I recently realized that the Bridgeville Area Historical Society’s collection of family histories lacked one for the Colton family; in response to my request, Don Colton remedied this deficiency by sending me an eloquent document describing his family’s significant contribution to Bridgeville’s heritage.
Don’s father, Dr. Harold J. Colton, was a member of the seventh generation of Coltons in the New World, dating back to Quartermaster George Colton in Plymouth Colony in 1644. He grew up in Utica, Pennsylvania, and participated in World War I, being gassed in the trenches in France. After the war he returned to college, earning degrees from Thiel, Columbia, and Pitt. In 1931 he brought his family to Bridgeville when the local school district hired him as Supervising Principal, a position he held until he retired in 1954. The Coltons lived at 360 Murray Avenue until moving to 625 Gregg Avenue in 1945.
The Colton family included Glenn, Helen, Don, and David, all of whom graduated from Bridgeville High School. Glenn was a WWII hero, a Ninth Air Force navigator/bombardier who flew seventy-two missions. He then graduated from Gettysburg College and ended up in Georgia running a pneumatic conveyor company. Helen graduated from Pitt, married Zed Ramsey, and moved to Florida. Don majored in music at St. Olaf’s, eventually earned a doctorate at Indiana University. After teaching at Pitt and directing the Heinz Chapel Choir, he moved to the University of Evansville, Indiana, where he taught for twenty-five years. David married Wenonah Poellott; their three children — David, Deona (Miller), Kirsten (Rogers) – are proudly continuing the Colton tradition in Bridgeville.
Reading through this document I was reminded that, during my school years, Dr. Colton was easily Bridgeville’s biggest authority figure. I began thinking about discipline and authority in those days. During the school week we were confronted with a hierarchy of authority figures. At the first level were the classroom teachers, backed up by the Principals, and ultimately, Dr. Colton. When I was in sixth grade our teacher found it necessary to discipline Buzzy Silhol for some serious infraction. She told him to “assume the position” and then did an excellent imitation of Joe DiMaggio winding up to swat him with a yardstick. Just as bat approached buttock, Buzzy shouted “SHAZAM”, and, sure enough, her yardstick broke. (For the benefit of readers who are not comic book addicts — in the early 1940s Captain Marvel had surpassed Superman in popularity. The Captain’s alter ego was a wimpy teenager named Billy Batson who instantly morphed into a superhero by shouting that phrase. For those readers who are addicts — I challenge you to name the six ancients whose names provided the six letters in the acronym.)
When we moved on to high school we began to encounter male teachers, some of whom gladly took over the authority figure role. Several of them proudly displayed a paddle hanging on the wall. My favorite was one with the double pun, “Bored of Education”, painted on it. When we were too difficult for them to control, there was always the threat of “the Principal’s office”, or (in very extreme cases) Dr. Colton’s Office. It was well known that Dr. Colton had his own personal paddle, complete with drilled holes to reduce drag and allow him to whack the offender really hard.
As far as I knew, Dr. Colton never had the occasion to use his paddle. However, the subject of naughty boys sneaking into the school after hours to play basketball came up recently, and Don Colton reported an incident when he and his buddies (probably Don Gates, Howdy Collins, Ben Rupnik, and Bob Baldwin) performed that dirty deed. Somehow his participation was identified and reported to his father. This is the one documented incident when the paddle was employed. Before he spanked him Dr. Colton is reported to have stated “Son, I hate to do this. This will hurt me more than you”. To which the reply was “I doubt it!”.
Weekends saw replacements in the authority chain. Those were the days when the Borough had a Curfew every evening at 9:45, after which we juveniles had to be off the streets. This was particularly difficult on Saturdays when the Rankin Theater first feature wasn’t over until 9:30. A thirteen-year-old could barely make it home to Lafayette Street before the Curfew. I distinctly remember occasions when I was on Bank Street, halfway between Chestnut Street and Elm Street when the Curfew siren ended. Every set of headlights might be Police Chief “Kid” Myers and his sidekick Artie Chivers in the police car. Time for me to go cross-country – dash up Elm to Rothermunds, back through their driveway to the alley, up the alley to Hagertys, through their side yard to Elizabeth, and then up Lafayette to sanctuary. I’m sure the probability that the cops were out cruising looking for errant teenagers ignoring Curfew is very small, but it certainly had me frightened.
Sundays were even worse, at least for us Presbyterians. Reverend Potter was a classic “fire and brimstone” Scottish Presbyterian preacher. His God was the Old Testament Jehovah, characterized by tossing Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden, drowning most of humanity in the Flood, and flattening Sodom and Gomorrah. Every week his sermons were dominated by the threat of severe punishment for the slightest infraction. We “Presbys” were all terrified by Reverend Potter.
Of course, the most significant authority figures were our parents. Ours ruled without force, although there was always the threat of my father’s razor strop. The contrast between those days and the current ones is striking. Yardsticks and paddles have been replaced by metal detectors and armed guards in our schools. Maintaining discipline in teenagers will always be a problem; I am not sure we have made progress.
P. S. SHAZAM: Solomon, Hercules, Atlas, Zeus, Achilles, Mercury