By DOROTHEA NORDSTRAND

In February of 1921, soon after my 5th birthday, I started kindergarten at Green Lake School as a mid-year student. All through my student years, I changed grades soon after New Year's Day.

J.M. Kniseley was the school principal when I went there, tranferring to John Marshall Junior High School as principal when it opened, several years later.

Our family's home was near the library, on the opposite side of the north end of the lake from the school. Green Lake School, then, was an eight-grade institution, so my older sister and I went together, walking along the "dike" ... a path on a five-foot-wide ridge that was the top of an earthen dam stretching from Sunnyside Avenue on one shore of the lake to Sunnyside Avenue on the opposite shore.

The waters of Green Lake used to fill all of the area that is now playfield. Sometime around 1910, I'm told, the city began preparing for a landfill to stabilize the whole, marshy, northeast end of the lake. The plan started with the earthen dam to contain the lake, and the area set off would be drained, used as a garbage landfill, and eventually become park land, home to the East Green Lake Bathing Beach, Green Lake Fieldhouse, Evans Pool, and the cluster of athletic fields.

Walking the dike was an adventure, like walking along the top of a wide wall. On one side were the waters of the dammed-up lake, and, on the other, in the time of which I speak, a huge marsh, full of cattails and marsh grasses. Birds loved it. It was home to red-winged black birds, blue jays, wrens, chickadees and many other songbirds, as well as to ducks, coots, and herons. Bright winged butterflies and neon-colored dragonflies abounded there, and we often heard the distinctive sound of frogs. In the spring, we scooped black tadpoles into glass jars and took them to school to watch them sprout legs, lose their tails, and turn into little frogs. Then the whole class would walk down to the marsh to set them free. We were grateful for the dike as it was a huge shortcut, saving us from walking the much longer route through the Green Lake business district along Woodlawn Avenue. Besides, there was always something special to see.

I remember my kindergarten teacher very well. She was a young, gentle, motherly woman, with a sweet voice and a warm smile. We drew pictures, molded clay, sang songs and played games. We listened to stories and records. We were allowed to bring our pets to school to "visit." My pet was a yellow Bantam hen named "Rosie," about the size of a pigeon, who loved to perch on my head or shoulder. I was the envy of all. We had a wonderful time. Kindergarten was strictly a time for getting used to being away from home and learning to get along with other children. In those days, before daycare and preschool, it was the first step out into the big world.

First grade meant being able to carry a lunch bucket to school. This was a real badge of being one of the "big kids," because it meant you were at school all day. Clanking along with my lunch bucket on the first day of first grade was a very heady feeling. Another sign of growing up was three pennies for a carton of milk that my mother carefully tied each morning into a corner of my handkerchief.

My clothing those days was pretty basic. Under my homemade cotton dresses were homemade black sateen bloomers and a white cotton "pantywaist," a camisole with long garters to hold up my long black cotton stockings. On my feet were black, high-topped shoes with double-knotted laces. In the winter, longjohns, folded around my legs under my stockings, made lumpy shapes. I hated the lumps. However, not being any lumpier than the other kids, it was bearable. In the spring, the black stockings were replaced by long white or tan stockings made of something called "lisle," which sagged dreadfully at the knees.

May Day used to be a very special occasion at school. We practiced for many days, learning to do the "grand-right-and-left" that would weave the long, bright-colored banners that hung from the top of the flagpole into a lovely pattern. We learned poems about spring and recited them in class. We sang songs like "Froggie Went A-courtin'" and "Farmer in the Dell." We wove pretty baskets of colored paper strips and filled them with dandelions for our mothers. May Day was our hopeful salute to sunny weather to come.

One spring, Green Lake School put on a pageant. The teachers chose Longfellow's poem, "Hiawatha," as our theme. What we called the "little" raft at East Green Lake Bathing Beach (because it didn't have a diving tower like the "big" raft), was towed from its usual mooring at the beach to a spot along the shoreline and anchored there. The back side of the raft, as it faced the shore, was fashioned into a bower of fir and hemlock branches for a backdrop. We had wonderful, fringed, homemade costumes made from potato gunnysacks. Seagull feathers stuck into headbands made impressive war bonnets. Behind the evergreens, some of the older children took turns reading the storytelling lines ... "By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shinging Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis" ... while on the stage, we "Indians," trying to look like fierce, brave warriors, milled around the tall teepee that had been painstakingly fashioned from more gunnysacks. We had practiced for weeks and the applause from the audience on shore was music to our ears. The whole neighborhood came to share in our moment of glory.

Green Lake School was built on a hill with a wide stairway connecting the upper and lower playfields. On each side of the stairway was a metal-sheathed slide; one for boys and one for girls. There were 30 steps, so the slides were well worth standing in line for. Most of us never walked down the wide stairway, or used the sidewalks which ran on either side of the school complex ... unless it was raining. By the time my children attended Green Lake School in the 1950s, these slides had been removed as they were thought to be too dangerous, but I'm glad WE had them. They were fun!