As Told By C.S. Beaty

By Bob CopperstoneToday is any school day afternoon in the 1940s.  I’m a pupil at West Ward Elementary School in Wahoo.Mr. Meduna, the janitor, rings the final “school’s out – go home” bell. (A t my age, anyone to whom I stand belt-high must never be called by their first names; that would be rude. His first name was Lloyd).An explosion of kids, finally freed from disciplined movement and mandatory soft voices, erupt shouting and screaming  out of the heavy wooden double front doors to head for