The Grapes of Mrs. Rath
I wonder if Mrs. Hulda Rath ever realized how much she affected my life. Probably not. It’s funny how a teacher gets stuck in your head and you find yourself referencing that for the rest of your life.
Mrs. Rath taught English at DeVilbiss High School in 1975, my junior year. I say taught, but she didn’t really teach. Didn’t even talk that much, just gave us a lot of stories to read. She said they were classic, important books, but I’d never heard of any of them: Animal Farm, Lord of the Flies, 1984, The Crucible, Cry the Beloved Country.
DeVilbiss was a rough and rowdy school (inner city, a thousand kids, half black, half white) with a lot of distractions. During the ‘40s and ‘50s it was THE high school to attend, very academic. But by the mid-’70s it was starting to run down, perhaps stigmatized by a few race riots in ‘68.
Mrs. Rath had an ability to recognize the kids that actually wanted to read and learn and, often times, would send a few of us down to the library where it was quiet and we could have some sanctuary from the usual classroom shenanigans. Looking back, I realize how amazing and grand this school library was. It was bigger than the local public branch and very church-like, with its vaulted ceiling and tall windows. Everything was made of wood — the chairs, the tables, the shelves, the big librarian’s station in the middle — and it was always full of light, the windows exposed to the south and west. Three sets of large mahogany doors would clang and creak, echoing down the hall, up around the stairwell, and into our classroom.
It was in this environment that I was introduced to the work of John Steinbeck. Two of the books assigned were The Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men. I was smitten with these masterpieces and savored Steinbeck’s work like a rich meal. Reading these stories in the great, holy library of my young life is one of the happiest memories I have. These were stories about my country and my people. Flawed yet beautiful people in tough situations in an imperfect land. I was discovering America. I suddenly wanted to read everything Steinbeck had ever written.
I checked out Tortilla Flat and The Wayward Bus from the library and asked Mrs. Rath what else he wrote and where I could get it. She loaned me her copy of In Dubious Battle. Soon, I wanted to own all of Steinbeck’s books. I scoured the bookstores to complete the collection, a collection that has traveled with me for almost 40 years.
The city sadly closed down DeVilbiss High School a few years after I graduated. It was too big and too expensive to maintain. Thankfully, they never tore it down and trimmed only a few trees from the large oak grove lining the front walkway. For years it sat empty, the massive entrance looking out on Upton Avenue with no expression.
Then, several years ago, some parts of it reopened for special programs and the industrial skills center was transformed into a technology academy. My children were enrolled in the Horizons program at the old school. From time to time — during open house — I’d wander the halls and conjure up old voices. Many areas of the building are unsafe; the library is almost unrecognizable. It’s a massive storage room now, crap piled to the ceiling, desks and shelves torn out and not a book in sight.
The girls have Russian language lessons in Mrs. Rath’s old room at the top of the stairwell. Sometimes I’ll stand in the doorway and picture the room as it was back in ‘75, gazing around, putting old friends in their seats. Whenever I consider Steinbeck, my memory goes back to this classroom, the library, and Mrs. Hulda Rath’s quiet ways and I get the urge to plop down and read Cannery Row.
