By KATE LAUGHLIN

ONE OF MY EARLY MEMORIES of Interlake Public School, while waiting for classes to start, was playing outside the school grounds in good weather, or inside in the basement if it was raining. The boys were assigned the south playground and basement, the girls the north playground and basement. When the bell rang we all marched upstairs to the beat of a drum: left, left, left right left.

Interlake, of course, is now known as Wallingford Center, housing apartments on the top floor, and retail establishments on the first floor and basement.

In my day there were rumors that the principal, George R. Austin, had a "spanking machine" in his office. None of the students, however, had ever actually seen it. When I was in the sixth grade and became the Office Boy for awhile, I was determined to ferret out the truth. However, I turned up no such machine - despite poking around the office at every opportunity.

The duty I most enjoyed as Office Boy was ringing the school bells at the appropriate times. There were about a half dozen bells located around the periphery of the school. I would watch the office clock tick the right minute (the big hand moved in one minute jerks) and then would ring each bell, one at a time, by pushing one of the buttons on the wall. The students, perched on the edge of their seats, were also watching their room clocks, ready to take off simultaneously with the bell. As they arose and headed for the halls I could hear the rumbling from each different area of the school. I've never felt as POWERFUL before or since!

At Interlake I learned to read, write, spell; get along with other kids and teachers; and in the sixth grade, "published" a one-page weekly "newspaper," writing and two-finger typing it at home and then posting on Miss Lulu Shafer's classroom wall.

Later, I studied Journalism at Lincoln High, and was editor of the school paper, the Totem Weekly. After school and weekends I worked for the Outlook community weekly (which was published in our basement) - starting out as a carrier, a printer's devil, and years later becoming its publisher.

My favorite teacher at Interlake was Miss Marguerite Nadeau, probably because she recognized how unsure I felt and helped me to overcome my shyness. I have a letter from her, written in 1962, 38 years after I was in her class: "It is clear as if it happened only yesterday when you were in my first grade class," she wrote. "Yes, I recall your having to drink milk," she added, "but was unaware that you slipped up occasionally."

She was referring to an admission in my column that I had several times dumped my daily half-pint of milk down the school drain - until guilt took over and I desisted. The column was sent her by another Interlake teacher, Miss Harriet Farrell. Later I discovered that I actually LOVED milk - but only when it was cold. At room temperature - No!

MISS NADEAU also recalled that my sister, Patricia, who was in her room a year later: "Was a capable little person even at six, always busy."

Pat was busy all right, even at an earlier age when she was crawling around the house stealing cheese from the mousetraps - until one snapped off on her finger. And later she was the busy leader of a gang of neighborhood girls, who enjoyed stealing thousands of dollars in "counterfeit" play-money bills I had printed. One time they made off with $40,000 worth, hiding them in a stovepipe chimney of an abandoned shack on a vacant neighborhood lot.

In 1938, one year after graduating from Lincoln High, Pat became assistant to Miss Eugenie Pariseau, principal of Bagley Elementary School (N 80th and Stone). At the end of the school year, wanting to do something for a dozen of the graduates with whom she'd become acquainted, she threw a party at our Wallingford home. As the students arrived, Pat had each one write a one-sentence essay: "What do I think of myself." Unbeknownst to the graduates, Pat was busy slipping their essay notes to me, down in the basement - where I was busily converting them to type on the Linotype.

Then I added a headline: "Bagleyites Tell All," and inserted the story in the front page of the current Outlook - which I'd saved for Pat's party. When all was ready, Pat asked the kids, "Would you like to see how we print the Outlook?" They would, and all came downstairs, and I started the big Lee cylinder press and began handfeeding the 24x36-inch newsprint sheets through the press.

All of a sudden one of the kids spotted the headline, and SCREAMED! - realized they'd all made the front page. I printed (and folded) enough copies so each excited grad had several souvenirs to take home.

IN HIGH SCHOOL I had many favorite teachers, including these three: Myrtle Sell, history; Bernice Dahl, journalism; and Elizabeth Graves, creative writing - all because they knew their subject well, and gave me confidence in myself.

At Hamilton Junior High, at lunch time, a bunch of us boys liked to play "touch football" on the playground. Our ball was actually a small piece of wood. Even Jack Norton, who had a brace on his leg from polio, I believe, could center or throw the ball, or hobble out for a pass.

I never got in any trouble in Hamilton because I followed orders. If the principal, Mr. Austin, didn't want us to throw paper in the hall (even the tiniest bit) or walk on the parking strip, I didn't.

And, to this day, I still don't.

Afternoons, when I got home from school, mother was usually in the kitchen or breakfast room proofreading news and ads for the paper; my dad, a musician, might be teaching a pupil to play the grand piano in our living room; my brothers and other employees would be in the basement writing news, designing ads, operating the Linotype, presses, folder, etc.

I had three brothers, all of them 12-15 years older than I. The middle one, Elbert, for several years was confined to his bed - a victim of encephalitis (sleeping sickness). I hardly knew him for he died at the age of 21, when I was eight years old. But I often "played" in his room to keep him company. During these years, my mother would feed and care for him. Elbert could sit up, had a prodigious memory, and the ability to work crossword puzzles in his head. But he couldn't write. So every day when mother fed him lunch he would tell her how to fill out the puzzle blanks with the words he'd solved.

WHEN ELBERT DIED, Patricia and myself were taken from the house while his body was being removed. Brother Art walked us five blocks down to the Goat Lot at N 40th and Stone Way (now the site of a big Safeway store). We watched the goats for awhile and then returned home.

A typical evening might include listening to the radio - Amos & Andy being our favorite (every weeknight). They were two blacks, whom we thought were funny. When Amos was going to get married (as part of the plot) the night of the wedding attracted the largest radio audience ever at that time.

We also read quite a bit, always being heavy users of the library. And there were evenings when I would work several more hours downstairs: feeding press, making up ads, casting hot metal "pigs" to "feed" the Linotype, etc.

My expectation as a child was that if I did the right thing that life for me would be more satisfactory. One right thing was "Honesty is the Best Policy." My main failure was the time when a bunch of us kids were playing on our front porch. As we all left to go to our backyard, I brushed some rocks off the porch railing into the alley. However, accidentally, one rock sailed through the next-door window, narrowly missing Mrs. Bowen. I ran around back without admitting anything, and when questioned, said: "I think some Big Boys going by on the sidewalk did it."

MY MOTHER FIGURED OUT what had happened, however. But instead of spanking me (which she never ever did) she sat down beside me and put her arm around me - and nothing more was said about it. I felt so bad about lying to my mother I gave up lying.

Well almost. A little white lie might be justified occasionally. Who's going to tell a friend what an ugly outfit they're wearing?

Oh, I almost forgot, at about the same time, I did another naughty thing. I started a tiny little fire, and kept my mouth shut for a quarter of a century before fessing up. Although I had been forbidden to play with matches, one time when I was about six, I tried to light a red glass lantern, the kind that street construction people would place around obstructions to warn passers-by to be careful.

The scene was on N 42nd Street not 50 feet from our house (4203 Woodlawn) where the gravel streets were being torn up so that they could be paved. I couldn't get the lantern to light, and must have dropped a lit match on some oily rags, or something, and started a small fire.

My folks eventually saw the smoke and called the firemen. They put it out in no time, no real damage, blaming it on "spontaneous combustion." I stood behind my parents as they watched from our dining room window. And never told anyone it was my fault until about 25 years later.

(Continued next issue)