels. In an emergency you fling open the doors, jump in and slide to the bottom. At the bottom, the first person kicks a paddle that u
nlatches the bottom doors. The plan and practice had a staff member at the bottom, to help you stop, stand and move across the playground to safety. After all it was installed and we had practiced days returned to normal.
It hadn’t been in operation long when I decided it was a better way down than the stairs at recess time. The recess bell rang and kids headed for the hall. I headed for the sliding fire escape. I flung the doors open and slid to the bottom. It was then that I learned the bottom doors don’t open unless an alarm is sounded. Stuck at the bottom I tried to climb up. Unfortunately, other classmates had decided to copy me. Down someone slid in the darkness. There was a yell, a screem and a thud that repeated as the tube filled. There was lots of hollering that changed to grunts and groans when the doors opened from the outside and the pile of bodies tumbled from the tube.
I had a nice couple of weeks to work at my cursive again. “I will not… I will not… I will not…
