School Days
School Years: A Journey of Work, Learning, and Independence
When I look back on my school years, I naturally divide them into three distinct
chapters: my early years at Green Springs Elementary, my middle school experience at
a Catholic military boarding school, and my high school days—an age my grandchildren
are now reaching—in Utah.
A common thread runs through all these years: I always had a job. Not because I
wanted to, but because I had to. As the oldest of seven kids, if I wanted anything
beyond the basics—food, shelter, and clothes—I had to earn it myself. Mom and Dad
provided what they could, and we always had a roof over our heads and gifts at
Christmas, but "fun money" was scarce. If I wanted something, I worked for it.
Learning the Value of Hard Work
In my early years in Virginia, farm work was my introduction to labor. At seven, I was
picking and shucking feed corn. By ten, I could drive a tractor and plow a straight line.
As I got older, I started leasing a Massey Ferguson tractor and a New Holland hay baler
from a wealthy farmer across the road. This turned into a lucrative side gig as a contract
hay baler, allowing me to afford a bugle—something I wanted to take with me to military
school.
That school was Linden Hall Military Academy in Manassas, Virginia, run by
Benedictine nuns. My younger brother Bill and I attended on a Catholic Charities grant,
and the belief was that a Catholic education would be superior to public schooling. To
some extent, that was true.
I was an average student, drawn to history and the structure of military drills. I played
seventh-grade football and found the routine of school life tolerable—except for the
nuns. By the end of eighth grade, I was offered the chance to continue in a military high
school, but my brother and I had other ideas. We managed to talk our way out of it and
opted for public high school instead.
A New Chapter in Pennsylvania
Just as we were making that transition, my father got a job promotion, and our family
moved to Pennsylvania. Farm life was behind us, but my work ethic didn't change.
Before and after school, I delivered newspapers, worked as a busboy, ran a chrome
shop, and shoveled snow in the winter. Having a job wasn't unusual—most high school
kids of my generation worked in some capacity.
By my junior year, I was essentially on my own. I worked, went to school, cooked my
own meals, and—somehow—found time for extracurricular activities. That was the year
I discovered my love for acting. I joined the Thespian Club and was cast in several
plays, mostly comedies. I thrived in that creative space, thanks in no small part to my
drama teacher—who, if I'm being honest, I may have had a bit of a crush on. She
nurtured my passion for the dramatic arts, and I could probably write an entire blog just
about what she taught me.
My parents never saw me perform. With six younger siblings at home and both of them
working, getting away to watch one child in a school play wasn't realistic. I never
resented it. I understood that everyone in our family had a role to play in making things
work.
The Summer That Changed Everything
While I struggled through math and civics, I did well in English, history, and drama. I
also started driving at fourteen—not entirely legal, but in those days, rural communities
were more relaxed about such things.
Then, in the summer before my senior year, I took a job in Montana with one of my
dad's old WWII service buddies. I joined a timber cruising crew in the Flathead National
Forest, working deep in the wilderness. We lived in tents, moved camp every few days
with a mule train, and spent our days helping surveyors map the land. My job was to
move chains, cut brush, and help measure trees to calculate how many board feet a
given area could yield.
That summer changed me. It deepened my love for the outdoors and planted the seeds
of my appreciation for public lands. There was something about the vastness of the
Montana wilderness that felt both humbling and exhilarating.
The Next Step
I didn't return to my Pennsylvania high school that fall. Instead, I stayed in Montana a
little longer, attending a local school and living with the Rose family on their ranch. But
by October, reality set in—I needed to go back home and start preparing for college.
Senior year was when I finally started seeing possibilities for my future. The world felt
bigger, and my options felt wider. But that's a story for another time
When I look back on my school years, I naturally divide them into three distinct
chapters: my early years at Green Springs Elementary, my middle school experience at
a Catholic military boarding school, and my high school days—an age my grandchildren
are now reaching—in Utah.
A common thread runs through all these years: I always had a job. Not because I
wanted to, but because I had to. As the oldest of seven kids, if I wanted anything
beyond the basics—food, shelter, and clothes—I had to earn it myself. Mom and Dad
provided what they could, and we always had a roof over our heads and gifts at
Christmas, but "fun money" was scarce. If I wanted something, I worked for it.
Learning the Value of Hard Work
In my early years in Virginia, farm work was my introduction to labor. At seven, I was
picking and shucking feed corn. By ten, I could drive a tractor and plow a straight line.
As I got older, I started leasing a Massey Ferguson tractor and a New Holland hay baler
from a wealthy farmer across the road. This turned into a lucrative side gig as a contract
hay baler, allowing me to afford a bugle—something I wanted to take with me to military
school.
That school was Linden Hall Military Academy in Manassas, Virginia, run by
Benedictine nuns. My younger brother Bill and I attended on a Catholic Charities grant,
and the belief was that a Catholic education would be superior to public schooling. To
some extent, that was true.
I was an average student, drawn to history and the structure of military drills. I played
seventh-grade football and found the routine of school life tolerable—except for the
nuns. By the end of eighth grade, I was offered the chance to continue in a military high
school, but my brother and I had other ideas. We managed to talk our way out of it and
opted for public high school instead.
A New Chapter in Pennsylvania
Just as we were making that transition, my father got a job promotion, and our family
moved to Pennsylvania. Farm life was behind us, but my work ethic didn't change.
Before and after school, I delivered newspapers, worked as a busboy, ran a chrome
shop, and shoveled snow in the winter. Having a job wasn't unusual—most high school
kids of my generation worked in some capacity.
By my junior year, I was essentially on my own. I worked, went to school, cooked my
own meals, and—somehow—found time for extracurricular activities. That was the year
I discovered my love for acting. I joined the Thespian Club and was cast in several
plays, mostly comedies. I thrived in that creative space, thanks in no small part to my
drama teacher—who, if I'm being honest, I may have had a bit of a crush on. She
nurtured my passion for the dramatic arts, and I could probably write an entire blog just
about what she taught me.
My parents never saw me perform. With six younger siblings at home and both of them
working, getting away to watch one child in a school play wasn't realistic. I never
resented it. I understood that everyone in our family had a role to play in making things
work.
The Summer That Changed Everything
While I struggled through math and civics, I did well in English, history, and drama. I
also started driving at fourteen—not entirely legal, but in those days, rural communities
were more relaxed about such things.
Then, in the summer before my senior year, I took a job in Montana with one of my
dad's old WWII service buddies. I joined a timber cruising crew in the Flathead National
Forest, working deep in the wilderness. We lived in tents, moved camp every few days
with a mule train, and spent our days helping surveyors map the land. My job was to
move chains, cut brush, and help measure trees to calculate how many board feet a
given area could yield.
That summer changed me. It deepened my love for the outdoors and planted the seeds
of my appreciation for public lands. There was something about the vastness of the
Montana wilderness that felt both humbling and exhilarating.
The Next Step
I didn't return to my Pennsylvania high school that fall. Instead, I stayed in Montana a
little longer, attending a local school and living with the Rose family on their ranch. But
by October, reality set in—I needed to go back home and start preparing for college.
Senior year was when I finally started seeing possibilities for my future. The world felt
bigger, and my options felt wider. But that's a story for another time
That is so cool I didn't know you moved around that much
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