You commuters drive through Morris
Mill without even noticing our little town on the Millstone River. Our Main
Street is just a shortcut on your way to work. You probably think life in Morris
Mill is as sluggish as the Millstone in July.
Well, you’re dead wrong. I’ve lived
here since I was a little girl, and I’ve been principal of Morris Mill
Elementary School since it opened. Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of turbulence in
this town.
Take what happened when we chose a
school mascot. It started when developers bulldozed the old Harrison farmstead
across the river from town. That’s where Morris Mill folks always released those
wretched squirrels we trapped in our flowerbeds and vegetable gardens. We
figured that traffic speeding across the bridge would make those pests think
twice about returning.
It turns out that squirrels devouring
our gardens was small potatoes compared to development residents devouring our
town. See, the investment bankers and corporate executives who moved into the million-dollar
“estate homes” of Morris Mill Manors voted each other onto our town council and
installed a traffic light on Main Street. They voted each other onto the board
of the volunteer fire department and bankrolled the purchase of a Pumper Tanker
X2000 Supreme. They voted each other onto our school board and decided to build
an elementary school rather than bus our students to neighboring Rocky Hill.
I know those changes sound good, but
they were completely unnecessary. And they happened too fast. And they weren’t done the way we
long-time residents would have done them. For example, we eventually warmed to
the idea of a new elementary school out of nostalgia for the little red
schoolhouse that once stood on Schoolhouse Street. But we didn’t get a little
red schoolhouse. The development residents built a “technologically advanced,
cutting-edge, performance-enhancing educational environment” for their Ivy
League-bound offspring. They even installed door handles “scientifically proven
to improve test scores.”
We felt as if our town had been
hijacked by the newcomers of Morris Mill Manors. So we townies continued to
cross the Millstone after dark to shake out the contents of our Havahart traps.
De-squirreling our flower beds felt doubly gratifying when we could watch
newly-released squirrels frisk across the professionally manicured lawns of
Morris Mill Manors in search of tulip bulbs.
All the same, on the September
morning when the new school opened, even its strongest opponents had to admit
the building was impressive. As students struggled with the door handles, the
whole community felt proud. Not as proud as we feel that General George
Washington marched down Main Street on June 23, 1778, but proud nonetheless.
But before the first layer of gum had
hardened under the desks, residents on both sides of the Millstone began saying
Morris Mill Elementary was missing something important — a mascot. Of course, I
knew that. But, as principal, I was busy developing policies and prohibiting dangerous
substances like drugs, alcohol, and peanut butter.
I decided to leave the mascot decision
to the school board, so they’d stop pestering me about “gifted and talented”
programs. So I called the board president, John Walker from Morris Mill Manors.
He was the only board member who got votes from both town and development. He
probably thought it was because of his charm. Actually, older residents thought
he was related to Dick and Ellen Walker, who lived at 3 Main Street until 1962.
He’s not.
“John,” I said. “We need a school
mascot. Is that something you can handle?”
That irritated him. “Of course, I can
handle it,” he snapped.
Of course, he couldn’t handle it. I
found out later that his wife Sheila supplied “his” idea. And she isn’t known
for her good sense: she wears stilettos
while walking the dog. Anyway, Sheila told John that, according to Posh Parents magazine, the mustang is a “very
now” school mascot.
That was all it took to convince John
and the other four board members from Morris Mill Manors. They prided themselves
in being “very now.”
But school board member Mrs.
Harrison, the self-proclaimed town historian, shook her head. “Mustangs never lived
in Morris Mill. They’re western.” The other townie, Mr. VanDyke, agreed.
“Besides, aren’t mustangs wild? That smacks of discipline issues to me.” Mr.
VanDyke can turn any topic to discipline.
John Walker scowled. “Maybe you have
a better idea?”
“I do!” Mrs. Harrison exclaimed after
some thought. “The Morris Mill Millers! It celebrates our proud past, when
Richard Morris built his gristmill on land bought from the Lenape for the price
of one red ribbon.”
John scowled harder. “Isn’t that
redundant, mill and millers?”
Development resident Mrs. Patel
agreed. “Besides, there aren’t miller costumes. And millers aren’t inspiring
for sports teams.”
“Millers certainly are inspiring,” Mr. VanDyke thundered. “They’re
hard workers. Every parent should want their child to be a hard worker.” He
glared at Mrs. Patel. She stared back, unperturbed.
“Shall we vote?” asked John impatiently.
It didn’t matter what Mrs. Harrison and Mr. VanDyke thought. They were always
outnumbered five to two.
But Mrs. Harrison refused to vote
until she could alert the Morris Mill Preservation Society of this opportunity
to promote town history.
“Fine,” John replied with a sigh. “We’ll
vote at our next meeting.” He was probably already picturing himself in a “very
now” Morris Mill Mustangs baseball cap.
Within twenty-four hours, Morris Mill
was divided by a lot more than the Millstone River. The town insisted on millers,
the development on mustangs. Things got ugly fast, which is precisely what
happened whenever I let John handle a decision.
Development residents were outraged
when Mr. Riley (town) hung an “It’s Miller Time” banner outside Riley’s Pub on
Main Street.
Townies were outraged when Mrs.
Hernandez (development) blocked the banner by parking her red Ford Mustang in
front of it all day.
Everyone pointed fingers when Mrs.
Hernandez noticed a tiny scratch on her car and Mr. Riley noticed a little rip
in his banner. I couldn’t see any damage beyond usual wear and tear. If these
people were my students, they would have lost a week of playground privileges
for their ridiculous squabbling.
At the next school board meeting, tempers
ran higher than the Millstone in Hurricane Floyd. As usual, John was
ineffective at keeping order.
Eventually, he shouted, “People! Shouting
will get us nowhere. The board will now vote.”
Mr. Fraboni, who lives on my block,
shot to his feet. “That’s not fair! You development people always win because
we’re outnumbered. We’re tired of you taking over our town.”
Town residents cheered.
Mrs. Patel responded, “What don’t you
like? We’ve improved Morris Mill.”
Development residents cheered.
John pounded his gavel. “We’ll let
the children vote instead.” He finally had a decent idea of his own.
That week, mascot discussions bounced
across the ultra-safe playground surface, raced through the hallways, and spilled
into the cafeteria. Most students sided with their parents, although pony
lovers from both sides of the Millstone desperately wanted to be the Mustangs. And
sixth-grader Michael Miller (development) covered his locker with homemade “Vote
for Miller” signs.
On Friday, voting in the cafeteria
was overseen by a retired judge from Kingston. He sealed the outcome in an
envelope to be revealed at Monday’s school board meeting.
The weekend was full of noisy
speculation. I was speculating about how much drama I could have avoided by
choosing the mascot myself.
Monday’s meeting had a record number
of constables to keep the peace (1) and residents to hear the results (134). I
bit my tongue when I saw all the kids there. On a school night.
I was greeting people in the hall, when
Sheila Walker tottered in on her ridiculous stilettos with daughter Emma in tow.
They were followed by my neighbors the Youngs and their daughter Emma. Emma
Young and Emma Walker were sworn enemies. They spent hours in my office telling
on each other.
Emma Walker turned and stared at Mr.
Young.
Emma Young glared back. “What’s your
problem?”
“Is that your dad?”
“Yeah. So?” snarled Emma Young.
“He brings us squirrels,” Emma Walker
replied. “I love squirrels!”
Emma Young looked shocked. “You do?” Then
she added, “I love squirrels too. We’ve got lots.”
Emma Walker smiled. “Thanks for
sharing them.”
Emma Young smiled back. “You’re
welcome. Want to sit by me?”
I nearly tipped over. And I was the
one in sensible shoes.
A roving pack of second-grade boys
overheard the conversation. “I like squirrels! They’re the best!” the boys
chattered.
“My dad trapped three last week,” one
boasted.
“My dad trapped twenty-three,” another countered.
A gaggle of six-grade girls returned
from appraising their hair in the girls’ bathroom. “Do we like squirrels?” they
asked their leader, Emma Harrison, uncertainly. Emma tossed her curls. “Of
course, we do. Everyone loves
squirrels.” Emma turned to the sixth grade boys following them. “You guys like
squirrels, right?”
The sixth grade boys shoved each
other in response. Michael Miller whispered, “Let’s put squirrels in Emma’s
locker.”
“Oooh,” Michael VanDyke whispered
back, “You looooove Emma.” Emma Harrison rolled her eyes and marched away with
her entourage.
Once they were gone, Michael Miller
turned to Michael VanDyke. “Hey, your mom brought a black squirrel to our yard.
It’s so awesome!” The Michaels high-fived.
I was thinking about those hallway
conversations as John Walker called the meeting to order. I was thinking about
how it’s my duty to do what is right for my students at any cost. Even at the
cost of John’s ego.
John held up the sealed envelope and announced,
“I will now reveal the winning mascot.”
I grabbed the microphone. “Hold it! There’s
been a change in plans.”
The crowd gasped. John turned red.
“You can’t change it now,” he protested.
I gave him my signature Principal Stare,
guaranteed to instantly end all pushing, shoving, giggling, whispering, running
in halls, and talking back. Then I turned my Principal Stare on the crowd. The
whole audience cringed, to my satisfaction. I’m not one to accentuate the “pal”
in “principal.”
“Shame on you parents,” I began. “A
school mascot is meant to unify, not divide. You’ve turned our school into a
battleground for your pride and prejudice.” (I like to work in a literary
reference now and then. It makes the parents feel they are getting their
moneys’ worth.)
John interrupted. “There’s no need to
lecture u—“
I gave him my Principal Stare. He
stopped.
“Unlike the rest of you, I’ve been considering
what’s best for your children. My professional observations suggest that choosing
between mustangs and millers could damage
our children emotionally.” (That always grabs parents.) “We need a mascot
that does not divide or segregate.” (Dramatic pause.) “Children, raise your
hand if you like squirrels!”
All the kids’ hands, and many of
their bodies, shot up.
“There now,” I said with a gracious
sweep of my hand. “You can see how the children feel. Squirrels are the mascot
to unite us.”
John sputtered to life again. “Hold
on! You can’t do that! We have a procedure here. And squirrels are a stupid
mascot.”
“Are they?” I replied. “Let’s ask
your daughter.” I felt like a trial lawyer on TV, as I asked Emma Walker to
stand. “Tell your father why you and your classmates like squirrels.”
Emma Walker looked scared until Emma
Young popped up beside her and squeezed her hand. Then she said, “Daddy, we
like squirrels. They remind us of friendship and sharing. People in Morris Mill
share squirrels with each other.”
“They do?” John asked. “What do you
mean? How?”
“Never mind how,” I said hastily.
“Just know that squirrels represent unity and sharing to the children of Morris
Mill.”
There was a long pause as the parents
puzzled over this. Then, to my relief, the clapping began, possibly by Mrs.
Hernandez, although Mr. Young later claimed he started it — a trickle, then a stream,
then a river of applause.
I raised my hands for silence. “There’s
just one more thing to say: Go, Morris
Mill Squirrels!”
Published by U.S.1 on July 25, 2012, https://princetoninfo.com/morris-mills-mascot/
