Forty-Five in the Family: The Story of a Home for Children 9780231882484

Table of contents :
Preface
Acknowledgments
Contents
What the House Means to the Children
Struggles with an Old-fashioned House
The Housemother
The Men in Our Lives
Something Smells Good
Jane Comes to Stay
Bedtime
Play
Children’s Books and Reading
Bicycles
Pets
Work and Work Attitudes
Holiday Cottage
The Garden
The Director and the Children
Discipline
The Case Worker – the Child – the Child's Family
Afterthought
Excerpts from News Letters

Citation preview

Forty-five in the Family

Forty-five in the Family The Story of a Home for Children

By EVA

COLUMBIA

BURMEISTER

UNIVERSITY

PRESS

COPYRIGHT

1949

Columbia University Press, New York Published in Great Britain and India by Geoffrey Cumberlege, Oxford University Press, London and Bombay

MANUFACTURED AMERICAN

IN

THE

UNITED

BOOK—STRATFORD

STATES

PRESS,

INC.,

OF

AMERICA

N E *

YORK

Preface If anyone had told me when I was twenty-one that some day I would be the superintendent of an Orphan Asylum, I am sure I would have headed quickly in the opposite direction and kept going. I would have consciously carved out a career as far removed from that prediction as possible. There are women, usually with deep bosoms and a generous capacity for mothering, who, since they were little girls, have thought they would like to work in a children's Home. Occasionally someone like that comes to apply for a position as housemother, and she usually is good. As for myself, I did not start out with an overwhelming desire to mother numberless children, but the job crept up on me, step by step. A visitor once came in when the children were all over the house, Freckles racing around, two or three radios tuned in, Ellen doing chop sticks on the piano, the telephone ringing, and several people wanting things at the same time. The visitor commented, "You must have good glands in order to be able to stand all this." Sometimes I am not sure whether mine is a job or an endurance test. There is never time to do all the things I should like to do, and often I am very tired—but rarely bored. The children have a book called "The Old Woman Who Wanted Noise." The

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Preface

old lady in the story moved from the city to a quiet farm, and it was so quiet that she could not stand it, and she acquired several noisy animals, a clattery car, and finally, two lively boys from an institution. The story ends, "After that, she never had any rest, but she had peace of mind." People sometimes tell me that I look placid and unruffled enough, but I explain to them that they have no conception of the inner turmoil that goes on. A friend who teaches wrote me that she was again thinking of taking over a children's institution. The day her letter came, I had been in action from seven in the morning until nine-thirty that evening, and it seemed as though there had not been a ten-minute breathing space in those fourteen hours. I wrote Susanne a long letter, giving her all the reasons for not becoming the director of a Home for children. I told her that the thing I wanted most in life at that point was to be able, for once, to listen all the way through, and without being interrupted, to Information Please, which then came on at half-past seven. Many people still expect the director of a children's Home to be the traditional matron, a large lady, with a look which makes it clear that she is able to handle anything. She is in her sixties, but going to bed early and living in the wholesome routine of the institution have kept her well preserved. There is no hint in her appearance of any weakness, either in moral outlook or in general character. Seeing her for the first time, one knows at once that she commands "discipline" and brooks no foolishness. She may unbend a little for the more conforming and ingratiating

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children who call her "Mother Brown." She is like that in the movies, and in the minds of many good citizens. In comparison, the woman who runs an institution, whose age is under fifty, and whose weight is not more than one hundred and thirty, creates a little flurry of surprise and seems almost too immature and small for the job. Such a director manages as best she can by marshaling all of the skills she has ever acquired in school and through experience, and by constantly drawing on the more practical and creative aspects of her personality and upbringing in her own family. Often she does not inspire the confidence achieved by the older matron, who loomed up and gave children, and adults too, the feeling that they stood in the shadow of a Presence. Trying to run a children's Home is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I envy Aim and her bookkeeping. Twice a year the auditors come and check over every account, and trace the life's journey of each penny we spend. When the auditor is finished, he puts down in writing the fact that Aim has not made a single error. I often wish that our child care could be audited in some way, that we could have the peace of mind of knowing that we had made no mistakes, and that as we moved ahead to the next month, we knew exactly what course to pursue with Jimmie and Mary, Dickie, Janice, and Eugene, and how to handle the wide variety of unpredictable situations into which they, as individuals, and in their groups, get involved. "Never a dull moment!" Aunt Molly often says. We have learned not to be too surprised at things that happen,

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nor too upset when our plans for the day, or an hour, have to be changed completely at the last moment. I think we keep learning—from the children themselves, from endless staff discussions, from talking things over with others in the field, and from honestly facing our mistakes and doing better the next time. We have had to learn to live in a milieu in which we know there is never a day when everything will go along smoothly. Sometimes I think I am accomplishing about seventy-five percent of what I should like to do. I have had to be content to let the other twentyfive percent go—of unfinished work, of spending time with the children, of achieving more skillful performance from the child care staff, and of personally staying calm, cool, and collected, and able to give both staff and children more support and help than I have within me to give. Occasionally I have considered taking another job, as consultant to institutions, perhaps, or at full-time survey work. But the thought of having all of my dealings with children be second hand ones, together with sitting around tables in offices with endless committees, no Freckles, no Pinky, no children, no garden, this chills my interest completely. I know that it is easier to tell others how to run an institution than to run one oneself, and that the consultant or surveyor can be remarkably cool and objective about problems which are not directly his own. I always sleep much more peacefully when out on a survey than I do in the Center, and find it a delight to quit work at five o'clock. Like many children's institutions all over the country,

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ix

we at Lakeside started, about twenty years ago, to struggle out of a drab old orphanage cocoon. O u r efforts are taking us, we hope, in the direction of more modern care of children in groups. There has been a great deal of justifiable criticism of the old method of running children's institutions, but as yet there is no blueprint for a new way. Directors, board members, case workers, child care staff are visiting other institutions, getting together at conferences and in institutes, consulting other fields, such as the professions of psychiatry, education, group work, health; m a n y letters are written back and forth. " W h a t do you d o ? " we ask one another. " W h a t do you do about personnel practices, cottage plans, high costs, and length of stay of the children?" These " W h a t do you d o ? " letters prompted me, in part, to begin to write this book. Strange to say, the first chapter was about bicycles, and it grew out of a long letter to a young priest in San Francisco in answer to his question, " H o w can you have boys and bicycles in the same institution, and how do you keep track of them—the boys a n d / o r the b i k e s ? " These chapters try to tell a part of what goes on at Lakeside. O u r way of doing the job is one way, not necessarily

the way. I have tried to describe and report the happenings, and m y thoughts about these happenings, in one children's H o m e — a congregate institution giving residential care to forty-five boys and girls of grade-school age, an agency which is meeting only a very small part of the child care needs of a large community.

χ

Preface

Modern child care in institutions has not become as standardized as has care in a hospital, for example, or in schools or children's summer camps. There are many different kinds of children's Homes, large and small, those supported by public funds, others endowed with private funds; some which can be selective of the children admitted, others whose doors must be open at all times to all the children sent to them; there are receiving homes, temporary shelters, and small highly specialized treatment units. Practice will, of necessity, vary with the individual institution. However, the basic needs of all children are the same, no matter where they are, and the principles of child care should be the same in all institutions. Some fortunate children's Homes are well on the way to the "modern" status—the youngsters are housed in small stream-lined units. We at Lakeside still live in an antique, three-storied structure of stone. But changes have been going on inside, changes in practice, philosophy, and in child care standards. These changes have taken place gradually, and each step forward represents months of preparation, interpretation, sometimes seemingly endless discussions, deliberation and consideration, and hard work. It may be helpful to introduce here some of the people and pets who will be mentioned often in the text. Others will be described as we go along. " A i m " is Alma Schloemilch, officially administrative assistant and bookkeeper, and more informally, "Front Office." Mrs. Martha Beal has been Aunt Molly to all of us since 1932. She served the agency as our

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first foster mother, later as housemother and relief housemother until she retired in 1946. We like to think of her, happy and active in her cottage in the country, gardening and weaving, and interested in everything that we do. Freckles is a dog; Pinky, the cat. Miss "Bootchy" is Maria Burchert, housemother for fifteen years. Rose McCoy and Erna Mader are the case workers. "Miss Wanda" is Wanda Skikiewicz, housemother. "Petey" is Eleanore Peters, who has been cooking good food for fifteen years. Anna is Antje Heykes, Petey's assistant. Esther Wehland and Mrs. Novotny are housemothers. Mr. Novotny is the general maintenance man. Mrs. McGillan mothers the Jack and Jills. Mrs. Leitske is the housekeeper and relief housemother for the youngest group. There are five groups of children: the Jack and Jills are a mixed group of boys and girls from five to seven; the Pigtails are girls between the ages of seven or eight and eleven; the Junior Misses, girls from eleven to fourteen; the High tops are boys from seven to eleven, and the Big Boys' ages range from eleven to fourteen. My main job these past years has given me the opportunity to live with many different children, to observe and work with various child care staff members, case workers, and board members. After all these years and in the course of visiting many other institutions, one finally learns that certain values and practices are good and sound, and help troubled children to feel better. These practices are the ones which I have tried to discuss. The points which I should particularly like to emphasize are those which deal

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Preface

with the value of good everyday living and the importance of the housemothers who take care of the children; also, that the child is not releasing feelings constantly, or being tutored and treated, "case worked" and "programmed," but that a lot of plain day-by-day life goes on, of which these chapters give the background. Perhaps a parent or other relative of a child now in residence at the Center may read this book and wonder whether his Bobby is the one mentioned here. Or a young person who has lived with us at one time or another, perhaps when the institution was still known as an orphan asylum, may think that she herself is "Jane." It must be remembered that in the seventeen years that I have been associated with the Center, first as case worker and later as Director, I have come to know almost four hundred children. There have been a great many Bobbys, Johnnys, Janes, and Marys, and many of the same things have happened to all of them. Therefore, an incident described in this book may have taken place years ago, and the child that is named in connection with it is actually a composite of many children. EVA BURMEISTER

The Lakeside Children's November, 1948

Center

Acknowledgments I would like to express my appreciation to the following people who read all or parts of the manuscript, who gave me many valuable suggestions and a great deal of help: Mrs. Margaret Brevoort, Milwaukee Psychiatric Services; Dr. Henry O. McMahon, pediatrician, and Mrs. McMahon; Emil Faith, Principal of Franklin School and board member, and Mrs. Faith; Marie Rohr, Milwaukee County Children's Home; Father Joseph Springob and Evelyn Murphy, Catholic Social Welfare Bureau; Rebecca Tennenbaum, Jewish Family and Children's Service; Margaret Thornhill, Council of Social Agencies; and members of the staff and board, all of Milwaukee; Dorothy Hutchinson, New York School of Social Work; Maude Butler, Child Placement Services, Savannah, Georgia; Dr. Emmy Sylvester, Chicago; Dr. Rudolph Hirschberg, Hathaway Home, Los Angeles; John Dula and Helen Hagan, Faith Home, Houston, Texas; and to Matilda L. Berg, for her editorial help and advice.

Ε. B.

Contents What the House Means to the Children

3

Struggles with an Old-fashioned House

14

The Housemother

27

The Men in Our Lives

50

Something Smells Good

61

Jane Comes to Stay

76

Bedtime

95

Play

106

Children's Books and Reading

126

Bicycles

135

Pets

141

Work and Work Attitudes

1j 1

Holiday Cottage

16 j

The Garden

174

xvi

Contents

The Director and the Children

183

Discipline

194

The Case Worker—the Child—the Child's Family

208

Afterthought

234

Excerpts from News Letters

239

Forty-five in the Family

What the House λί< to the Children

Lakeside Children's Center has come a long way since the days of the Visiting Committee, which was active as late as the 1920s. Three members of this Committee made a surprise visit to the institution once a month. They peered under perfectly made, stiff white beds, into closets and basement storerooms, hopefully hunting for evidences of slipshod housekeeping. The staff had to be on the alert at all times for this tour of inspection. As the Committee descended into a particular department, the nervous housemother, or attendant, as she was then called, was immediately on the defensive. She usually managed to have a dust mop in her hands, a symbol of duties righteously fulfilled. If asked how her twenty-five young charges were faring, she gave the answer she felt was expected of her: they were good, obedient, and grateful boys. To the mind of the old-style matron, toys and cut-outs, crayons, jacks, balls, and all of the other odds and ends that children love to collect were just so much clutter. Out they went, and Charley's and Marie's possessions were stripped to a minimum. Even if Henry managed to hoard

4

The House and the Child

a little assortment of his very own things, he had no place to keep them. When a child was permitted to have so few belongings, each small treasure assumed a value far beyond its real worth; as a result, children appropriated one another's possessions more freely in those days, and the staff kept knick-knacks, books, and so on under lock and key. The saddest sight of all were the not-to-be-played with Christmas toys, placed high out of reach of the children, who were supposed to share the matron's pride as she pointed to the shelf and cxclaimed to a visitor, "See how nicely we take care of our things?" In the days when matrons were responsible to an unbending Board of Trustees, the tests of administrative efficiency were two: docile children and a clean house. Children in neat rows, beds in neat rows in spotless dormitories, and a chair set straight at the end of each bed. It is manifestly easy to regiment chairs and beds. Regimenting the emotions of children is another, more difficult, matter. Unfortunately, children seem to have suffered most from repression and regimentation in institutions that set greatest store on cleanliness and order. As a result some people tend to associate the "backward" Home with highly waxed surfaces, soap, and a perfection of neatness, and the modern institutions with a casual disregard for housework. There is a happy medium. It is possible to achieve a well-functioning home where all the important needs of the children are met and where there is also an atmosphere of color, comfort, and good housekeeping.

T h e House and the Child

j

Let us see what their dormitory or cottage means to Joe or Barbara or Freddie. Most of these children have been moved about a good deal. They know all about evictions, living in trailers, waiting for a turn at the bathroom in rooming houses. Most of them have slept with too many others in the bed and too many others in the bedroom. Our old building built in 1887 of red brick and white stone is three stories high, with a tower on one corner. We often complain about its size and its inconveniences and wish we had a group of homey cottages instead. It was Dr. Emmy Sylvester, a psychiatrist, who pointed out something to us which we had not discovered for ourselves. "Look," she said, "this old stone house that you make so much fuss about, wanting to move out of it and into your dream cottages—can't you see that the children get a feeling of security and stability from the very solidity of the building itself?" We are grateful to Dr. Sylvester for this truth. No one can evict us. There is no rent to be raised. We have no landlord to complain about too many children. There is space between us and our nearest neighbor; the building looks as if it has been there forever, and would stand forever, solid against cold, snow, rain, thunder, landlord, and housing problems. Just as there is reassurance for the children in the size and solidness of its walls, so does the order, inside, reinforce their sense of well-being. There has been no real order or regularity in their lives. We know that what every child needs most, the thing he wants, and thrives on best, is to have a mother and father who love him, and who love

6

The House and the Child

one another. For each of our children this picture is in some way distorted. A marriage has gone on the rocks, the war took the father, or the mother went off with another man. Some mothers say quite frankly these days that they do not like or want their children. Illness or death in a family, inability to find a place to live—all of these and many others are reasons for child placement. I need not mention them all; the important point is that the child in an institution has been torn up by the roots from his natural surroundings. His life is temporarily shattered by the parents' immaturities, inconsistencies, or tragedies, and he is desperately confused and disturbed. When he comes to stay with us, he should not enter a situation that will add further confusion: his towels on the floor, his washcloth on someone else's hook, his bedroom slippers misplaced, toothbrush gone, and the few precious articles of clothing which were his very own lost in the laundry. So many baffling things have happened to him recently that he welcomes an orderly life. The routine for which institutions are often criticized may serve a useful purpose in rehabilitation. Meals are on time, someone is within call day and night, there are clean white towels on Friday, bath night comes twice a week, Miss Bootchy braids pigtails every morning between eight and halfpast, shoes are shined for Sunday School—each small item of routine helps to create a feeling of security. Physical order cannot replace, of course, the real and only security which two loving parents can give a child. But a warm, friendly, accepting staff, together with color and comfort.

The House and the Child

7

cheer and order in the building itself, contribute much to a child who has no place in a home of his own. About twenty years ago, the living room at the Center was furnished with comfortable upholstered maple chairs, tables, and four green leather davenports. The living room is a big one, and it seems to be in the nature of a boy to dash across it and dive into a davenport. If there are three little boys, the chances of a dash and dive are three times as great. We have learned not to try too hard to prevent the dive, but to make sure that the davenports can take it. These davenports were stoutly made to begin with, periodic repairs and new springs have kept them in service. Furnishings in a Children's Home must allow for a wider margin of wear and tear (and sometimes outright destruction) than in an ordinary home, but it is nevertheless possible to keep things looking attractive. This matter of destruction of furnishings and property has a direct bearing on the general morale and climate of the institution. In the old times, for every thing they had to do, children were lined up in rows at the sound of a bell. They were so held down that it would have been a major tragedy if one of them darted from the line, and dived head on into the divan. Such impulses had to be subdued, and because their more violent feelings were kept under the surface, the children sometimes went around looking bored to death, or exploded in a violent outburst of emotion. Some waited until they were out and free, like our

8

The House and the Child

Annie. Annie, at the Home in the 1920s, was a meek little girl. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair was straight as string and mouse-colored. She did not wet her bed at night, as she probably would do if she were with us today in a setting that is more relaxed. Instead, she dribbled a little all day long, and there was always a strong smell about her person. The "attendant," and the children also kept her at a distance. Whatever feelings Annie had, whether loving or mean, she kept bottled up, and her expression was one of blank acceptance. But as soon as Annie was eighteen and on her own, she took to the road. She hitch-hiked to Texas, joined a circus, dyed her hair a carrot red, changed her name to Gloria, and starred in a spectacular act—she jumped through a hoop of blazing fire! That was the first of a series of hair-raising adventures she created for herself. We never heard what finally happened to her—whether she ever settled down or not. But I believe that if Annie's feelings had been allowed to come to the surface, if she had been given a little love, a chance to talk to someone, to race down toboggan slides on a steep hill, perhaps her later reactions would have been less violent. In effect, if a little more natural use of the furnishings of the Home had been allowed in the old days, there would have been less wear and tear on the soul and spirit of the child. In any institution you will always find some destruction. A great deal of it is a signal that something is wrong somewhere. Perhaps too many children dislike the place too much, or too many have feelings for which no outlet is

The House and the Child

9

provided other than destruction. If there is no destruction at all, then the children certainly are repressed to a great degree. Case work has saved institutions a great deal of wear and tear on equipment by giving children opportunities to talk out their feelings about the things that bother them. Children nowadays are in the habit of expressing themselves verbally. The case worker encourages the child to do so even before he comes to the Home, and he gets into the habit of telling her and his housemother and the director how he feels about things. We now plan with the child, instead of all around him, as we did when Annie was here. We carry him along with us, step by step. Here is an example of what happened on a boy's first day at the Center, when there was no opportunity f o r the worker to get acquainted with him first. Dick was an alert, intelligent boy, always ready with an answer to any situation. He could reason things out, and he made the best of circumstances which were f a r from normal. His parents were divorced, and Dickie, at ten, lived with his mother and a little brother and sister. The mother was pert, redheaded, dynamic, temperamental—and attractive to men. She made a fairly good home for the children, however, and they were fond of her. Even when she brought a man home with her for the night, the children were in their own rooms and were not particularly aware of what went on after bedtime hours. One day the whole family was called to Court. The judge found the children in a state of moral neglect, and immediately sent all three to the institution. All this happened, without warning, in one

ΙΟ

The House and the Child

day. Dickie might have taken it in his stride, if he had been prepared for so drastic a change, by a preliminary visit, a chance to get acquainted with us, to tell us how he felt about coming, and to get used to the idea of leaving his mother. But Dick and his feelings, his fears, doubts, resentments toward the Court and toward us, were hustled straight to the Home. It was during the summer vacation. His first day at the Center, Dick rode a bicycle round and round the bicycle track and the grounds. I think he rode fifty miles, in a preoccupied, driven sort of way. If there had been no bicycle, and if he had had to wait for a long time in a room that offered little to hold his attention, it would have been logical for him to poke holes in the upholstery. We fuss and fume about the size of our old building and long for the time when we can live in modern, wellplanned, one-story units. There is a lot of waste space in our big house, but even so, there is a great deal in its favor. Today, in the housing shortage, many children living in flats, apartments or rooms, have been restricted from running and romping lest the neighbors complain and the landlord tell the family to move. A thoughtful mother recently brought in a robust, active five-year-old boy for care, and announced with relief, "Now, at last, Albert can r u n ! " She had been in domestic service, trying always to find a place where she could have her son with her; sometimes they lived in rooming houses. Wherever they went, Albert and his natural five-year-old activity and exuberance had to be suppressed.

The House and the Child Children with pent-up feelings need room to chase and to explode, both indoors and out. Erna Mader has said it sometimes seems to her that the walls of the house fairly bulge out from all the feelings being released within them. It is obvious that it is not precisely a serene experience for fifty children and ten adults to live in a house together, a house with an open well down the center. It is good, however, to have room in which to spread out. There has been physical overcrowding in almost every home from which our children have come, and emotional overcrowding, too. The children in their own homes saw and heard everything that went on. When father was furious, no one escaped the storm. In the homes in which the parents act like children, an adult may give vent to all kinds of feelings without the least thought of what his performance may do to the youngsters. Parents often think first of their own needs and drives, and there is no pattern for, or insight into, the idea of repressing an emotional outburst so that the children will not be drawn into it. Some of our children who ran away from home frequently before coming to the Center did so to escape fighting or something else unpleasant. The most upsetting fights often occur in the early evening, when father comes home from work after a stop at the tavern. Children from such homes simply stayed out after school. They loitered on the streets, skipped supper, and drifted into the movies at 5:30. Mary, at ten, used to come out of a show at midnight and sleep in an apartment hallway. Ann, at eight, slept under porches. The parents then complained to the Court, "Mary

12

The House and the Child

is naughty. She runs away." T o them it was as simple as that. Mary's parents were so involved with their own quarrels that the child's reactions were never considered. After the police had picked Mary up about six times and brought her home, she was finally taken to the Detention Home and later sent to us. And when Mary came, she did not shed her feelings. She did not leave them in the movies or the Detention Home, or with the kind Juvenile Court judge. She brought them all with her. Some of them she talked out with her case worker or her housemother, some of them she played out. Some of her edginess disappeared, after she had gained six pounds, had her dental cavities filled, and had eight to ten hours of sleep each night for three months straight. But she still has days when she feels "mighty mean," chases down a hall, pushes another child, deserts her job, says she hates this old hole— " W h y can't we go to the show tonight? All this kid stuff we do around here!" Some children, like Mary, need all the room and breathing space possible for natural physical activity, or to give vent to pent-up feelings and impulses. Others, like Frank, Judy, and Bernice, make use of the House in quite a different way. They are "house cats." After sniffing the whole building over and getting their bearings, they settle down, most often in a comfortable chair in the dormitory or on and around their beds, and can scarcely be pried loose to go out to play, or even to go to school. These "house cats" used to worry me a lot. I love the sun and outdoors myself and have an impulse to send the children

The House and the Child

13

out to get all the sun possible. Dr. Sylvester helped me understand why it was so hard to budge Bernice from the dormitory, and why Frank sat with a book, glued to the radio and not too far from his bed. She said that these children need the house, its four thick walls, its solidity and dependability. Judy was a "house cat" at home, too, but she ran away again and again because the home disintegrated as a result of all the parental trouble there. Dr. Sylvester advised us not to urge outside the new child who wants to stay in. There is a strong need to sit tight, to be sure of us, sure of this house, sure that nothing will change, before venturing out of doors.

Struggles with an Old-fashioned House

I like doing the things which need to be done in connection with the House, and spend perhaps five percent of my time at it. Our annual reports show that, in the old days, the matron and staff were dedicated to long daily hours of housework. If there was any time left after cleaning and scrubbing, putting everything into rows that could possibly go into rows, darning socks, and polishing furniture and window panes, there was then perhaps a short interlude of serious play, followed by some good long devotions. Many an adolescent girl who left our institutions before 1930 will probably dislike housework for the rest of her life. My own feeling is that a home can be pretty and clean and livable, but that it is unnecessary to give the best part of our v days or our foremost interest to it. If a housemother thinks and worries and fusses more about

A n Old-fashioned House

IJ

the appearance of her department than about her children, she is not the best housemother. But I must quickly add that it is important for it to mean something to her; she certainly should have interest and pride in the physical living unit of her group, as well as imagination and skill in arranging it. Her responsibility is to achieve a pleasant and interesting setting as a background for the life of her children. The place in which they live should have color, comfort, good taste, and simplicity. All of this can be achieved with the informality of a summer cottage, but it should not have the impersonality of a railroad station. A capable housewife and mother anywhere is able to speed through her morning housework and then go on to something else. This was evident during the war, particularly when many women got along without the maids who had been considered indispensable. Having finished the housework and marketing in the middle of the morning, some of these women went on to Nurses' Aid work, to the Red Cross, or to a board meeting of the Day Nursery. And many devoted their own time to the most satisfying and worth-while thing they could do—taking care of their own children. In the same spirit, we at the Center try to get the housework and mending done and out of the way by ten in the morning, in order to spend as much time as possible with the children or planning for their activities. The housemothers and the children together straighten up their departments in the morning. A full-time cleaning woman spends all of her days on floors and doing dishes. Another comes in three days a week; she gives a day a

16

An Old-fashioned House

month to each department, giving it a thorough cleaning. The housekeeper takes care of innumerable odds and ends; she keeps inventory of supplies and does some shopping and sewing. To reduce as far as possible the stiff formality of an institution and to achieve in its place a homelike atmosphere, superintendents and cottage parents must have a free rein in arranging and rearranging the furniture. It is hopelessly frustrating to the director in charge of a Home or the housemother in charge of a department to be told, "Nothing is to be moved or added without the sanction of the House Committee!" If board members have sufficient confidence in the members of the staff to entrust them with the lives of the children, they should surely trust them to the extent of moving beds and chairs and pictures. Children enjoy having the housemother or director talk over room arrangements with them. The Junior Misses in our Home are always having ideas; they rearrange their dormitory-living room about once a month. Children like, too, to see their housemother achieve attractive new corners or touches in a playroom, living room, or dormitory. Even the boys get quite excited about a good-looking new laundry hamper," particularly when it is for "our" department, or "for us boys." And although a group of children may not seem to take much notice of the fact that their room is painted a warm pink or fresh apple green, the psychological effect of warmth, beauty, and color is there, nevertheless. In too many dormitories in children's Homes there are

A n Old-fashioned House

17

still two rows of white beds, two rows of chairs, one at the end of each bed. When I walk into a room like that with, say, two rows of eleven beds each, I realize how much I would dislike being Number Four or Number Seven. An end bed would have some distinction, or the very middle one; at least there would be a little something different about it. A t Lakeside we still have three dormitories of ten beds each, and three smaller sleeping rooms. In the 1920s and earlier, the girls' dormitory contained only beds and chairs, sometimes as many as twenty beds. The arrangement looked like this:

The girls dressed in a locker room; there they kept all of their clothes, toilet articles, and other possessions. The dormitory was for sleeping, and sleeping only, and it was inexcusable to sit on a bed. Sometimes stiff clean little dolls sat primly in the dead center of each bed, but somehow that only added to the sadness of the general picture. The girls who slept in this dormitory had a place to sleep and to dress, but they had no living room or playroom of their own.

ι8

An Old-fashioned House

In order to create a homelike and natural setting, one conducive to more normal living, the bed capacity was reduced to ten and a living-room unit was added. The beds were arranged by twos, with a dresser between each pair. This created a twin-bed effect and gave each girl the feeling that she had a little place of her own. Her bed, her belongings, her mother's picture on top of the dresser, books on a shelf within easy reach, all these served to maintain her identity by providing a center or core to her living in this one room and around her bed. A child is pulled in many directions when he is required to play in the basement, sleep on the third floor, dress in a locker room some distance from the sleeping room, and keep his prized possessions in any or none of these three places. If a child must sleep in a dormitory he particularly needs to have a central spot to work out from. Lacking it, he cannot be blamed for becoming helter-skelter, distractible, and unable ever to "light" anywhere.

In a Home, a child's bed is the place that is most his own. It is something he does not have to share with others. A child shows us that his bed means something special to

A n Old-fashioned House

19

him in the little things he does. When the county agricultural agent puts a prize ribbon on Calvin's cucumbers, Calvin removes it carefully and the day after the Fair you will see it fastened to the head of his bed. Under the pillows the housemothers find all sorts of things—a book, allowance money, candy—and on top of the bed, particularly those of girls and small children, a kite, a balloon, and "cuddle" animals and dolls. Since the bed is the place near which the child centers his greatest treasures, he should be allowed to center his life around it. His clothes, his toys, the doll buggy, the little truck, should all have a place near by. I remember when George, a big boy, and the others in his group built night tables for themselves in the workshop. Here, next to his bed, each boy kept some of his belongings. When Christmas came, George used to make a little holiday display all his own. He decorated the top of his night stand with a miniature Christmas tree and put his things around it. This importance of the bed should be reflected in an interesting and individual bedspread. If the budget is ample, Bates bedspreads are an excellent investment. They withstand a good deal of usage. The colors are good, and there is a variety of designs. They are popular with college and boardingschool students. Used singly, or on twin beds or double deckers, in a small dormitory they add a great deal; but larger rooms with fifteen or twenty beds call for several different patterns and colors which can be used together.

20

A n Old-fashioned House

We have managed to get Bates spreads for the two boys' departments, where spreads get the hardest use, and for the Junior Misses. Bootchy's girls are still using the white crinkly crepes which every institutional director knows only too well. Our supply was large—someone at one time must have bought dozens of them—but the plain white spreads have been transformed. Bootchy bought some ruffled cotton edging in red, blue, yellow, brown, green, lavender, and pink, and sewed it up and down a set of twenty-four. We designed a floral pattern for another set, and a church group appliqued the flower and leaf motif on the spreads and on the matching slip covers for the bed backs. For the small boys, we made a set of designs with nautical patterns, ships' wheels, criss-crossed flags, anchors and sailboats, one in the middle of each spread. A board group sewed these on by hand. The Jack and Jills have figures of animals, a rocking horse, bunny, duck, and bear. Many Homes such as ours, which have been in existence for a long time, are still using some of the standard beds with spoked heads. Arranged in rows or in any other way, these have a depressing effect, which can be softened by the use of slip covers. When Aunt Molly got her new spreads for the Big Boys' dormitory, we bought a few extra that could be cut for this purpose. The same principle is often applied to introduce color and interest in the dining room by putting colored slip covers on the chair backs. Some surplus beds gave Bootchy a happy inspiration. In the pink room, where she has three small girls of the Pigtails group, she took off the high backs and substituted

An Old-fashioned House

21

for them the lower ends from the unused beds. The result was a much more modern appearance, but unfortunately there were not enough extra beds to do that all through the house. The small living-room unit in one corner of the girls' dormitory is set off, first, by a rug. Several comfortable chairs are added, a table with books, and a reading lamp. The main feature is a combination record and radio player, a focal point of interest to which the girls turn naturally. Often the housemother sits here doing some handwork or putting someone's hair up on pins, with some of the girls beside her and all of them, of course, talking and visiting. In the Big Boys' room, in which there are from eight to ten beds, there are two units which have no connection with sleeping. One of the four walls has no windows, and here the boys built, in a manual-training class, a long low bookcase for their books and radio. They use it, too, to display a finished plane or other bit of handicraft. In front of the bookshelf are some comfortable chairs, a davenport, and a table for magazines. In the middle of this same dormitory is a long table with chairs around it, and a good light. This is a "clutter spot." A perpetual airplane construction goes on at this table, and the glue and paint and "dope" are left out all the time, with clean-up at intervals. If and when there is room, a jigsaw puzzle or some other game or construction may go on at one end. Card tables, which can be put up and taken down quickly, are used a good deal all over the building. Other departments which may provide sleeping space for from

22

A n Old-fashioned House

six to ten children also allow for play and living space in various ways. Six girls about eight years old sleep in the " f r o n t room," where there are small colorful Mexican chairs and a low green table around which they like to play. However, this room is not large enough for all of their inside play activities, and since they overflow naturally to the hall just outside, a second unit has been set up there, made up simply of a rug, a davenport, a substantial standing lamp which gives a strong light, a bookshelf, and another low table for games. When a number of small living-play units are provided in addition to the large living rooms and playrooms, the large group breaks up naturally into smaller play units. Let us look at a girls' group of ten and see what they are doing. It is 7:00 P.M. and bath night, not yet bedtime. There are two tubs, and two of the girls take their baths at one time. These girls are ten to thirteen years old, each able to manage her own bath. The housemother is sitting in the living-room unit, taking the knots out of Annette's knitting. Annette is lying on her back on the rug, listening to Radio Theater of the Air, waiting until her knitting is straightened out. Sylvia and Patsy have had their baths and are also listening to the radio. Sylvia is winding up the ends of Patsy's hair. Across the room, Barbara and Janice are sitting on the floor, playing jacks. By herself, in another corner, Carol is reading a book. Eileen is down on the first floor,

in a room alone, playing the piano. Joyce and

Francine are at loose ends; they are lined up as next at the two tubs, and in the meantime they are clowning. The

A n Old-fashioned House

23

housemother makes no effort to have everyone do the same thing at the same time. Sitting there comfortably, she is physically relaxed, but quite aware of all that is going on. She follows Eileen's piano playing downstairs, answers questions thrown at her across the room, settles an argument or two, and in a moment will hush Francine and Joyce lest they disturb the Jack and Jills, who are already in bed. She checks the neck and back of the heels of Janice and Patsy to see that they are scrubbed clean, and reminds each of the girls as they drift to and from the bathroom to be sure to brush her teeth. Where are Barbara's bedroom slippers, she wants to know, and Patsy, have you picked up the clothes you left in the dressing room? She agrees, yes, Ingrid Bergman does have a lovely voice, and says, yes, they may listen to Inner Sanctum at eight-thirty. There is group unity, but at the same time, the group of ten is broken up six ways, and six different things are being done—some play, some routine. There is no strain. The jacks with which the two girls are playing are kept within easy reach in Barbara's dresser drawer, where they can be picked up and the game continued whenever Barbara has a few moments to fill and can find a partner quickly to sit down on the floor and play jacks with her. There are many such moments, and half hours, during the day, times when the group as a whole is not engaged in any activity in which all are expected to participate, but when everyone has something to do. Even when play units are provided in dormitories and halls, or adjacent to sleep-

24

A n Old-fashioned House

ing rooms, there is need also f o r an inside g y m or recreation room in which basketball and ping pong can be played, where there is a punching bag, and where children can box and roller skate in the winter. T o return to the physical appearance of the house, I'd like to mention just one other thing, and that is pictures. O n the walls of the children's Homes of America, anything can be found from Mickey Mouse murals to religious pictures; from Boy Scout calendars to steel engravings of kind, old, lady presidents of 1880. I am fond of Mickey Mouse in the movies or in a book, but the pictures of Mickey and Donald Duck are strong in design and color, and some of their charm wears off when you encounter them in a mural every day of your life. Murals in an institution are vaguely unattractive to me, perhaps because their very size makes them dominate a room. O f t e n they are done by amateur but well-meaning artists, whose feelings would be hurt if the walls were repainted too soon. With pictures, however, it is simpler. If you have chosen the wrong one, you can always take it down, or move it somewhere else. I have given a good deal of time and thought to the pictures at the Center and buy a new one only when I see just the right thing. I think there are two kinds to consider: those you may want to live with f o r years and years, and others f o r more temporary use, put up f o r a while or until better ones are available. It is possible to get some very good things free, or at small cost. T h e airlines have posters in color, two of which we thought, good enough to have framed f o r a boys' dormitory. From

A n Old-fashioned House

25

ten-cent books, illustrated by Muriel Dawson and Fern Bisel Peat, we have taken the pictures and framed them in dime-store frames. All that is needed is to be constantly on the watch for these things, and have a feeling for what is decorative, good art, and appealing to children. The art work which the children themselves produce can be made a real part of the institution's decorations. Children are doing interesting murals these days on wrapping paper. It is useful to visit the public schools occasionally and learn from them how to use children's art work. Alfred, who is eight, came along one day with a picture of a smug little boy skating, which I thought was good enough for an annual report cover. To display the children's art work we have put up bulletin boards in each department and a large one in a playroom. One other point regarding the House might be called "Keeping Things Up." It is never possible to say, "Well, now the House's needs are all taken care of. I'll forget all about it for six months." That never happens. Painting, wall washing, and repairs go on, year in and year out. If this constant vigilance is relaxed, and if the house is allowed to run down and become dowdy and dreary looking, something happens to the morale of the whole institution. Each week there is some repair work to do, a window pane to be replaced, a stopped-up toilet in which the janitor finds a little car, a faucet needing a new washer, the outside stairs to be painted, and on and on. In addition to this, there are always a few projects under way, to improve some room, or department, or

A n Old-fashioned House hallway. The housemothers, the board members and I keep looking at the place with a critical eye. Sometimes, living day in and day out with some sore spot before me, I no longer notice it, until finally one of the board or staff says, "Let's do something about that blue and white check linoleum (vintage 1920) in the front Little Girls' room. What kind of a floor is there under there anyway?" And off we go. When the job is finished, that spot looks a little better. I think this is a good habit to get into. It keeps us on our toes. If you become smug and satisfied in your housekeeping and house plans, you are likely to stay stationary in other areas—for example, child care. Improving the appearance of rooms and changing things makes for flexibility, and is good for all of us. We are never content with either the condition of the House or our child care program, and we go on working to improve them, keeping up with present-day trends, even though we live in an 1887 structure of stone.

The Housemother

Being a housemother in a children's Home involves a great deal more than most people realize. A typical day witnesses scenes such as these: A u n t Molly starting out toward the garden with a group of boys to make a worm hole, a storage place for fishing worms; Miss Wanda with the Hightops and their lunch bags, setting out for the Boys' Club; Petey filling the request of Margaret for a pineapple upside-down birthday cake (Margaret is our most mixedup one at the moment; everything in her world is topsyturvy) ; Mr. Novotny repairing that little blue bicycle again, with Ronnie at his elbow, waiting for him to finish; Mrs. McGillan sewing shoe-button eyes on Roberta's teddy bear; Bootchy, in the evening, setting the scene for a dormitory tea party in honor of Carol, who is leaving; Mrs. Leitske playing waterfall with the squealing Jack and Jills at bath time, pouring cups of water over them after the soapy part of the bath; Miss Wehland, with a pajamaclad group gathered around her just before bed time, telling one of the stories to which they listen wide-eyed; Mrs. Novotny, at seven P.M. in the dormitory, patiently teaching the multiplication tables to Terry.

28

The Housemother

A staff member in a Children's Home needs to like children very much; one's heart must be in the work. The housemother's day will be spent doing things for and with the children. Everything she does means something to the child, even the most humble part of his physical care. This is the area of the work that I should like to discuss first. A new housemother may think that in this job she is going to do something more important than the numberless homely, earthy, realistic duties connected with the physical aspects of child care. The director, the consultant, all the staff, should help her to realize how important to the child this personal attention is. The child's life, in his group, is the essence of his care. That must be good if he is to be able to make the best use of other services, school, case work, group work, psychiatry. Specialized services, no matter how fine, cannot make up for weaknesses in the essentials—food, clothing, physical comfort, and care administered by a skillful housemother. The greatest value from case work, group work, and psychiatric services is derived only when there is a foundation of the best possible basic care in the daily life of the group, and when a good relationship exists between child and housemother. Edith, at 'ten, loves to have the housemother shampoo her head, trim her nails, send her shoes to be repaired, and take her by the hand as they go down the street to shop for overshoes. The new housemother may wonder why this little girl, and others in her group, are dependent on the staff to such an extent. It may be because Edith, at homfc, during her infancy and early childhood, did not have

The Housemother

29

enough of being rocked, held, cuddled, and babied by her parents. Like many of the youngsters who later come to foster care agencies for placement, she had missed the consistent, intimate attention that small children need in the care of their physical wants; she had to shift for herself at an early age. In contrast, the child in his own home, with a mature, sensible, loving father and mother, begins to need his parents a little less at the age of six or seven, because he has had a satisfying and untroubled babyhood and preschool life, and therefore he makes steady progress toward independence. With many of our children, the pattern is different: they may regress, for a while, to make up for something they missed in early childhood; they become more than normally dependent on the Home and on their housemother, and this dependence should be permitted for a time. Miss Wehland and Miss Bootchy themselves shampoo their girls' heads, although all of the Junior Misses and some of the Pigtails are able to wash their own hair. It is not only that the housemother does a better job, but the girls fairly purr at this service. When Aunt Molly was housemother for the Big Boys, she was never one to try to keep them little boys. At one time six of her twelve- and thirteen-year-olds had evening paper routes, and she helped them with their bookkeeping and arrangements; she talked with them like a football coach when they got into various kinds of trouble, and she sent them out to shovel snow after a storm. But along with this, she mothered them as one might mother younger boys. She

3ο

The Housemother

lengthened pants, sewed on buttons, and at wash-up time on winter nights, she helped them scrub their hands with a brush, and then oiled them so that they did not look quite so chapped and grimy as boys' hands usually do, particularly in the cold weather. I like to think of Aunt Molly, too, and her treatment for a cold. Every once in a while, tall gangly George was bothered with a cold and a dry cough. Aunt Molly would keep him home from school a day or two "to fix him up." First, she supervised a hot tub bath. Next, George, sitting on a stool, held his head over a washbowl of steaming hot water with a few drops of oil of eucalyptus in it, his head and shoulders covered with a gray cotton blanket tent. Then, with the blanket over him, Indian-chief fashion while he cooled off slowly, Aunt Molly rubbed Vicks on his throat and chest, and wound around his neck a soft flannel that had been warming on the radiator; then off to bed goes George. With the radio on his bedside table, a glass of hot lemonade in one hand and a book in the other, he felt very good. I doubt that Dr. McMahon ever prescribed a flannel cloth around a throat, but he knows, and we know, that, along with the Vicks, steam, and lemonade, it is this fussing over by the housemother, and the feeling of warm physical well-being that cures the cold. It is my strong belief that ten small children of grade school age are as many as one housemother should be expected to care for. In the institution in which the housemother has charge of more small children than she can manage, older girls are often asked to take a good deal

The Housemother

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of responsibility; they assist with bathing, dressing, and combing hair. But adolescent girls soon become bored with assignments of this kind, and the young child is likely to miss something important when he does not receive these attentions from the housemother. When groups are too large, the child will probably be sent to someone else for this or that—to the seamstress to have a dress shortened or mended; to the supply room attendant for new clothes; to the recreational leader for supervised play; or to the hospital room, away from the group, the moment there is a degree of temperature or one red spot. These needs should and can be used to bring child and housemother closer together, if and when groups are sufficiently small. As play and sleeping are centralized in the dormitory, so daily care may be largely in the hands of the housemother, but only if the groups are small enough. The child does not respond so warmly or so well to departmentalization. A conscientious, thoughtful housemother may want to take care of all of the physical needs of the children in her group; she may have a complete understanding and acceptance of how necessary and important this function is. But she may be unable to fulfill it because the board of directors or the superintendent make her responsible for twenty or more children. The matter of grooming is often a new experience to children coming to the Center. Edith's mother never bothered to brush the child's hair, or to try different ways of fixing it to see which one was the most becoming. Nor did she lengthen or shorten dresses, taking in a tuck here and

3ζ

The Housemother

there at the waist to add that extra touch of style that Bootchy likes to achieve. Little boys like this sort of mothering, too. The housemother wants their hair combed just so before they go to school; she makes sure that they have on their overshoes and mittens. The fact that she maintains this standard for them contributes something of importance to their lives. We tell our children often, "You look nice," or "You are getting prettier every day, Leona." Children who never did very well in school before improve when they appear in the classroom looking bright and shiny, fortified with a solid breakfast. The first day that Buzzy came to the Center happened to be Tuesday, bath night for the Hightops, the group he entered. Next morning he noticed that all the Hightops washed before breakfast, and even though he felt quite clean f r o m his bath of the night before, he washed too. Then after breakfast, his bed made and toys picked up, Wanda said that now he was to wash again and get ready for school. "Does this go on and on?" asked Buzzy. The extra time spent and the interest shown by the housemother when she brushes a little girl's hair and fastens braids with pert bows or when she helps a small boy to spruce up—these services are as specific to the child's self-esteem and ego as cod liver oil, bananas, or milk are f o r his physical growth. But, on the other hand, when children play, the secure, relaxed housemother is not afraid to let them get dirty, as all youngsters do, and should do. Children like to wear their play clothes with complete comfort and abandon, and we let them do just that. (It is

The Housemother

33

good to live in the age of one-piece play suits, shorts, and jerseys, and jeans and plaid shirts.) While physical care is an important aspect in the work of the housemother and foster mother, it must be emphasized that we must not stop there, believing that the job is done when we have fed, bathed, dressed, and put the child to bed. Along with physical care goes the warm, accepting attitude with which we meet the youngster and his problems; our understanding of what his previous experiences have meant to him; our skills with the individual child in relation to the others; and the ability to work in a positive way with the whole group. It isn't easy to be a housemother. Children who are put in her care are often angry and resentful, filled with anxiety and impatience. They have missed the sense of satisfaction which comes from being wanted, loved, and cherished. Our children often have an empty, unfilled space in their lives, and feelings of futility. Even the death of a parent can be accepted by a child without too great an upset if the other parent, perhaps together with aunts, uncles, or a grandparent, is there to stand by him. Death is a natural phenomenon, and usually a child is not made desolate by it if he is otherwise secure. But when the parents are living, young and well, like Lorraine's, and simply walk off and leave a child for others to receive, appearing at the Home only once a month with a big promise of figure skates and a bicycle—promises that never materialize—it is small wonder that the child becomes defiant, impatient, and unsettled.

34

The Housemother

A housemother constantly needs to remind herself of all this. For example, just this morning Lorraine was supposed to be in school at 8:30 for special help. It is now 8:20 and snowing outside. Lorraine can't find her galoshes and accuses Mary of taking them, thus starting a fight with Mary and delaying the departure for school. The feeling of futility bothers Lorraine particularly this morning; perhaps it started yesterday when Mary had a visit from her mother. If Lorraine is late at school, the housemother may receive a note from the teacher, who cannot understand the delay when the child lives just across the street from the school. So the housemother reminds Lorraine that she will have to hurry or Miss Smith won't like it. That harmless reminder is like setting a match to a firecracker. Lorraine explodes and says she doesn't care who won't like it —she will go to school when she's darn good and ready. Lorraine is really angry at her mother, at Mary (whose mother visits often), and at the world in general, but she takes out her feelings on the person nearest her, her housemother. If the housemother has talked with the case worker and the director, has attended institutes and has read a good deal on the subject, she will understand the reason for this particular kind of an upset and will let the incident pass, meanwhile busying herself with something else. Her job, which has its high peaks and great satisfactions, will also have low points at moments like these, such as being called an old bag, a fat old thing, or "a queer." Sometimes the housemother is the target for such outbursts because the child's feeling toward her own mother

The Housemother

35

and her housemother become confused. Unwanted by her mother, she resents the housemother, wishing that her own mother was doing the things the housemother does. Or, fearing rebuff, a child may be afraid to show affection toward the housemother and may try to repel her with a facial expression that serves as a protective mask. (If you do not let people near you, they can't hurt you.) The entrance of a child in the housemother's group may occur at the lowest moment in the youngster's entire childhood. When Paula arrived, the case history listed the following symptoms, all stemming from an unsatisfactory home and family life: she was undernourished; a restless sleeper; she bit her fingernails; she masturbated at night; she did not come home after school; she took things freely from stores; she was impertinent and defiant toward adults. Paula had developed a hard little shell. She arrived at the Center, bag and baggage, with a case record full of nothing but trouble and problems. When after three years we have helped Paula to the point where the shell is softened—where she enjoys us and we enjoy her—we keep her for a while longer that she may soak up security and become truly enthusiastic about school and other activities. But presently the housemother has to let her go, take in another new girl, and start all over again. A housemother who can achieve the changing of Paula into a more gentle little girl, who steals only once in a great while instead of daily, naturally experiences a great feeling of having done something really worth while. It does not happen with every child, but it

36

The Housemother

happens often enough to help us with the next one, and brings a rewarding sense of important, vital, useful work. There are a number of difficult factors in this job. One which

is particularly

disturbing to the young

house-

mother is the child's own parent or parents. All week Miss A . has struggled with Gerald. She has bathed him, cut his toe nails, hiked over to the park to go tobogganing with him, dried out his clothes afterwards, and made a marble bag f o r him. T h e night he had a temperature, she had a clean-up detail to do when he was sick all over his bed, and she was up with him half a dozen times. On Sunday afternoon she helped him get dressed up to go out with his mother. The mother looked rested and well, and had taken more care with her own grooming than the housemother had time for. Gerald went down to the first floor when his mother came, and Miss A . was busy elsewhere. B u t Gerald came back again. He said his mother didn't like the blue socks; she wanted him to wear the brown ones. Miss A . counted ten, as she recalled what the case worker told her—that it was often the immature parent who had sadly neglected the child and who understood nothing about feelings, his own or the child's, who had the greatest need to find something to criticize in the institution. O f t e n , too, the parent who has failed in the emotional areas becomes concerned with material things, such as socks. When the housemother understands w h y a mother like Mrs. J . responds as she does to Gerald, and he to her, she is able to keep her poise and does not become upset. The good housemother is able to share her children with

The Housemother

37

others on the staff. Patsy, Diane, and Roy may love to be around the kitchen, and they find real comfort and companionship in helping and talking with Petey and Anna and in licking pans. Gary trails after Mr. Novotny. Many of the children like to edge their way into the front office for a little business with Aim. Some of them need to see their case workers immediately, and come in with urgent requests for appointments. I am usually in my own room on the second floor until the children are off to school a little before nine; the door is open, and often they come in for visits. Paula, whenever her duty is to dust-mop the hall, always leads in with the mop—I hear it rattle, and there is Paula. Diane, a lovely looking little girl, very unsure of herself, says, " H i , Miss B.," fifty times a day, each time we meet. She needs that little response and assurance of my "Hi, Diane." Susan, during her first months at the Center, came with arms outstretched to almost any member of the staff, and each one took a moment to hold her. Now she is over that phase, but she still thrusts her head many times daily into Aim's office, Erna's or mine. The disadvantages of a congregate building far outweigh the advantages, but one of the points in favor of having the whole family together under one roof is that then the children have easy access to all members of the staff. On the one hand, the housemother wants the child to feel that he is important to her and that she is sincerely concerned with all the phases of his care; she respects his rights; all the humble tasks she does for and with him have dignity; but

38

The Housemother

still, she must not become possessive. It is a delicate balance of values which we expect her to achieve. Let us turn now to the housemother herself, her personality, ability, and the things which make it possible for her to do a good job. Just as some people have a "green thumb" with plants and flowers—that touch that makes them grow and flourish—others have a similar art in work with children. Some of it is inborn, I am sure. It is fostered by a good, sound, stable, happy childhood and home life, and also by the memory of being at times a naughty little child oneself. It is also helpful to her work in the institution if the housemother has had a satisfactory and successful school and work experience and brings with her the assurance of having done something else well. It is good when she has some specific skills and interests which give her personal satisfaction and a change from child care, and which she can bring to the children to make their lives richer. This may be in music, crafts, reading, outdoor sports, art, homemaking, gardening. But even the most capable person faces a strenuous time on first taking over a group as housemother. It takes a while to get the feel of the institution and to establish herself with the group. Children know intuitively whether or not the housemother "has what it takes." A group may be comfortable, relaxed, and responsive in the presence of one person and precisely the opposite with another—provocative, aggravating, negativistic, teasing, exasperating, and often running the housemother and themselves ragged. The strong housemother continues to grow in skill and in the ability

The Housemother

39

to achieve favorable results, and the children derive from her an ever-increasing degree of security. The healing process, the treatment for which they came to the institution, is accelerated when they are members of a group in the care of a capable person. The housemother should be able to get along well with other people. Many of our children come from homes in which parents have quarreled, and they are sensitive to friction among adults. They should not be subjected to similar scenes at the Home. The institution has a responsibility for maintaining a milieu in which the youngsters are, to the greatest degree possible, exposed to mature, level, calm, welladjusted people, who are dignified with one another, who are not competitive in their daily work, and who can set an example of adults getting along well together. Some children have learned at home how to play a game with parents. A child may play one parent against the other to achieve his own ends; he may ,Se ingratiating, or on the other hand, threatening, in order to get what he wants. Often children are so in the habit of using such techniques that they continue to do so after coming to the Center. We must show them that the mechanics necessary for use with difficult parents are not necessary in the institution. We must never place the child in a position of reliving bad situations in the parental complications at home. This happens when there is competition and tension between housemothers; between administration and child care staff; or between the case work division and other departments. There are a good many details for the housemother to

40

The Housemother

keep track of, and it is helpful if she has a well-organized system. She needs to have the upper hand over the mechanics of running a department or a cottage, and must not be mastered by them. Some people give the harassed impression of never catching up with their work, or, as Aunt Molly describes it, "running around all day with her feet in a bushel basket and never getting anywhere." Such a worker has little time left to share with the children the most important part of her job. It helps, too, when the housemother looks like a wellorganized person. The children are themselves reassured by a staff member whose very appearance seems to say that she is sure of herself and has everything under control. When she looks distraught and at her wits' ends, the group becomes restless, uncomfortable, and upset, too. The housemother must not, however, be so starchy and efficient that a child cannot get close to her. Along with an expression which is calm and alert and able, she should be able to convey the feeling that she is relaxed, unhurried, and enthusiastic; that she can take time for fun, and is interested in all of the small things with which children come to her. The list of essential qualities with which the good housemother should be endowed by nature and strengthened by training is a long one. It is much easier to name them than to find a person—housemother, director, board member, or case worker—who has all of them. Near the top I would put honesty, a good sense of humor, a satisfactory personal adjustment, intelligence, and a deep, sincere, and lasting love for children.

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Dr. Rudolf Hirschberg once told the staff in an institute: "If we help ourselves face our own problems, they will not stand in the w a y of what we do for children. Our reactions to children are colored by our own weaknesses. Human beings with problems meet human beings with problems. In order to help children with theirs, we should not let our own interfere. Knowledge is the only thing that helps." If we are honest, each of us will admit that he has only a part of all the skills and personality attributes needed by any staff member who works with children. We all have some weaknesses, blind spots, and personal peculiarities that irritate others; there are certain things which perhaps we overemphasize, and which the others on the staff wish we would forget. One housemother feels ready to go, full steam ahead, first thing in the morning; she is one of those rare people who wake up cheerful. Others needs strong coffee before they begin to think, and they brighten up only after breakfast. I am one of the latter, and anyone who talks about children's problems or arrangements at breakfast becomes particularly annoying to those of us who suffer from early morning gloom. Moreover, to a housemother who was off the afternoon and evening before and who has come down to breakfast fresh and rested, nothing is quite so exasperating as to hear about all the trouble her group got into while she was away and the relief housemother was on duty. That's a problem that the cottages will solve, we hope. Let us assume that the director has found a good housemother with a pleasing personality and a fine feeling for children, one who is eager to learn and able to change and

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adapt some of the ideas she has grown up with. Every effort should then be made to keep her, and to keep her the way she is. Because there are so many demands on her time, her patience, her skills and emotions, she needs good food, a pleasant, comfortable room, ample materials to work with, an opportunity to develop her own initiative, and a group that is not too large. Even so, she will become so tired at times that she may think she is losing ground; her patience wears thin, she finds herself edgy and scolding, and thinking that a job with which she could be finished at 5 P.M. would be wonderful. To prevent the frequent recurrence of this feeling she must have sufficient time off, and an opportunity to get away from the children, the institution, and the rest of the staff. She should have at least two breaks a week. A t the Center we have worked out a system whereby a housemother is off duty every afternoon on school days from ι :3ο to 3:30, two consecutive afternoons and evenings from 1 : 3 0 on, and alternate Saturday nights and Sundays. In addition, there are seven holidays each year, and if a staff member must be on duty on a holiday, she may have an extra day when she has a Sunday off, and depart for a long week end. The following pattern has become established in many institutions: the housemother has one whole day off each week and an occasional Sunday, which may range from alternate Sundays to every third, fourth, or seventh. But six consecutive days is too long a stretch, I think, to expect a worker to be on duty with a group; more frequent periods away from the institution results in a new perspective and better work. Even the staff member with the right personality, good

The Housemother

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qualifications, and sound, natural ability with children has much to learn. Since the schools offer no specific courses, as yet, for child care in institutions, in-service training must be provided. Here at the Center we have developed a set of principles and practices which the new housemother reads first when she is considering the job and again after she has begun work. These principles apply to our particular institution. They tell what we are trying to do and a little of what our philosophy is. It is best for the new worker to know these things in advance, so that she can decide from the first whether she thinks she can go along with us. There is other material which the new worker reads as she takes over her job. She also attends staff meetings, consultations with the psychiatrist, and meetings at the Council of Social Agencies that are planned specifically for child care staff members. Supplementary to, and just as meaningful as all this, are, I think, the numerous small conferences with the director, the case workers, and the housemothers who have been on the job for some time, and the things to be absorbed from living in a building with an established program and climate. Here again is an advantage of the old congregate building. When a new housemother goes on the job, I try to keep quite close to the department. Together we talk over group reactions and specific incidents, the housemother learning as she goes along, making mistakes, but trying not to make the same mistake twice. The case worker talks over with her, briefly at first, and later, as she grows in understanding, more fully, the child's family situation, how he reacts to it, and why he reacts as he does. Constant interpretation goes on.

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Here is an example: Miss Wehland comes to see me one Tuesday morning to say that on the previous evening Ellen missed a dollar from her purse, which was lying on her dresser in the dormitory. Miss Wehland knew what she would like to do, but she wanted to check with me to see what I thought. Tuesday noon she called the nine girls in this group together (Ellen does not come home for lunch), and they talked it over. The housemother mentioned the things that Ellen needed to buy with her allowance, and eight of the girls were sympathetic. The group decided to wait a day, wishing to give the person who took the money a chance to put it back, unobserved. All the girls entered into the discussion except Paula, who looked blank and disinterested. The day went by, no dollar appeared, and we decided to wait still longer. On Wednesday, Miss Wehland took Paula to the store to buy some new shoes, a plan they had had for that day for some time. Paula had no hairbrush, and it happened that on Thursday morning Miss Wehland put on her bed as a surprise a pretty light-blue plastic hairbrush. Thursday noon Paula came to the housemother's room, said she had taken Ellen's dollar and had bought a box of chocolate candy with it the first thing before school Tuesday morning. She couldn't eat all of the candy, so she hid some of it outdoors. She couldn't put the dollar back, because by the time they talked about it she no longer had the dollar. Miss Wehland said to Paula that she was glad she told her about it; she was happy to have it all cleared up. She did not scold or moralize. A t this point the housemother came to see me again,

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troubled about Paula's stealing—these things happened about once every two months, but had been weekly occurrences when Paula first came. Together we pieced the story together. I asked whether anything unusual had happened on Sunday, the day before Ellen's dollar disappeared. Had Paula's mother visited as usual? Yes, the mother had come, but she did not bring the usual chocolate bar. The one thing Paula could count on from her family was a Sunday visit, with a gift of some candy, a couple of comics, and a quarter. There was a home, but there was not much for Paula in it. On this particular Sunday, the mother complained to Paula that she was short of money, so she came emptyhanded. She warned the child, too, to expect nothing at all at home for Christmas. That was it. The housemother and I talked again about the fact that there was no quick cure for stealing. Paula did it to make up for what she was missing at home. The treatment, the psychiatrist had told us, was a lengthy stay at the Center, with love, acceptance, and as much security as we could give her. I reminded the housemother that Paula was much better now than when she came, and if a slow but sure improvement continued, that was good, and it was all we could expect. Punishment in a situation of this sort is not the answer. To punish a child for an incident which springs from a deep-seated problem in his family would be as completely beside the point as to punish him for a toothache caused by a large cavity, a toothache which he had tried to relieve by chewing bubble gum. The group did, however, demand action and restoration. Ellen was particularly furious. Fortunately, Paula had $1.75

46

The Housemother

in her account, and she and the housemother agreed that she was to give Ellen a dollar. This satisfied everyone and the incident was closed. When the director or case worker takes the time to go into a happening of this kind in a careful and thoughtful way, it has educational value for the housemother and is the the best we can do, at the moment, for troubled youngsters like Paula. A good housemother learns, as does the case worker during her training, about the art of listening. When the child chatters on about his family, his visit home, or what his mother said when she came to see him, the housemother must listen thoughtfully. She accepts what the youngster says and refrains from voicing her opinion. In the course of attending staff meetings or institutes, and in her conferences with the case workers or the director, it is often necessary for her to change an idea with which she has grown up, and to readjust her thinking. There is, for example, the concept that every child should love his mother, no matter what she does. Our children, particularly those who have been rejected by a parent, may have feelings of hatred toward the parent. A chance remark indicating this feeling of hostility may come as a shock and surprise to the kind new housemother, who might think she must hasten to set him right with, "Oh, but everyone should love his mother. There is something good and fine in every mother." This makes the youngster feel guilty and adds to his confusion and anxiety. When children make comments of this kind, it takes a good deal of thought and restraint and knowledge to respond with

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just the right words, or to say nothing but remain interested and accepting. In contrast to the child who has no warmth for the mother, there is the one who builds up a glowing picture of his parent. Perhaps this is a father who does not pay the board even though able to, who visits at the wrong time, breaks promises to the child, who nevertheless eagerly anticipates his coming and is full of praise after he leaves. The good housemother is never critical in word or facial expression and makes no comments that might indicate her own feelings of the father's shortcomings as a parent. If something needs to be worked out with the child in regard to the child-parent relationship, that is the job of the case worker or the psychiatrist. The housemother is able to learn a good deal by careful observation of her group at play. The case workers and the director are interested in the incidents which she describes that indicate how a child feels about the institution, the staff, or his own home and parents. A young housemother was playing casually with a group of six little girls and an older girl, Gertrude, aged fourteen. The housemother played a few bars of the Wedding March on the piano. Upon hearing it, Gertrude suggested that the children play at having a wedding ceremony. The bridal party was made up, with Gertrude acting as minister. Each little girl then wanted to have a turn as bride, best man, groom, and so on. Finally Phyllis, seven years old, asked if she might be the minister. Everyone expected that her ques-

48

The Housemother

tions would duplicate those of Gertrude, which were much like those in the real ceremony. However, Phyllis' questions were somewhat as follows: To both bride and groom: "When you get a child, how are you going to treat it?" To the bride: "When your husband comes home from work, will you kiss him hello?" T o the groom: "Will you hit your wife and child in front of other people?" To the groom: "Will you kick your child at a picnic?" To the bride: "Will you stick up for your child, even if your husband doesn't?" To both: "Will you die when you stop loving each other?"

The housemother knew'that this was an important moment. She listened carefully without seeming to, and she made no comment when Phyllis had finished, nor, of course, did she push her further or ask her to explain. The housemother made some notes when she reached her room, and told the case worker about the incident the next morning. This was the first time that Phyllis had been able to express the thing that was bothering her—her rejection by her parents, particularly her father, and the relationship of the parents to one another. In this field of child care in institutions, strides have been made in the construction of more suitable buildings for the children to live in. Case work, group work, and psychiatric services have been added to many programs. Groups are smaller, and institutions no longer measure their service by how many children they serve, but rather, how well they are doing the job. There is greater stress on quality rather

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than quantity of service. Dr. Fritz Redl's apt phrase "cold storage" applies to those institutions in which children just stay. Fortunately, there is much less of cold storage as time goes on, and as many Homes make great efforts to modernize their services. There is at present a great need for standard training of housemothers, cottage parents, and nuns engaged in child care. I hope the time will come, before too long, when the schools will offer courses and certificates for this important work. Preparation is needed which parallels nurses' training or the education of a nursery-school teacher. Young men and women with an aptitude for child care and an interest in making this their profession should have basic courses and field work before taking the responsibility of a group. Children would then be spared all the wear and tear, the ups and downs, which they experience when a worker learns on the job, without the necessary training and academic background. Specific educational requirements would standardize the profession, thus eliminating some of the highs and lows of care now found in children's institutions. Higher selectivity in accepting trainees would exclude from the staff individuals totally unsuited for the work. It would also bring down the general age level of workers employed in child care. Directors of institutions seeking new workers could turn to a registry or a school, as is done when a nurse or nursery-school teacher is needed; workers in the field would have a professional status. But most important of all, better care would be giver^ the children living in America's Homes.

Freddie, eight, came back from an evening at the Milwaukee Boys' Club to announce, "There's only one lady at the Club, and she stays in the library!" "Yes, yes, Freddie," we thought to ourselves. "We get the point." The Center, like many institutions of its kind (and like other social agencies too) was predominantly a feminine establishment for many years. According to the old annual reports, there was always a matron in charge, a board of women, and women staff members, except for a gentle, elderly maintenance man. We have given a good deal of thought to the need of the children to have masculine contacts and have worked it out as best we can in our own way. While the need is a great one for the boys, it is equally important that the girls, too, should have the interest, leadership, and daily companionship of men. This is the present roster of the men in the life of the Center. Roger Binsfield, twenty-two, is a student in Business Administration at Marquette University. Roger grew up in a small Wisconsin town. One of five children, he knows the give and take between brothers and sisters, and since he has

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two younger brothers of his own the care of small boys was familiar to him. Roger was in the Army Air Corps for a year and a half; he spent a summer at the Boys' Club Camp, where Irv Seher, director of the Club and Camp, referred him to us. Roger lives at the Center, but not in the congregate house. Behind the Home is a small building in which there is a heating unit and a wood workshop. A sunny southeast corner of the shop, which was a little too large for present-day use, was made into a room for students like Roger. It is quiet out there, and a good place of retreat for reading or study. Roger is on duty regularly two afternoons and evenings a week, and alternate week ends, taking the Big Boys group when their housemother, Mrs. Novotny, is off duty. Every Friday evening during the winter, Roger and the Big Boys go to the gymnasium of a private school in the neighborhood for basketball practice. They frequently challenge some other team to games at the gym or at a place convenient to the other team. Roger plans and participates with the boys in other games and sports—baseball, bicycling, swimming, hikes, and he is also a good storyteller. The boys like to hear his Army yarns and sports stories. On the playground and in the building, Roger is one with the boys and girls as they play together. For a certain period, he had charge of the Hightops for one evening a week. Lee Wiegert lived at the Center when he was a State Teacher's College student in 1942—43 and helped us out in the same capacity as Roger. After Lee, there was Emil Zibung. Both left us for the Army. They are married now,

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The Men in Our Lives

the fathers of small babies, and they stop in occasionally to visit. Bill Kelly, another Marquette student, came up one night a week and alternate week ends during 1946—47 to take charge of the Hightops. Bill had had good group work experience at the Milwaukee Boys' Club. These students, Roger, Lee, Emil, and Bill, were not with us on any kind of field placement from Marquette University or State Teachers' College; the agency did, however, have two students for administrative field-work placements from Western Reserve University, Cleveland, during 1946-47. Mr. Bernard Novotny is the husband of Mrs. Novotny, the Big Boys' housemother. His job is that of general maintenance man and fireman. The boys work along with Mr. Novotny, shoveling snow, cutting grass, cleaning up the basement, and doing other jobs around the place. Mr. Novotny goes with us to the circus, to Holiday Cottage, sometimes helps to transport groups of youngsters here and there; he and Mrs. Novotny watch the boys when they play a game with another team. Mr. and Mrs. Novotny have three children of their own, one married, a son in college, and a daughter in high school. Dr. Henry O. McMahon: If ever a family doctor knew his patient, and his patient's history, on both sides of the family, he still would not know him as thoroughly, and understand him as completely, as Dr. McMahon does us. He has been the pediatrician for the institution for about twenty-five years. His interest is not solely in the tonsils, the teeth, the correction of physical defects: he sees the whole child, his emotions, his thoughts; neither the come-

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hither look 111 Roberta's eyes nor the reproach in Michael's escapes his notice. A little child gets a hug along with the toxin anti-toxin, and when the doctor pricks him, it doesn't seem to hurt very much. The doctor's sense of humor is quite a few paces ahead of the average person's, and I know he will never grow old. He stops in to visit us at noon, sometimes between home visits and his office, for a few moments' respite from calls and the telephone. If we have a busy, serious and important air about us, he soon dispels it. He knows all our weaknesses and limitations, but nevertheless entrusts us with more responsibility than we sometimes think we should take. It is an understatement to say that he is one of our favorite people, and as a man in the lives of the children, no one could offer a finer example or a better influence. Merle Schlamel lives just a block or two from the Center. He teaches in a junior high school and is the father of Tommy and Dickie, aged six and four. Merle comes over two nights a week, from six to eight, to tutor some of the children individually. Many of our youngsters, even those with a high I.Q., often have done poorly in school before coming to the Center, because of emotional blocking as a result of trouble at home. They may have missed some of the early basic essentials, there may be a fundamental reading handicap, or, perhaps, a temporary lift is needed over the initial difficulties with fractions or decimals. Whatever the problem, Merle offers the necessary help. During the summer vacation, he helps us out while Mr. Novotny is away, and he acts as relief housefather. He is good at sportsj-

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T h e Men in O u r Lives

tennis and golf particularly, likes all outdoor things, has art ability and loves good music. More than that, Merle is good natured and relaxed; he has a sparkle of subtle humor, and children like him. Mr. A x e l Davidson teaches manual training in the public schools. He is in his fifties, the father of two daughters. He and Mrs. Davidson were at one time foster parents of highschool girls in the care of the agency. Every Friday evening, soon after supper, Mr. Davidson comes to the Center and works with the girls in the woodwork shop. (The boys have this activity at school.) They make corner shelves, wooden boxes f o r dressers, book ends, and things of that sort. What they make is less important than the companionship with Mr. Davidson while they are hammering, sawing, and painting, and rubbing down wood with sandpaper. In addition to his work with the girls, Mr. Davidson does many other things; he made for Petey a wooden rack to hold her pots and pans, a locker-dresser arrangement f o r Bootchy, an outdoor basketball standard, and kite sticks for all the children. He helped us move furniture to Holiday Cottage, and gave a hand with the painting. Mr. Davidson has built some attractive cabins in the north woods of Michigan, and for two summers he had some of the boys up there on a boarding arrangement. The boys still talk about the good fishing and blueberry picking in and around the Michigamme River. In the winter of 1948 Mr. Davidson bought an apple farm at the north edge of the county. His property runs back to a wooded ravine with a stream, all of which has all sorts of possibilities for us.

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Jake is really Police Officer Elmer Jacobus, a tall, rangy man with a twinkle in his eye. The Center has been in Jake's territory for twelve years. He directs the children across the street to and from school; he brings his lunch from home and eats it in Mr. Novotny's headquarters. Jake is almost like one of the staff, and it makes us feel much more safe and secure to have his blue-coated, broad shoulders in and out of our daily lives. Jake plays the piano, and blows a horn in the Police Band, and sometimes he sits down at the Center's piano and gives us a few tunes. Dr. Thomas R . Abbott teaches dentistry at Marquette University. He comes to the Center at 7 : 1 0 A.M. four mornings a week, when he has two patients between 7 : 1 5 and 8:15. He also comes one afternoon from four to six. He has breakfast at the Center, and reads the morning paper here before starting work at the University a little after nine o'clock. Harvey Manske is the principal of the Maryland Avenue School, which the Center children attend. The outlook of any school reflects that of its principal, and we are grateful every day for Harvey Manske, his liking for children, their great response to him, his strong, youthful leadership and levelheadedness. He makes us feel that the Maryland Avenue School likes and accepts us, and understands what we are trying to do. Mr. Manske directs an athletic program for all of the children of the school, in which our youngsters participate eagerly. During the summer vacation, the large school playground is taken over by the Recreation Department of the Schools and supervised by young men and

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women leaders, and our children go over there to play. These men are aware of their importance to the children. They are very much a part of our lives, of the things we do and the way we think. The student, Mr. Novotny, and Dr. Abbott are with us daily, and the others are in and out. The presence of a man does not create excited giggles on the part of the girls, who are quite natural and casual about the men on the staff. For example, Merle Schlamel tutors Shirley every evening. Sometimes she has her bath before coming down for the seven-thirty appointment. She comes slapping along in her scuffs and baggy flannel pajamas without a selfconscious thought in her head. Merle is equally unconcerned. Kenny, five, appeared in Dick Clendenen's bathroom one Sunday morning while Dick was shaving, and stopped to watch. Kenny could not remember his own father, and the sight of a man shaving was a new and fascinating experience. After that, he had a regular Sunday morning appointment to watch Dick shave. The night Roger went to the Marquette prom, the boys wanted him to come up so they could see him in his tuxedo. Roger came, looking scrubbed and shiny and carrying in a box a corsage for the girl he was taking to the dance. He stopped in at the girls' dormitory, too; the girls looked him over carefully, much impressed by the flowers. The next day, as Roger came down the hall, dressed in his casual clothes again, Dolores, eleven, in her jeans, hooked her arm in his, saying, "Today Roger's taking me out to dance!" "Zip" Morgan's name is really Harold S., but he has been Zip to all of us for about twenty years. Director of Munic-

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ipal Athletics of Milwaukee, and a bicycle enthusiast, he has helped and advised us in many ways, showing us how to prepare and keep up a back-yard ice pond and how to lay out a bicycle track; he arranges an annual roller skating party at an inside rink, to which the children go in costume; together we plan our ice skating frolics and pray for favorable weather; and Zip works up a plunge party for us each year at the State Teachers' College pool. Zip has taken many different groups of boys on long bicycle hikes, with overnight stops at youth hostels. And, most important, each year he is Santa Claus. In 1947 a night watchman was added to the staff as an extra precaution against fire. Mr. Preselli makes the rounds of the building every hour from ten P.M. to six A.M. It is a great comfort to know that he is in the house at night, awake and alert. Although he does not walk through the dormitories, from the standpoint of the children it is unnatural to have a night watchman creaking around the semidark building; he might be a frightening figure to some of them. Our youngsters have, outwardly, at least, taken Mr. Preselli entirely for granted; it does not seem to waken them when he walks up the stairs. They rarely see him, and sometimes they seem to go along for months, forgetting that we have a night watchman. However, when they do meet him, it is important that their impression be wholly favorable. After Mr. Preselli had been with us about a year, we had an epidemic of runaways, the first that had occurred for about a year. They were stimulated by the coming of Georgine, a little girl of eleven, who had long been in the

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The Men in Our Lives

habit of running away. On two occasions Georgine had taken Frances with her for a few hours at a time, and then early one Monday morning she slipped away with Beverly and Edna. (Children are frequently upset on Mondays, sometimes physically and often emotionally.) The three girls were gone all day. At six in the evening Beverly telephoned me from downtown, and I went down to bring her home. She said she had decided to come home, but did not know where the other two girls had gone after she left them. We then reported to the police that Georgine and Edna were missing. When they were not back at ten-thirty, I went to bed, having asked Mr. Preselli to sit in the office with the light on and to wake me when the girls came home. At midnight I heard them arrive, and went down to the office at once. Mr. Preselli had thought of exactly the right thing to do. He had one arm around Georgine, and as I approached he said to me, "Die Mädchen sind ganz ausgefroren und haben nichts zu essen gehabt." ( " T h e little girls are quite frozen, and haven't had anything to eat.") I said I had planned to give them some milk and a sandwich, and he volunteered to warm the milk for me. Mr. Preselli's idea of meeting these two tired girls with warm milk and food was exactly in accordance with the advice given us for runaways by Dr. Sylvester. I must say this, too, for Milwaukee's police: whenever we spend one of these days of waiting and worrying, with a midnight meeting with police and plainclothesmen who come in for descriptions, or to report back, or to bring home straying children, the police are kindly,

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gentle, sympathetic, and conscientious with the children. They are reassuring to us, dignified and tolerant— a real comfort to an upset child and a worried director and housemother. As a result, our children have respect for, and no fear of, their friends the policemen. Other men in the children's lives are Ben Lau, the vacation home fosterfather, and Vincent Schmidt, the farmer near Holiday Cottage; the men victory gardeners in the Center garden; the leaders at the Milwaukee Boys' Club and the Club's summer camp. A f t e r ninety-six years of an all-feminine board of directors, we took steps in 1947 to remedy the situation. Dick Clendenen, as one of his projects as an administrative student, together with a board committee and a legal adviser, altered the constitution and by-laws so that men would be eligible for board membership. Eventually the board will be made up of equal numbers of men and women. Five interested gentlemen joined the board in January, 1948—a school principal, a banker, an insurance man, a public relations director, and a man familiar with buildings and real estate. An institution having the cottage system is able to attract married couples as cottage parents much more readily than one which is housed in a congregate building. In cottages, living units are usually provided for married couples, in which they can maintain, to some degree at least, a life of their own. Since the living quarters at the Center have not been suitable for cottage parents, we have not attempted to make this arrangement for the care of the children.

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The staff member who is not married or whose family lives away from the institution can seem to belong completely to the children. Sometimes children resent sharing their housemother with her husband and her own child, if she has one; perhaps they do not like to share a cottage father with his wife. Thus the unattached staff member fills an important role. Mr. Davidson, for example, is a definite father person. Most of the children do not know Mrs. Davidson, and if they have heard of her, she is a nebulous person. She is not a live rival, always present. Similarly, in a small boy's fantasy, Roger may be a young father, a big brother, or a playmate. A housemother may represent a big sister, an aunt, a mother, a grandmother, or just a friend. These substitutions cannot be so readily made when the staff members' own family ties are continually in evidence. When the time cömes that we have cottages, it is quite possible that we will try to have cottage parents for some of the groups, realizing, however, that ideal cottage parents, like ideal housemothers or foster parents, are not easy to find. But in the cottages there will also be some Miss Burcherts, Miss Annas, Miss Peteys; a Mrs. Beal and a Mrs. Leitske; a Roger, Merle, and a Mr. Davidson. Marital status is not allimportant as a qualification for a houseparent; devotion to children is.

Something Smells Good

The kitchen at Lakeside is like a big farm kitchen. Traffic flows through it all day long—children, Freckles, Pinky, staff; the bread man, the butcher boy, and Jake, the policeman, for his morning cup of coffee. Petey and Anna can cook like angels and they have the patience of saints. It is a good thing, though, that once in a great while one of them puts her foot down and proclaims a mild declaration of independence. The kitchen empties; but before long it fills once more with activity and noise. Petey does not hear very well, and we all wish, of course, that this were not so. But if she had heard all the noise in her thirteen years with us, she probably could not have borne it. In an institution a kitchen stands for something important. The big black stove at the Center is a reassuring sight; the coffee pot is always on it, and perhaps cakes or pots of beans are baking inside it. The kitchen is on the first floor near the side door which the children use to go to school. Petey has always had an open door policy for children, staff, and pets; the youngsters stick their heads in to say goodbye

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Something Smells Good

on their way to school or to pick up a post-breakfast doughnut or a piece of the raw carrot which is being prepared for dinner. There is usually a dish of such items on a table near the door, and the fact that an hour earlier John has polished off a breakfast of a bowl or two of cereal, toast, milk and fruit does not affect his yen for a chunk of the heart of cabbage; he feels good going off to school with something to eat on the way or to save until recess. Petey and Anna know the special food yearnings of most of our forty-five children. They remember that Butchie loves apples, that Dolores adores raw prunes, and that Janice craves sour foods. One time Janice was in the office, trying to find something she was about to return to Aim. In the process, she took from her pocket a kite string, a roller-skate key, her library card, and, of all things, half of a lemon rind. At Aim's questioning look, Janice explained comfortably, "Oh, Miss Petey always saves these for me; I suck them." It is these things—Dolores and her handful of prunes, Butch with the extra apple, and Janice with her lemon rind—that the children remember long after they have left us. Out of a great number of such thoughtful little attentions the whole climate of a place is made. If enough of these small things are right, then the big thing, the spirit of the institution, becomes good. Children are comforted, too, by the regularity of the meals and the fact that Petey and Anna take great care to have the food just so. It might seem that most of the time they would be unaware of all this. Children take so much completely for granted, as they should. Meals and care and love

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are their right, and in his own home with both of his parents to provide these for him a child never seems to question or even think about it. Most of our children had sketchy meals at home. Often the family did not sit down at the table together. Many meals were catch as catch can. Α Schnecken (sweet roll) and coffee for breakfast, or, if mother was still asleep or perhaps had already gone to work, no breakfast. Lunch might be a sandwich over the sink, with mother away at work or busy with the baby. A number of our children, while at home, were not interested in supper as a meal. Some of them never came home after school, but played around the school grounds for a while, and then perhaps went to a movie until their parents were in bed or at the tavern. Youngsters with this sort of background are usually not big eaters, but once settled, their appetites expand. And they love our preparation of their meals. A little incident last Thanksgiving illustrates what I mean. We usually have Thanksgiving dinner the day before the actual holiday so that the children who go home for the day won't feel that they are missing something. For those who stay at the Center, there is a repeat dinner on Thanksgiving Day. (This dual holiday dinner was one of the many fine innovations made by Ethel Barger when she was Director during the years 1 9 3 2 - 1 9 4 1 . ) Petey and Anna always order two twentyfive pound turkeys to be delivered on Tuesday, and set aside that evening for preparations. The children love to be around then, to see the preliminaries and give a hand when and where they can. The cranberries are cooking, the celery is cleaned and put in the refrigerator, dressing is stirred up,

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and there is a special air and flourish all around. Petey beams with pride at the turkeys; they are always fine ones. At seven on Wednesday morning they are put in the oven, for they must be ready to serve at 1 1 : 3 0 . Petey and Anna, their hard work finished on the evening before, dress up in fresh cotton prints for the final serving of the dinner. Ann and Tony, a brother and sister, absorbed all of this process. They enjoyed their turkey dinner with us "Wednesday, and then went home to spend Thanksgiving Day with their mother, who is more like a big sister than a mother to the children. Mrs. Y . works hard in a factory and is not very well, so she slept late Thanksgiving morning. Ann and Tony arrived home at about 10 o'clock to find her still in her housecoat, and the duck they were to have for dinner still in the ice box. The mother told us later that the children stood in the doorway, disapproving the whole scene. "In a housecoat!" they deplored. "Where's the duck?" Mrs. Y . explained that it was still in the refrigerator. "But you should have on a dress, and the duck should have been in the oven a long time ago!" Petey is not a dietitian in the sense that formal training for that title implies. But she knows vitamins, what to feed us, how to balance meals, and, more important, how to make the food taste good. She does a good deal of reading on foods and feeding, and on health subjects. She keeps a record of her weekly menus, and occasionally Dr. McMahon or a dietitian goes over them. Petey has certain minimum basic requirements to which she adheres: a quart of milk per day per child; an ounce of butter; meat daily if and when pos-

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sible; a cooked and a raw vegetable; eggs several times a week; fresh or canned fruit daily, preferably fresh. We often take our cues from the children in planning and preparing food, especially the extras. Let us suppose Petey has started to prepare stewed rhubarb. She is at the sink, washing the stalks. Art stops by in the kitchen, en route to school, and immediately wants a piece to eat, raw, and Petey gives it to him. Suddenly several other youngsters appear and also want some. They love it raw, they say. It is good and sour. Even though her supply is rapidly diminishing, Petey continues to hand out pieces. I happen to come into the kitchen, and then and there we plan that the next time we have rhubarb, Petey will put some raw stalks on the table, as one would a dish of pickles, so that those who like it raw can have it that way. While the quality and choice of food is important, much depends on its preparation. To get quantity cooking to taste like home cooking is an art that takes a certain knack and a lot of hard work. When preparing meals for large groups, the food is often too bland, is lukewarm, or tastes of the kettle. There are ways to counteract these weaknesses. Consider salads, as a good example. Petey and Anna have staff dinner ready at eleven-thirty in the morning, when they also have their own noon meal. The children come from school at twelve o'clock, and their dinner is served a few minutes later. In addition to a cooked vegetable, Petey always plans a salad at noon, but she does not mix the children's salads at eleven-thirty. She has the lettuce, raisins, apples, and whatever else goes in, all washed and ready, but

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never puts the salad together until just after twelve. Thus, the salads come to the table crisp, cold, and fresh. Petey and I like to watch the children's enjoyment in these salads because it contradicts the fairly general notion that youngsters do not care much for them. Petey's jar of parsley has become a symbol to me. She keeps in the refrigerator a twoquart jar always full of washed fresh parsley, chilled and ready for garnishing. She knows all the little tricks, not only with salads, but with hot dishes too—the timing, seasoning, garnishing, the freshness, the serving while the food is piping hot—that help to make meals tasty and appetizing. I must briefly mention desserts. Because the children count on having dessert, Petey and Anna always serve something that comes under that heading. It may be fruit, or a birthday cake, or pudding, two cookies, six jelly beans, and as a special treat, ice cream or pie. We sometimes have cake for two days in succession; for Patsy and Jimmy must each have one on the exact day of the birthday. We are grateful every day that Dr. McMahon is a pediatrician who believes, with us, in doing the natural thing at the moment. He does not worry about our going off on occasional tangents from the standard, either in feeding or other phases of the care. When he comes to see a sick child, it does not distress him to find a cat curled up at the end of the bed. He thinks of the child and his feelings first, and germs and sterile techniques second, and we have learned that it is possible to be casual, though careful and healthy at the same time. At twelve o'clock the dinner bell rings. In serving dishes

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on the table are meat loaf, mashed potatoes, buttered carrots, a lettuce, raisin, and apple salad, milk, bread, butter, and, for dessert, Freddie's birthday cake. At Miss Wehland's table are seven boys and girls, all ages and from all departments. Miss Wehland has served this group for about a month now. She knows which are the hearty eaters, and which are not, and she fills the plates accordingly. Jerry detests carrots, and as the housemother serves, he asks for a small amount. The general rule is that a child eats something of everything; if he has some strong dislikes, or an allergy, then an item may be omitted entirely or served in a small quantity. However, requests for second and thirds are more frequent than refusals of anything. Usually there are two cooked vegetables, which offer a choice. If presented with a choice, rather than a must, children are less apt to fuss. Miss Wehland knows that you cannot proceed on the assumption that all children eat the same amount. Among the big eaters are the children who are growing fast and also others who may be using food to satisfy an emotional need. Edward, at thirteen, and at an age when he never seems to get filled up, is gaining twenty pounds this year. The amount of mashed potatoes and gravy, meat loaf, and vegetables he consumes is unbelievable. He loves squash. Petey will come into the dining room with a supplementary bowl of squash left over from the day before, heading toward Eddie who practically pants in anticipation. To go back to the idea of choice, it is valuable to give the children a chance to decide some things for themselves, and this can be done in the case of food. Petey's and Anna's sup-

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per arrangements present interesting possibilities for choice and selections. Suppers are harder to plan than noon meals and can become stereotyped unless watched carefully. This is Petey's procedure: the basic meal may be scrambled eggs, fruit salad, milk, bread and butter, and cookies. This is served to all the children first, as a foundation for what is to follow. For the Jack and Jills and other average eaters, it is sufficient in quantity and food values. Then the odds and ends left over from dinner are brought to the tables. In this way, Petey makes use of her leftovers, the large eaters have a greater variety, and everyone has a choice. Forty-five boys and girls together at mealtime create considerable clatter. The busy sound of children eating, chatting, and dropping a fork now and then does not disturb us. If the food is good, and the children are interested in it, if there is a skillful staff member at the head of the table, the dining room bustle does not need to be a problem. Supper is always the noisiest meal, because tensions and excitement rise as the day goes on. I like to see children relaxed at meal times, free to be a little tardy coming in, occasionally, and with time to talk, dawdle, and visit with one another and the staff members. An abundance of good food attractively served in a pleasant atmosphere can make meals enjoyable and pleasurable occasions to which the children look forward and from which they derive reassurance. Plentiful quantities of food are basic in the care of children in an institution, and there should be provided not only satisfying meals but also in-between snacks. We have an after-school lunch regu-

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larly—this may be fruit, a piece of bread and jelly, graham crackers or some other tidbit. For the children of eleven or over, who may have a strenuous after-supper play period and a later bedtime, there is often a lunch before going to bed. The Junior Misses usually send out a delegation of two of their number for ice cream "tubs" or cones. I have often come upon Mrs. Novotny or Roger fixing thick peanut butter sandwiches for the Big Boys at eighty-thirty or nine in the evening. In institutional work of this kind, there should be more giving than withholding.

W e must be positive and permis-

sive as often as possible, although, of course, never to the extent that the children take advantage of the situation. There must always be limitations finally, and it is necessary on some occasion every day to correct, direct, or curb. Seeing that children have plenty of food is a fine way of giving. The cooks, who are giving people, therefore mean a great deal to the children. Y o u n g people who come back to visit us, usually pay their respects at the office and then make a bee line to Petey in the kitchen. If the visitors are boys, they dash on up to the third floor to seek out A u n t Molly, and, if they are girls, to the second floor and Bootchy. Those who feed them and those who mother and nurse and care for them generally are closest to their hearts. For this reason the housemother as well as the cooks should give them food. It is a good plan to have the housemothers serve at table and to have the after-school and after-supper treats come from the cottage, department, or dormitory. The housemother is the person who has to correct her

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group, see to it that the jobs are done, the clothes picked up, and the socks washed, teeth brushed, hair combed, snow pants put on, and many, many other such things. While much of this activity is not negative, it is not pure joy either. The children will accept the disciplinary functions of the housemother more readily if she is also a source of f u n and special treats. When she plans play activity and provides clay, yarn, valentine books, scissors, popcorn, and animal cookies, her relationship with the group is happier than if she merely sees to their physical care, and routine is made easier both for her and for the children. She is a "giving person," whose directions will not be resented, in other less pleasurable areas. There are two schools of thought as to whether a housemother should eat with her children or have her own meal first, and then serve at table. There are good points on each side, and each method has its advantages. A t the Center, staff members have their meals first and then serve the children, for these reasons: the housemothers are with the children many hours of the day; they need a chance to eat in peace, and an opportunity to sit down with adults and talk and think about something other than Jane's wet bed or Jerry's torn pants and Alice's temper tantrums. The plan which we have worked out is to have our meals precede the children's by half an hour. During the staff dinner time at noon the children are at school, and at breakfast and supper they are following their own pursuits all over the house. It is true that at the morning and evening meals the housemothers eat with one ear alerted toward the noise

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on the second or third floor. "That sounds like the Pigtails," Bootchy will say after a minor explosion on the second-floor balcony. "That Mary!" At noon, with the addition of two case workers, two office workers, and anyone else who comes in by the day and whose only meal with us is dinner, we use a staff dining room. For a number of years, ten or more of us sat around a large table in this room. The table was too large for general conversation and too small for sociable little units, and there was an interminable passing of food around. The big table was finally replaced by three small ones, each seating four people. The food is put on a buffet, and each person serves himself. Here the case workers, housemothers, office workers, students, and I have our noon meal. We draw numbers as to where we shall sit, and change seating arrangements every few months. The workers who come in by the day bring new interests and fresh points of view. We have an understanding that we will not discuss children and their problems at the table, but we do break over sometimes. When we have cottages with smaller dining rooms, it may seem a better plan to have the housemother eat with the children. As it is now, with forty-five children in the dining room, seven at a table, the housemother is kept busy serving, talking with the children, and keeping things moving along. Having had her own meal, she is free for conversation and able to give herself over completely to the wants and interests of the youngsters at her table. When the Center began plans for its cottages, the question arose, shall we have a central dining room or one for

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each cottage? We quickly decided on a kitchen and dining room for each cottage, having seen what these rooms mean to the children in this old congregate building. There is nothing at all homelike or natural in leaving the cottage to go to a central dining room. It is like a hotel, a camp or summer resort, all right for a week or two, but unsatisfactory as a permanent arrangement. I have seen small children put on their coats and boots on a zero morning and emerge from their cottages to struggle across a snowy campus to the main dining room for breakfast. It seemed almost a cruel thing to expect of them three times a day, year in and year out, and sometimes for years. A child gets so much pleasure from smelling, seeing, sampling, and anticipating his meals that it is a pity to deprive him of it. A kitchen should be a part of his background. For younger children especially, who are not big eaters, the smell of meals in preparation is a stimulus to the appetite. Petey and Anna are good about letting the children be around in the kitchen. One of the jobs of the older children (ten to fourteen years) is that of "coming in early." A girl or boy may have this assignment every sixth week or so. The youngster arrives in the kitchen at four-thirty after an hour's out-of-door play after school and helps the cook prepare the supper. Or, if Betty goes to the Clinic and comes back to the Center around eleven o'clock in the morning and too late to return to school, she will probably drift out to the kitchen and putter around, or offer to help. I shall always remember Larry and his chocolate cake. Larry was thirteen, a tall handsome boy whom all the girls

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adored. On this occasion he was at home, resting for a day or two after a bad cold. He turned up in the kitchen one morning and Petey asked how he would like to bake chocolate cake for the whole family for dinner. Larry would love to, so he established himself at the mixer while Petey called out the ingredients—so many cups of flour, so many of sugar, and so on—as she went about her regular work. Larry measured out each item and put it in the mixer. The finished cake looked wonderful; Larry sampled it before it was served and found that it was a terribly salty cake. For Petey's "A level teaspoon of salt," Larry had understood, "Eleven teaspoons of salt!" At dinnertime the story quickly made its rounds from table to table, and the children all thought it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened. In their eyes, Larry could make no mistake. When he carried the cake into the dining room, a wild cheer went up and he beamed at all the attention he was getting. Most of the children, the girls particularly, ate their cake to the last crumb and said it was unusually good, and different. No matter how good the food, or how attractive the dining room, children sometimes get bored with eating in the same room with the same group every day. Our housemothers have worked out some ingenious deviations. Bootchy, for instance, with her Pigtails, makes potato pancakes in the dormitory. Bootchy has an electric plate, which she and her little girls put to a number of unorthodox uses. Sometimes they make very fancy sandwiches, supplementing these with hot chocolate prepared by Petey in the kitchen. Or they may have a tea party in place

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of supper, just the ten of them in their own department. When Ray and Chuckie went "home for stay," the time of their going coincided with Sharon's birthday, so Bootchy and Wanda had an inpromptu waffle party for the Hightops and Pigtails. The boys and girls sat at tables for four, in the staff dining room. Miss Wehland also uses this same room for special parties for the Junior Miss group. The Hightops have another kind of change once a week when they go to the Boys' Club on Friday nights. Miss Wanda fixes a lunch bag for each boy, for they go down to the Club at four and stay until eight-thirty. During the summer, Wednesday dinners and suppers are frequently replaced by a picnic at one of the parks. Once in a great while, too, there is a stand-up meal for the sake of expediency. For example, there was the day that each member of the child care staff, the housekeeper, and the cooks were away at an all-day institute. The case workers, Aim, and I had arranged to be on duty over the noon hour and after school until the housemothers came back. We gave them a picnic lunch at noon—hot dogs on rolls, pickles, and hot chocolate—served on paper plates and in paper cups. Since it was winter and we could not have an outdoor picnic, we all crowded into the kitchen. Those who could find a place to sit, sat down, but most of us stood around, and that is what is known as a stand-up meal. Just a word as to what meals mean to the staff. It is a hard job we are doing, and we need good food to be fortified for it. In order to do a good job, we need not only good health, we need good health plus; and proper meals,

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prepared and served in an interesting way, help to give that extra edge of "bounce." It is a big help, too, when employing new people, to be able to tell them that the food is fine. Petey's open-door policy is a further aid to staff contentment, since that extra cup of coffee is always ready for them. Some of the housemothers do not eat a big breakfast because of the early morning rush, but at nine-thirty, when the children are all finally off to school and there is time to relax, they like to come down for a leisurely little mid-morning lunch.

Jane Comes to Stay When a child thinks about going to a Children's Home to stay, it is not with the same feelings that he has about other institutions familiar to him, such as summer camps, schools, or even hospitals. Nine-year-old Jane, asked how she would like to go to a Girls' Camp for the summer, probably brightens in anticipation. The stories she has read about girls in camps were pleasant ones, and her brother Harold, who once went to Camp Minawawa, was wildly enthusiastic. When Jane's family moved and she had to go to a new school, she made the transfer easily, for she had enjoyed her first public school. There were some teachers she loved, and others she cared less for, but school was school, and everyone went without giving it a second thought. A n d Jane knows that if she ever needs to go to a hospital again, she will return to the Children's Hospital, where she went to have her tonsils taken out. There was ice cream often, the nurses were good to her, and the doctors kind and gentle.

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But Jane is afraid of Homes. Everything she has read in books or comic strips, all the movies she has seen and the radio programs she has listened to, depict Homes as sad and gloomy. A child never chooses to go to one; someone makes him go. Jane remembers poor kids like Orphan Annie and Annie Rooney; ugly people like Mrs. Meany, and places like the John Greer Home of Daddy Long Legs. The institution has two strikes against it at the outset. No matter how grim things have been in their own homes, at the last moment, most children do not want to leave; at least, they know what they have there. They are reluctant to go to a Children's Home because of the fears which have been built up against it. In addition to the child's own anxiety, that of his parent is often transmitted to him. The conscientious parent has, like the child, the traditional lack o f confidence in institutions, and no matter how cheerful a front he puts up, the child knows he is unsure and worried. On the other hand, a parent who has failed with his children frequently makes use of placement as punishment: " Y o u wouldn't obey me at home, but they'll

make you

m i n d ! " " T h e y , " in the child's mind, become hard, old, rigid, punishing people. Some case workers exhibit a similar attitude of non-acceptance toward all children's institutions and, if they must refer a child to a Home, they do so with reluctance. They discuss the matter with the child without conviction and without being fully informed as to the institution's program. This is, of course, no help to the child. We have talked with many children about coming to the

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Center; some were in the Detention Home awaiting placement, others were in their own or relatives' homes. Over and over, these children asked the same questions and had the same qualms. First, they are afraid that once they are IN, they will never get OUT. They want to know if and how often they can go to the movies, to the store, back home for a visit, or anywhere at all. Is there a fence? Can they wear their own clothes? What time do they have to go to bed? Will they have to scrub floors? How long will they have to stay? May parents visit? Are comics allowed? From these and other questions it is obvious that they expect the worst. We do what we can beforehand to relieve their worries about life at the Center; most children, however, need to live with us for several months before all their earlier anxieties are finally dispelled. Let us follow Jane and the case worker, Rose McCoy, through Jane's introduction to Lakeside. Jane was nine, one of three children, two of whom were coming to the institution. The parents were divorced, and the children had been living with the mother, a mild, ineffectual, purposeless Woman, who rejected all of her children in a passive way. The Juvenile Court had on record a long history of neglect; the school nurses knew the family well because of innumerable health problems; and the public welfare department had carried the financial support of the F.'s for years. The children were running wild, and getting into all sorts of neighborhood and school difficulties. Finally, all the social agencies interested decided that placement was indicated. The mother was pleased and relieved at the idea,

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and gladly signed the petition to the Court to have the case heard. The probation officer sent her to see Miss McCoy to make arrangements for the admission of the children. Mrs. F. was too eager to get the impression that this was a good Home; and to sell placement to the children, who did not want to leave the slight security they had with her or to come to an unknown place. When Rose talked with Mrs. F., she learned from her not only the necessary facts regarding the children's medical, school, and developmental history, but more important, the mother's own attitude toward the children. T w o weeks elapsed between the first referral of the family and the court commitment, and during this period Rose was getting acquainted with Jane and her brother Harold. A n aunt decided to take the third child, Leonard. A f t e r the mother's call at the Center to apply for placement, Rose visited Jane's home. She timed her visit for 3:30 in the afternoon so that she could be there after school. She wanted first to get an impression of the setting from which the children came; second, to observe the mother-child interrelationships; and third, to meet and talk with the youngsters. They stared hard at her and were glad that she was not old, that she was warm and gentle. She brought with her, and left with Jane and Harold, a little book, "This Is the Way We Live and Play." Here I must digress to explain about "This Is the W a y . " Taking our cue from the questions which children ask, we designed a booklet to explain and illustrate the points they wonder most about. This little book is small, simple, direct,

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and to the point. The worker gave "This Is the W a y " to Jane and Harold, told them a little about the Center, and said there were probably some things they would like to ask her. They had little to say this first day they met Rose; they were "sizing her up." If she could leave with them the impression that here was a person whom they might later trust, that was enough. She left the booklet with them and arranged to have the mother bring the children to visit the Center. This first visit of the child to the institution is all-important. Jane was to go into Miss Bootchy's department, Harold into Miss Wanda's. The two housemothers had been kept fully informed of the plan from the beginning. They knew the main outline of the family situation and the children's reactions to it; they were ready for this preliminary visit. Rose met Mrs. F. and the children at the door. Two boys and the dog were playing on the steps, a pair of roller skates lay in the front hall, and the house was noisy. Rose had purposely timed the visit for after-school hours, when there would be bustle and activity all over the building, so that Jane and Harold would know at once that this was not a place of hush-hush and tip-toe. A little of their tension was eased when they saw Rose smiling and unperturbed by the noise and confusion. An informal welcome like this is helpful to a child newly entering. The children, the dog, and the roller skates near the front door give notice that children live and play here. Too often one still sees a visitors' stiff waiting room, the board meeting

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room, or offices, all of which fill children with awe from the first. Wanda welcomed Harold into her department and into her group. "Hello, Harold," she said, "I'm glad you're coming to stay with us. I have a bed all ready for you, right next to Alvin's. We're just having our after-school lunch now. Would you like some graham crackers?" Harold said very little; he was busy just looking. But on a welcome or greeting of this kind, some of the success of Harold's placement depends. Wanda realized that Harold needed help over the first hard moment of coming into a large, unfamiliar building, where forty-five strange children and a different way of living waited for him. Sometimes when an administrator or an institution board expects a housemother to care for as many as twenty or thirty children, she is not told who is coming into her group. When this happens, a new child may be greeted by a look that says, "Oh dear, not another one! Wherever will I put him? They promised me that they were going to place the Burke twins in a foster home and they didn't, and here they come with still another one." When a child who feels that he was not wanted at home is met by an overburdened housemother who does not want him either, it is too much to take. Rose now shows the two children all over the building. Jane has a chance to see Harold's department, and he sees where Jane is to sleep. He watches Miss Bootchy greet Jane and listens closely, as he did to his own welcome. They go

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into the kitchen where Petey is quartering apples, and she offers each of them a piece. They see the dining room, and later meet A i m and me. Each of us tells them in our own w a y that we are glad they are coming. After this tour, Rose and the children settle down in her office for another visit. Together, they look at a scrapbook of snapshots and photographs, showing year-round activities and scenes about the Center. These pictures usually bring forth comments and questions, and so they do from Harold and Jane. Rose does not assure them that all is sweet and lovely here, nor that they will have a wonderfully happy time every day of their lives. "This Is the W a y " has already explained to them that everyone has jobs to do and that there are days when a child may feel out of sorts and angry. Rose is honest and direct, mentioning the less acceptable aspects along with the favorable ones. Before the children leave, an appointment is made for them to come once again so that Dr. McMahon can make the admission physical examination. Jane and Harold think they can find the Center by themselves next time. A few days later they come in during the noon hour for their appointments. Rose finds Sharon, who is good with new children and who will play with Jane; and John will take Harold in tow. They all decide to ride bicycles. Soon they are on the swings. When Rose looks out again, they have climbed on the merry-go-round; they flit from one thing to another. When the Center children leave to go to school, Rose gets the car and takes Jane and Harold a few blocks up the street to Dr. McMahon's office. This is a

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small, simple, homey office, with many pictures of cats (the doctor is fond of Chessie and Chessie's family). The doctor does not wear white—he wears a business suit and is warm and comfortable with children. He senses that Jane is anxious, and takes her on his knee to cuddle her a little. Rose has assured the children that on this first visit to the doctor there will be no pricks and nothing that will hurt; the doctor will just look them over, listen to their hearts and chests, and look at their throats. As they leave, the doctor gives each of the children six cents for an ice cream cone, and with Rose they stop in at the drugstore near his office and have their treat. By now, Rose is becoming a familiar friend, and the children's tension has slackened considerably. As evidence of their ease with her, some of their doubts now begin to come out. Jane asks if the pond in the backyard, which is for skating, is the same as the one pictured in the scrapbook. When Rose says it is, Jane declares that the picture looks better than the pond does. Jane wants to know what day they are to come to stay. "On Tuesday," Rose says. "Guess I'll run away before then," says Jane, who is now quite loquacious, and also a bit of a tease. "Leonard's the lucky one," she goes on; "he's going to Aunt Elsie's to stay." Harold mentions that he cannot ice skate and he guesses he won't learn. He is evidently visualizing himself as not doing well in competition. He explains that he never had skates of his own. Rose tells him that there will be others learning too. He thinks the Center has an awfully big lawn to mow, and he has never worked in a garden

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before—he doesn't think he'll like it. Rose is glad that these expressions of uncertainties, the little complaints and criticism, are coming out. She accepts in a matter-of-fact way what the children say. It does something for them to express what they feel, and they realize from the beginning that their case worker is a person with whom they can talk over freely some of the things that are bothering them. Occasionally, in an emergency, a child is admitted to the institution without a preliminary visit. This was the case with Gordon. Rose had visited Gordon to show him the scrapbook and "This Is the Way." It was raining the day he came to the Home, a dark, murky rain, and the building was not at its best, as it is when the sun shines. Rose took Gordon around and stayed with him for an hour or so. The nervous enthusiasm and anticipation which he had shown on the ride to the Center dropped markedly, and finally he turned to Rose, saying, "When is it going to begin to look like the pictures?" Whether the child makes one, two, three, or more preliminary visits before coming to stay depends upon the time available and upon the child. During this period, when the worker and the child are getting acquainted, the housemothers are preparing the rest of the children for the admission of the new one. When a child enters a group, or when one leaves, some degree of readjustment is necessary. A newcomer is almost always a threat to the group. In this small constellation, every member has his place; those who have been here for some time support each other against any change in the places they have established for them-

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selves. The new child often needs a certain amount of protection from the other children and their attitudes. The children are usually curious about a newcomer. If it's a Big Boy, the Junior Misses hope he is handsome; if she is a new Junior Miss, the boys would like her to be cute and attractive. The oldest boys, who are twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, wonder if the new boy will be good at sports or making model planes—they want to know about his skills. The Junior Misses both admire and are threatened by the new Junior Miss who is as pretty and sophisticated as they are. If Diane, whom they admire, is the natural leader in their group, they resent, along with Diane, the fact that the new girl is even prettier and more dynamic, but they rather like it too. Children always welcome a good player, one who can add to their strength as a play group. They do not care much for the show-off, but they dearly love a clown. The youngsters who are missed most when they leave us are the clowns, those fortunate youngsters with a real sense of humor, of the ludicrous, who have the ability to make comedy of a difficult situation. They are rare children; and the clowning starts only after they feel at home with us. The youngest children, those from five to seven years, are apt to resent a newcomer—they do not want to share their housemother with too many others. Six-year-old Michael, who had experienced change and insecurity from early infancy, was so disturbed by the arrival of Donnie and Allen, two brothers near his own age, that he promptly bit one in the arm and kicked the other in the stomach.

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Sometimes, as a new child comes into a group, another moves up in order to make room, and a flurry of circumstances is set into motion. Johnny was the oldest boy in the Hightops. He liked to be considered the "tough guy," and he was a leader. A t times he was the housemother's righthand man. While he enjoyed having top place in his own group, he had been yearning for some time to be one of the Big Boys. So it was planned to have him move up just before a new boy came in. The newcomer's name, sad to say, was also Johnny. (In a family, no matter how large, the parents give each child a different name, but we often have two Nancys, Patsys, or Jimmies.) This new Johnny was tough, too; he even had a crew haircut. It was a real threat to the old Johnny to have a new boy come in and take his place, name and all. John No. ι was not too happy, after all, as the small frog in the Big Boy pond; he missed his place as the big frog in a small pond. He resented Johnny No. 2. He missed his former housemother; he didn't want her to have any other Johnny. We realized later that it was a mistake to move him out of his old group just at the time that a new boy came in. But mistakes of this kind sometimes happen in institutions, when bed space must be considered as we yield to outside pressure to take new children in. When a child is welcomed into a group, the children take their cue—as they do in so many instances—from their housemother. If she is relaxed, kindly, accepting, protective, and sympathetic, the children in her group incline to be that way too. They will, of course, eye one another

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warily and watch and evaluate for a few days. We try to wait until one child is absorbed into the group before admitting another to the same group, because difficulties are apt to arise if we expect too many adjustments in too short a time. With a total capacity of forty-seven, the Center usually has about forty-five children, and there are from twenty to twenty-five admissions during the year. Since there are five departments, this means five or six new children, at the most, in each department every year, or one every two months. The composition of the group also changes when a child moves to the next higher group. To go back to Jane and Harold, the day approaches when they are to come to stay, and if we have adequate time to make a careful preparation for admission, as there was in this case, Rose and the housemothers set the day carefully. It will be a time when Wanda and Miss Burchert are on duty, and when they will be there for the next day or two, rather than a day when the relief person is on. The group is strongest always, and most receptive, when its regular housemother is in charge. Miss Burchert and Wanda are off on Mondays and Thursdays, so Harold and Jane were to come in Tuesday noon. They would have two full days with their regular housemother, to get settled before the relief worker took over. The time of the day when a new child comes is also important. Late afternoon or early evening is bad, because night time may be a lonely time. A week end is not a good time either, for some children go home to visit and we are not in our regular swing and tempo.

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Rose has carried most of the responsibility up to the point where she or the parent brings the new child, his clothing and toys to the Center. N o w the housemother becomes the one who plays the closer role in relation to the child. Let us watch Jane and Miss Burchert. Miss B. gently starts to help Jane get unpacked and settled, to show her where her dresser drawer is, and where to put her things. As the housemother and Jane unpack, a soiled velvet dress turns up, a dress which is impractical from our point of view, but which Jane adores. Miss B. hangs up the dress, says nothing, but makes a mental note of it. This is an important moment. We must do all we can to give this new child the feeling that we accept her as she is, and this includes her clothing. Her personal possessions represent a tangible tie to the life she has just left, and they are important far beyond their real value. A good housemother will never say, " Y o u can't keep this, or this, or this," at the same time casting aside articles of clothing and toys. Nor does a good housemother cut off a girl's hair. We have pictures of groups of children taken at the Center in the 1920s, in which every girl of ten or eleven or under wore her hair in a Dutch bob, a chopped-off short bob, with bangs. The hair-do of each little girl was identical with that of the others. The Dutch bob was functional, simple to shampoo, and easy to comb. Whether it suited the individuality of the little girl was of no consequence. And no matter if a child came in with curls, pigtails, or with her top hair caught back with a bow, off came the curls, the braids, the top hair, and there it was, just another Dutch

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bob. It was a thoughtless, unnecessary act. The way she does her hair means a great deal to a girl, and she usually resents having it cut off unless this is a step she herself has decided to take. Nowadays we know it is better to allow a child to remain just the way she is for a while, to wear her own clothes, keep her own toys and hair-do, however unsuitable. It is more work for the housemother to braid pigtails and comb out tangled curls every morning, but when we see how much it means to the youngsters, it is well worth the extra time and effort. The girls are not so neat as they were in their Dutch bobs, but they do look like individuals and not like institution children. The new child may need inoculations against contagious diseases; perhaps he never had a toothbrush or a comb of his own; his nails need trimming; his buttons must be sewed on; his table manners may leave much to be desired. But we should not proceed too briskly or vigorously to get all these things done the first or second week of his stay. Coming to a Home is a big enough change without the added burden of all these other things. A youngster picks up table manners by himself, as he watches others at his table, and without our saying much to him. The housemother will do best if she lets him go at his own tempo for a while. She keeps him very much in mind, she is aware of what he is doing and how he is getting along, and of his reactions and comments. If he gets along well on his own, she leaves him alone; if he needs help now and then, she is there to give it. Perhaps she plans some special activity in which she participates, and she includes the new child and most

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of the rest of the group, so that he feels very much a part of what is going on, but does not realize that the housemother has set the stage. For his first work assignment, she gives him an easy job and explains carefully just what he is to do. Harold and Jane put their head into Rose's door rather often the first week to be sure she is here, or to ask when she will be back. After getting settled, and when the tension of the first two or three days is over, Jane and Harold are busy with new things to do and play with; they have made friends, and everything seems serene. About the third week, however, when the novelty wears off, a slump comes. The children may have a number of complaints, and there are many things they wonder about. They wish they had not come; they worry about their mother; the other children are not as nice as they seemed at first. Now Rose enters into the situation again strongly. The housemother has given her a daily account as to the initial adjustment, and from this report and the child's own expression, Rose takes her cue. The fact that the child has had a chance to become acquainted with the case worker at the institution gives her a good starting point for further talks. The child usually has one set of confused feelings about this strange new Home and another set of emotions about the separation from his relatives. It's not always easy for him to put his thoughts into words. Often the combination of these factors is so overwhelming that the child says nothing—he chews and cracks his bubble gum, he shoots his gun, and

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he kicks his heels against the side of the chair. W e all k n o w that it helps him to talk out some of the things about the home he has just l e f t . The worker must be completely accepting of what he says. She must be realistic and direct the content of their talks together, so that he can get both a feeling of release and a little understanding of things at home, and the reasons f o r his not being there. The following excerpts are f r o m the case record of another little girl, J u d y , eleven: On the w a y to the Center she said, "I'm not a bit scared. I never was scared of new things." I told her that it was all right to be scared, that going to a new place and a lot of new people was always a little frightening. She said then, "I do have a funny feeling inside, all quivery like." I said that most people had that f u n n y feeling when they went to a strange place, that it would take a while to go away, but we would all t r y to help; that Miss Wehland and the girls were looking forward to her coming, and Miss Wehland had spent a lot of time getting her bed ready and a place for her clothes. She asked then where I would be at the Center, and I explained about the case work office, and that I would be available and that I would like to have her come in and talk to me when she felt troubled and I would try to help. She reminded me of the place in the booklet where it says, "There may be days when a child doesn't like it at the Center," and asked me if she could come and talk to me when she feels like that. Then she mentioned the picture of the little girl who looks so awfully angry, and said, "I never get that mad." When I looked a little questioningly at this, she said, "I guess I do get mad sometimes." I told her that it was all right to get mad, that sometimes we just had to blow off steam. As we came up to the Center building, the children were just home from school and were out playing. J u d y said, "I've got that funny feeling now, for sure." Miss Wehland and the other girls

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did a nice job of helping Judy get settled, and after a little while she decided she would get into the play clothes that Miss Wehland had given her, and joined in a game of jacks with the other children. She was nervous and her hand shook when she tried to pick up the jacks. Evelyn, who was playing with her, seemed to sense this, and did not play up to her usual good form in order to make Judy feel more comfortable. Later today during the play period, Judy made two or three trips to see me, told me about some of her conversation with some of the older children. She said, "This Molly isn't anything like the other Molly I knew, but I like Marie best." (Marie is an older, very talkative girl, who really was making a big effort to be friendly with Judy today.) Judy said that it all seemed very strange to her here, but that she was sure it was going to be O.K. Later the record goes on to say: Judith has been seeing me by appointment, three times a week. She always comes in promptly. It is fairly easy for Judith to express herself verbally. During our early contacts, it seemed essential to the child to fill all the time with conversation, but lately she has relaxed more, she thinks things over longer, and there isn't such a rapid stream of chatter. Judith has been realistic in discussing her parents and their problems. The mother has been back in the hospital twice, once for treatment of insulin shocks, and again for observation of a kidney disorder. On both occasions Judith said she wished they would keep her mother in the hospital for a long time, as "she will never get well if she is at home and has to take care of herself. She won't ever stick to her diet, she'll eat candy and cake at home, and her diabetes will get worse. And I really do want my mother to get well so she can take me home again." On visits here, Mrs. Jeffrey has told Judy that her father is much better. Judy has been disturbed by the fact "that daddy is home and I'm not. Mother said when I came to the Center that she was going to get rid of daddy and take me home. Anyway, mother said she would rather have me at home than daddy."

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A n d after J u d y has been here several months: Judy has continued to see me. She is very prompt about keeping appointments, and when she wants a special additional appointment, she makes this in advance in a well-organized way. J u d y frequently talks about wanting to go home to stay, and then can be quite realistic about why it is best for her to stay here, in view of. her mother's illness and nervousness. She has often said that it is " d i r t y " that her mother did not keep her promise to her, meaning that her mother had promised to " g e t her father out of the home after Judy left and then arrange to take Judy back." She often says, "Mother likes me better than she does daddy." In another interview Judy said, " I know now that I must have been awfully bad when I was at home. You know, my mother always calls me Stinky because I was such a little stinker. My mother said I mind a lot better now and that it's nice to have me around." J u d y knows that Miss Wehland is fond of her and is protective of her when she has difficulties with the other girls. She has told her mother how fond she is of Miss Wehland and has added that she does not like Miss Bootchy "because Miss Bootchy is too much interested in the Little Girls." She continues to be very fond of Miss Petey, the cook. She says she dislikes working in the kitchen, but she "just loves Miss Petey." Judy obviously enjoys the outdoors and has spoken proudly of the fact that she has " a better tan this summer than she ever had before. My mother would never let me play outside much because she was afraid to let me out of her sight." J u d y enjoys being able to ride the big bike around the bicycle path here. She has been proud of having the garden with the other Big Girls, and of being able to take vegetables home to her mother. She seems very fond of animals and has told me in great detail about the puppy and kitten she had at home. She takes a small interest in Suzy, our new dog.

It is because Judy, in her interviews with Rose, is having all of these chances to talk through her feelings about her

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home and the Center that she is able to enjoy the garden, the bikes, the outdoor life, and that she is free to be fond of her housemother and the cook. While the case worker is a vital part of all that goes on at the Center, nevertheless she is a little apart from it, because she does not live so closely with the children as the other staff members do. Her perspective is somewhat different. She is not identified too closely with the child's parents, or with the Center staff and the director. She can see the child and both his long-time and temporary troubles calmly and impartially. When a child is greatly confused about his home, from which he gets no real support or comfort, and when the institution worker is seeing such a child regularly, it is helpful to have another worker carry on with the family. This is possible with some of the cases referred to us by other agencies. Whether it is Jane, Harold, Judy, six-year-old Michael, or twelve-year-old Shirley, they all need help not only at that crucial time of separation from all that is known and familiar to them in the first period at the new place, but all during their stay at the institution.

O u t of the darkness came a small boy's voice, clear and insistent, "Lady, are you there?" Mrs. Hartman, housemother, heard David and went to his bedside to reassure him that she would be in her room all night near the dormitory where he slept. As Mrs. Hartman began to get ready for bed, she heard again, "Lady, are you there?" Once more she tried to comfort the boy, but even after she was in bed, a troubled voice called out the question to her at regular intervals. David was afraid to close his eyes for fear that Mrs. Hartman would leave. The housemother, as she lay awake, thought of what she had been told of David's story. His parents were divorced recently, and the custody of the child was awarded to the father. David's mother had gone away, and he thought he would never see her again. And soon his father was going into the Army, and David understood all about that too. Soldiers went far away to places like Africa, Australia, and Italy. The two people whom the child had known best for eight years were going out of his life. He had to be sure that Mrs. Hartman

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would be there, and that she would be there during the hours when it was dark. Someone once said that putting the children to bed was like threading beads on a string that had no knot on the end. Bedtime can be one of the best times of the day, or the most difficult. In either case, it is not an easy time. The child who is naturally lively rises to new heights of friskiness; the lonesome newcomer daydreams or fidgets; the worrier worries; the slow child dawdles endlessly; the overactive one is flushed with excitement. In short, all natural feelings and tendencies are intensified. These youngsters of ours, who have had so little to rely on, hate to have darkness come, for then they cannot see even the little that they are sure of. They fight off bedtime to a certain extent in order to prolong daytime, to keep their housemothers close, and their companions awake, and able to communicate with them by talking, making funny noises, or giving signals such as dropping marbles or jacks from bed to floor. We can, in our bedtime routine, if there is such a thing, make this period easier and more comfortable for the children. Year after year, as I have watched children get ready for bed, certain questions have come to mind. First, in regard to the number of hours we expect children to sleep: Do we put them to bed too early in order that the staff may relax and feel that its active and sometimes seemingly endless day is over? Not all school-age children need the ten, eleven, or twelve hours of sleep which once were considered so essential; most can get along well on less. There is,

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however, a sort of an institutional fatigue which children occasionally experience. This can be met on an individual basis, without requiring the entire group of which the overtired child is a member to go to bed earlier than they should. Thfe child who becomes very tired and irritable may be the one who is most troubled, or the one who enters into every activity with the utmost energy and enthusiasm. Again, he may be overstimulated by the group, particularly when he does not have an occasional opportunity to get away from the others. We must be constantly alert for signs of fatigue: a pale, drawn expression, susceptibility to colds, loss of appetite, and the inability to gain weight. Roy, eight, became overtired occasionally. He was a child who threw himself into all the play with much gusto. He thought it was wonderful always to have nine other boys to play with. Of two brothers near the same age, Roy was the less favored in his mother's mild affections. The fact that Frankie was preferred was in itself the cause of some of Roy's strain. Roy had periods of irritability when he plagued the others in his group, punching and biting, and being generally annoying. At such times, we kept him at home from school, even if he had no cold, no temperature, and no outward physical evidences of illness. Then, away from the group, the only small boy with his housemother, he slowly relaxed. The first day at home, Roy ambled around, visiting with the cooks, licking a pan or two in the kitchen, then helping the janitor, out in the sun, or playing quietly by himself. Perhaps the second day he relaxed

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enough to go 011 a "sleeping spree," and then he might sleep all afternoon. A few days of rest is good for many children who continually live in groups, and we should not worry about what it does to the attendance record at school. Sometimes indications for the need of this kind of a change come from a teacher. A note may be sent home that Clarice has been driving Miss Hall to distraction. Several days at home not only help Clarice but also give Miss Hall the relief that a teacher, too, sometimes needs to have from a too strenuous child. Children who are being prepared for coming to an institution often ask, "What time do we have to go to bed?" They are sure that it is going to be too early, and usually they are right. Bedtime cannot be a set time, say eight o'clock, for the age group of which most institutions have the largest number of children, that is, between seven and fourteen years old. Bedtime depends upon how tired the youngsters are, and how ready for it; it depends on whether or not there is school the next day; it varies with the seasons and with the temperature. George's bed may look good to him at 7:30 on a cold dark evening—it may even seem a refuge. However, on a hot July night, with a high full moon, and his mind on a new girl friend, George fights bedtime even at 9:30. Actually, the time depends on the tempo and tone of the group. Children over seven should never be expected to go to bed by daylight, except perhaps in Alaska. It is hard for a child to settle down while there is still a ray of light in the sky by which he can squeeze the last drop of play out of the day.

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On the subject of light, the artificial lights in dormitories, hallways, baths, and playrooms have a direct effect upon the group. In old buildings, especially, we need to guard against dim eerie lights; they can add to a child's anxiety, and in fact, to all of the bedtime problems. It is a continual frustration to fumble with a knotted shoelace in the semidark, to try to read the comics or do homework. We depend not only on top lights and lamps, but also on the cheerful reflection from light colorful walls. Here at the Center we are believers in night lights, too, so that the child can easily see his way to the bathroom or find the bed of a friend, or the room of his housemother. I am always amused at the eight-year-old girls in the Pigtail group. If Sharon wakes up and needs to go to the bathroom at two A.M., but is timid about making the trip alone, she wakens her friend Darlene, who goes along as a sort of little escort ship. Darlene is quite cheerful at being called upon for this duty, and the two may have an extended conversation in the bathroom. Bootchy often wakes at the sound of these little chats in the early morning hours before the two patter back down the hall and into bed again. Children love to putter around as they get ready f o r bed, and to take their time about it. They do not like to be hurried, and if getting undressed and washed up is a proceeding they want to prolong, there is no real reason why they should not. Adolescent girls and even small girls enjoy puttering around in the bathroom, washing out stockings, bathing, fixing their nails, brushing their hair, and finally winding up the ends on bobby pins. I sometimes

ΙΟΟ

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wonder whether the teen-age girls wouldn't stay up all night, if we didn't finally call a halt to these activities. When five little boys are lined up before five low wash bowls, all sorts of possibilities arise for play with soap, wet wash cloths, squirting and sloshing. Small children who are relaxed do not undress, wash, brush their teeth, and put on their pajamas to a count of one, two, three, four. Much play and conversation goes on between steps. Anyone who has ever worked in a children's institution and listened in on these occasions knows that the most revealing and enlightening discussions take place in bathroom, dressing room, and dormitory. A warm bath makes a child feel good, and often he likes to run around naked for a while afterwards. All this takes time, and should. The housemother gets along best when she, too, falls into the spirit of the thing and has no fear that the superintendent will expect her to have all quiet on her front by seven-thirty or eight. There should be no set deadline, if she is finally able to get her group settled at a reasonable hour. A good housemother should be free to do the thing she is sure at the moment is best for her group. Too often, however, because she is under pressure from the "office" or is worried about the comments of other staff members, she hurries her group along and insists on quiet. We have mentioned the inadvisability of having a child undress in one place and go to his dormitory only to sleep. Dormitory and bathroom should be close together, and clothing and toilet articles kept conveniently in a dresser or night stand near the child's bed. Children like to have

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their possessions in a compact area; they are also less likely to lose their combs, toothbrushes, and other belongings. The warmth and softness of comfortable bedroom slippers, bathrobes, and pajamas add to a feeling of security, particularly in a state like Wisconsin, which has long cold winters and blustery, snowy nights. Woolly slippers and robe can be items of comfort to the soul as well as the body. There is another little part of getting ready for bed which is familiar to all child care staff members. When Norris has a sore knee, it needs to be cleansed and dressed before he goes to bed, and Norris loves this attention. But no sooner does the housemother appear with her gauze, cotton, and bottle of antiseptic, than each child in the group comes forth with a real or imaginary cut, or bruise, which he is sure needs the same attention as Norris' knee. In the wintertime, chapped hands and faces are greased for the night, and often in the summer, sunburned shoulders are soothed with ointment. A bed can be cold and uninviting, or warm and tempting. An all white, hard-looking, tightly made, hospitallike bed has no lure for a child. It looks much more comfortable without that tight smooth perfection. A colored bedspread, a slip cover for the bed back, and a woolly extra blanket on top add to its inviting aspects. The cuddle toy, often grimy and with a loved-to-death look, which many a child under twelve years of age likes to take to bed with him, is as important to his emotional needs as his toothbrush and washcloth are to his physical ones. Anxious little Patsy feels better with her arms around

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her bear at night—it gives her something to cling to. If a new youngster comes to the Center without a cuddle toy, we give him one very soon, from a supply room known as the Christmas Room, the source of birthday gifts and other sudden toy needs. To look at Jerry for the first time, you would never think that he hugs a once-white horse every night of his life. Jerry, at eleven, is a strong, physically hard youngster with a very definite personality, able to hold his own in games and in all the give-and-take that goes on with the other boys in his group. While he is casual and indifferent to this horse in broad daylight, he never fails to take it to bed with him at night. A skillful housemother would never say, "Jerry, you're getting too big for that horse now." Let us look in on a group at 8:30 P.M. We will imagine that this is a fine little group of ten girls bathed or washed and ready for bed. The housemother is doing a good job; the girls are fond of her, and she likes them. She keeps a new book in her room, which she is reading to them. She turns out the top light and reads by the light of a lamp. As the girls get into bed, she opens the windows so that the dormitory will cool off while she is reading. She has chosen her story carefully, and they listen, most of them eagerly. Dolores, however, over in the corner, pulls her comic book from under her pillow and pores over it in the dim light; this is just one of her many negative gestures, and the housemother wisely pays no attention. In spite of being a fairly settled group, the girls do a lot of rustling around in their sheets for ten or fifteen minutes. A child who has

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been active all day does not suddenly grow limp and sleepy. It takes a while to relax. A s the housemother reads, one or two, usually the best-adjusted and most placid children drop off to sleep. T h e worriers beg for another and still another chapter. When the reading is over, the ones who are still awake will need another trip to the bathroom, which unsettles them again. Finally the room is dark and cool, and the girls begin to burrow down into their blankets and pillows. A f t e r the goodnight prayer, the housemother is ready for her last step. She settles herself just outside the girls' room with her knitting or a book. She can still hear Dolores twisting and turning, clearing her throat, coughing, calling

Mary's

name, doing all she can to keep herself awake, and the housemother has to call out to her a number of times. Sometimes she has Dolores come and sit on the davenport beside her until the rest of the girls are asleep. Sometimes, if the group is not yet sleepy, she may let them talk quietly for perhaps fifteen minutes. O r , one of the girls may tell a story to the rest of the group; this is effective with groups of girls who find it hard to stop talking immediately. If they are permitted a little leeway, they are more likely to be satisfied and to quiet down, finally, than if she were to say, " N o w , no more conversation!" One of the reasons that children love to be read to is the reassurance of an adult presence at night. I remember reading to a group of boys in which there were two Spanish refugees who understood only a few words of English. They always came close when I read and were the first to

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shout for "More!" when I was ready to stop, although they could grasp only a little of the content of the story. Older children like to hear the radio tuned in softly as they fall asleep. Dick Clendenen, who was with us for five months as a student, told sports stories to the Big Boys at bedtime. Later, he darkened the room, turned on the radio, and stretched out on two chairs in the dormitory, relaxing while the boys dropped off to sleep. It was a comfort to the boys to have Dick stay until they were asleep. Bootchy's Pigtails sleep in two rooms, quite close together, with six beds in one room, four in the other. It is part of our scene to see Bootchy or her relief worker sitting on the davenport in the hallway outside these rooms, placidly stitching or knitting, between eight and ninethirty at night. Bootchy always plans to have some handiwork for that time; not only does her presence give the girls a good safe feeling, but she herself has time to finish an afghan or a sweater. Adjoining this housemother's own room is a small anteroom with a studio couch. When a little girl doesn't feel well or needs a change, Bootchy lets her sleep there, close by. Little boys have less on their bathroom agenda than girls. They would be glad to skip washing altogether, and they get through with it much more quickly. While the Pigtails are still washing out their socks and putting up their end curls, let us see what is happening on the third floor, where the little boys are. The housemother and Aunt Mollie usually plan some quiet play before bedtime and the story. These boys of seven, eight, and nine play harder

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than almost any other group, and, left to themselves, would probably keep up an excited, active tempo until the very moment of going to bed. They need something less strenuous to bridge the gap between daytime play and bedtime. Fortunately, a large playroom adjoins their dormitory. Their housemother is interested in handicrafts and arranges to have woodwork or tinwork for the boys to pick up at this time of the day. Henry may be sanding down his wooden door-stop, while John paints a clown and Jerry shellacks a simple pair of book ends, as one or two others play with a train on the floor. Later, they have a story, and then one last final burst of activity as they scurry to the bathroom before finally settling down for the night. Our dormitories are for ten children, except for the Pink Room, in which there are four girls of seven and eight years old. The cottages will have no dormitories; the largest sleeping room will be for four children, and the smaller ones will be used flexibly for one or two. Some experts recommend single sleeping rooms for one third of the children, but I have some question about this, particularly for the age group of five to fourteen. Our experience shows that a youngster is lonely in a room by himself and that he likes to have another child or two near by. This is particularly the case with children who have been accustomed to sleeping sometimes three or more in a room before coming to the Center. A f t e r living in crowded quarters, a too sudden and unfamiliar privacy may be more frightening than therapeutic to a nervous child.

Play

Under my window, in front of the Center, stands a big maple tree, whose lower branches are within easy reach of the children. The tree has great value as a piece of play equipment. Hundreds of children have climbed it, to heights that look dangerous, but that we, nevertheless, give them freedom to enjoy. We are careful not to overprotect children, simply because "they are not ours," from play which may have some physical hazards. The youngsters must have chances to test themselves and to find out what they can do. Overprotection denies to them the necessary opportunities for ego development. It may also be a factor in producing boredom, which in turn is a result of an unfilled need for adventure. When children are free to play without restraint, free to take risks, they experience such exhilarating activities as tobogganing, ice skating, dancing, baseball, basketball, and swimming. Their skills develop along with their muscles and an awareness of their own capabilities. Now and then I go along to watch them toboggan on Devil's Hill, or to the neighborhood gymnasium when the Big Boys play basketball, or to the Y.W.C.A. pool where the girls swim, and I wonder what would happen to all

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that energy and spirit if we did not give it a chance for release in positive play. Living as we do, near the beach, and being able to go to Holiday Cottage, the youngsters enjoy a good deal of water play all summer long. It is relaxing to be in and out of the water and to lie in the sun on the beach, and it makes for a sense of physical wellbeing. Most children naturally take to water like ducks, and swimming is a particularly good tension-reliever. The Jack and Jills, the smallest group, use their big muscles to pull and shove the lawn benches and wooden picnic tables around, and to play at building with them. A year ago I bought a green two-wheeled vegetable cart. Its original purpose was to haul leaves, manure, dirt, vegetables and plants in the garden, but it has turned out to be one of the most popular pieces of play equipment of the Jack and Jill group. Two of them sit in it, cozily, and a third pulls or pushes. They are at the age of dragging things around, and they play with garden hose, shovels, benches, and the heavy cement roller, often to the exclusion of their tricycles, coasters, and doll buggies. Other valuable pieces of equipment are the small toys which children like to possess and keep close at hand to pick up and play with, alone or with others. First, there are the Christmas and birthday gifts—dolls, stuffed animals, doll clothes and suitcases for them, beds and cradles, balls and jacks, marbles, tops, stamp books, coin books, printing sets, model airplanes, and so on. Besides these, there is a supply of materials for simple crafts—cutout and coloring books, lanyard weaving, whittling, painting, soap carving,

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Play

bead loom work, spool knitting, and regular knitting. I f a child has access to "pick-up" playthings like these he is less likely to dash about aimlessly when left to his own resources. There is value, too, in the fact that "pick-up" play can be an individual or a group activity. A simple handicraft relaxes the tense child. Girls like to knit during the winter months. Even our Pigtails enjoy it, partly, I think, as an imitation of an adult activity; they rather fancy themselves knitting, and they like the rhythmic click of the needles and the feel and appearance of soft colorful yarn. Lanyard braiding, spool knitting, airplane making, and beadwork serve a similar purpose with boys. The oatmeal boxes covered with wall paper to be used to carry knitting; the airplanes and leather wallets; the pair of mittens knitted by a twelve-year-old girl; the handmade Christmas cards, knick-knack shelves, kites—these are not display items. Grubby and crude as they probably are, they will be put to immediate use by the owner. Their value is in the fun and satisfaction of making them, not in the appearance of the finished product. Mr. Davidson takes the Hightops for two hours in the workshop, and they make kites which, of course, they want to fly immediately, and do. The kites are not saved for a handicraft show. The eyes and muscles of grade school children are ready only to make rather simple, large things, and we cannot exact perfection of workmanship. Fine embroidery, crochet, or needlework may look well at an exhibit or in a display case, but should not be expected from children of this age.

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When Dick Clendenen was with us, he planned evenings of tinkering for the boys. In the monthly news letter, he first sent out an appeal to board and corporation members for old alarm clocks, cast-off radios, and other worn-out mechanical gadgets that they might have around the house. A good supply of old alarms came in, as well as a few radios. Dick put all these things in a big box for the boys to take apart and tinker with. And what happened was this: the boys were more interested in putting the clocks and radios in working order than in taking them apart, and before we knew it, each boy had a noisily ticking clock on his bedside stand. It was a good activity, and one that they liked. Each child at the Center owns a pair of roller skates and has a pair of ice skates assigned to him for the winter. The roller skates are the gift of a local manufacturer who renews the supply from time to time. The ice skates have accumulated over the years. Board members bring in pairs which their children have outgrown; Zip Morgan manages to secure others each winter, and occasionally we purchase a few new pairs. Since shoe skates are expensive and children's feet grow so fast, a child does not own his skates; instead, when the skating season starts, we assign to each one a pair of the proper size, from the general supply. A pond which we have banked is flooded by the City Department of Public Works, by connecting a big hose to a fire plug near the Center. The fact that the ice pond is right in the back yard is an incentive to timid new skaters to learn to skate. Some of the older children go to the various rinks

no

Play

in the near-by parks for skating. Each new skill is another step

forward

in

self-confidence,

skill,

rhythm,

inner

resources, and in just plain having fun, as the child's concern with himself and his troubles is pushed into the background. We like to have a great many things for children to do on an individual basis. With a pair of skates a child can proceed at his own pace and tempo, and he is not in any particular competition with other children o f his group or with another group. Many of our children have experienced a sense of failure, whereas actually, it is their families who have failed them; but often they come to us feeling deflated and unsuccessful. They are usually not ready for competition, and competitive activities may lead to further failures, which we try to avoid. Often the child least skillful and without any abilities at all needs our help the most. I always remember Dick Clendenen playing a vigorous card game alone with Alvin. T h e other boys in the Big Boys group sometimes played rummy together, but Alvin, even at eleven, could not master rummy, so the boys had not included him in the game that was then in progress. Dick knew a simple two-handed game that a fiveyear-old could understand. H e played with Alvin for a long time in a very serious and concentrated, enthusiastic way, slapping down the cards and giving Alvin a feeling of satisfaction, of great achievement, and of being as smart as Dick. After a cold, snappy Wisconsin winter, we usually have a few very warm days in March. Abruptly skates, sleds, and

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toboggans are p u t away, and like magic, j u m p ropes, marbles, baseballs, balls and jacks, roller skates, and bicycles appear. Children are like that. T h e y give us a clue—not to expect them to stick to any one activity too long. T h e y play jacks in a f r e n z y f o r perhaps three months, and then jacks disappear for the rest of the year. I am always pleased when they go at an activity with such intensity and lose themselves in it. It is the youngster who has not been released f r o m his conflicts who cannot seem to " l i g h t " — h e wanders about, perhaps pushes to the floor the jigsaw puzzle of another child who has worked on it for hours. O f t e n he is not one of the g r o u p ; he.stays on the fringe of the group. A s his adjustment improves, and as he settles, he becomes interested in one or two things, and when he finally becomes absorbed or is a real member of the group, it is a real step toward happy adjustment. Children like sand, water, snow, mud, and stones, and need a chance to play freely in these natural elements. A sand box is a m u s t for any children's H o m e , also a place to " p u d d l e " in the water. A n d , they must be allowed to get dirty and wet or covered with snow. There is a good discussion on a child's need for nature play in Joseph Lee's

Play in Education,

a chapter that every housemother ought

to have on her reading list. M a n y institutions feel that they must have well clipped, neat lawns, and they are the ones that particularly need a spot somewhere in the back yard which can be messy enough to please any child. We have several such spots, one where f o x holes are d u g in the dirt and forts are built, another area that is a baseball field in sum-

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mer and an ice pond in winter. Also out in the back yard are the swings, jungle gym, rings for swinging, and the old squeaky merry-go-round that never wears out. Almost all children love a costume party. Over the years, fancy dress costumes have been received as donations, and some dress-up clothes have been made by the staff for the children. Hallowe'en and the costume roller-skating parties at a neighborhood roller rink are the two big dress-up occasions of the year. The Pigtails have some long dresses which Bootchy once made to fit small girls, and "dress-up" is a chronically popular pastime for them. A child's birthday is one of his favorite occasions. Nearly all other holidays, parties, and special occasions must be shared with those in his group or with the entire family, but his birthday is his day alone; the spotlight is centered on him. Weeks in advance he reminds us of the coming birthday, and tells Miss Petey and Miss Anna what kind of a cake he wants. Some of the younger children ask for a cake decorated with Mickey Mouse or a Brownie, and I have therefore become an expert at achieving a Mickey Mouse in frosting. The proper number of candles is added, and perhaps "Happy Birthday" is inscribed in pink or chocolate icing. The child wants it all to be just so, according to an established ritual. A friend, a brother, or a sister carries the cake with its lighted candles into the dining room at noon when all the children are there, and everybody sings "Happy Birthday to You." A second large cake is needed, in order that everyone may have a piece. In addition to the cake, the housemother has seen to it that

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there are gifts, all festively wrapped, at the child's plate— usually a toy or two, and something to wear. In the evening there may be an extra little department party, especially if a relative has sent in another cake or ice cream treat. Attending and participating in a planned party is often a new experience to a child coming to the Center. Children love a good party, and love to plan one with the housemother. The Christmas party, held a few days before Christmas, is one for the whole family—children, staff, and Santa Claus. The Valentine and Hallowe'en parties are divided; the Big Boys and Junior Misses have their party together in the first-floor living room, sometimes with friends from school; the three smaller groups join forces and have their party in the third-floor Hightops' playroom. There are many smaller parties—to celebrate a birthday in a department or to honor a child who is leaving. St. Nicholas evening is a favorite occasion. Parties give children something to look forward to, and anticipation often rides high for weeks before the event. Here again, children whose inner resources are not developed need things to look forward to, to anticipate pleasurably, so that they do not slip into a state of boredom. It is usually the well-adjusted and secure child who shows creative skill, who is resourceful in his play and able to stick to an activity for long periods. The child who is insecure relies on others to plan for him, and follows an established program of activities rather than initiating projects of his own.

ii4

Pky

Joe was a boy who was tense and troubled for a long time. He did not like group life, and said so. His family had almost completely failed him, and he had some very difficult times, but he was able to express the things which upset him, sometimes in a hostile way. As his general adjustment improved, there was a sudden flood of creative art work. Using large sheets of paper and show-card paints and crayons, he painted interesting studies and murals, all done with imagination, motion, freedom, and sometimes great satire. Joe's latent talent was released after he had freed himself through verbal expression of some of the things that disturbed him, and after he was sure of our complete acceptance of him. Ruth's situation was somewhat similar. Her artistic talent developed only after a considerable period with us, and her expression of it was also in large paintings and in clay. She modeled some lovely small figures, and later painted them. We saw to it that these youngsters were supplied with art materials, as are other children in the house who have an urge to use them. We made use of the products of their talents in our daily life; murals were used to decorate a playroom; Ruth's clay figures are effective on a mantle; and Joe's design for a Christmas card was used on linoleum block prints. Someone once gave us a small hand press for blocking, and the children find in the mechanics of blocking a satisfying activity. They like the big arm movements which it takes to manipulate the press, and they examine each print eagerly to see how it came out. At Christmas time Joe, Ruth, and some of the other

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boys and girls were absorbed for a week or two in decorating the windows with paintings of Christmas scenes and figures of angels and of Santa Claus. They even achieved a manger scene. For these decorations, show-card paints were used to make big splashy figures. (Note to anxious housekeepers: show-card paint washes off quite easily with soap and water. Another helpful hint: a roll of wide wrapping paper on a standard roller has many uses in a children's Home; we use it for decorative murals. The public school taught us this.) The children like and need to have adults play with them. This is often a new idea to them, and they are delighted when a staff member takes one end of the jump rope, or sits on the floor to play jacks, plays the piano, rides a bicycle, or pitches a baseball. Their own parents have rarely been companionable in this way. With small groups, we consider it part of the responsibility of the housemother to plan part of the children's play activity and to participate in it. This strengthens her relationship with the group and is a means whereby she can get close to individuals through their interests and because of the tie which comes from playing together. The question arises: What about a group worker or recreation director as a member of the staff? Such a worker is much needed by most institutions, certainly in the larger ones with sixty or more children in care, or the Home in which the housemothers have large groups. This leader would be responsible for activities such as those mentioned, for helping the housemothers plan other play to be carried

II 6

Play

on in the separate departments or cottages, and to make therapeutic use of all of the positive values in the group. Even with a group leader on the staff, however, there is still a good deal of time for which the housemother must plan, in order to fill the empty gaps when there is not much for the child to do. If all of the activities, the good times, and the play materials originate with the play leader, the housemother loses a valuable opportunity to strengthen her relationship with the children. A t this point in the development of institutions, most of us still do not have a group worker on the staff. The play activities are supplemented and enriched by the skills and abilities of several part-time workers. We have considered the relief period, when the regular housemother is off duty, not merely as a time to be tided over until she get back, but as an afternoon and evening that bring a different personality and experience to the children. One of these workers is Betty Hachisuka, a young teacher at the Maryland Avenue School. Betty comes to the Home on Mondays and Thursdays after school, at 3:30, and stays until the Pigtails are in bed and asleep. She is also with us alternate week ends with the same group, and occasionally she is with the Junior Misses. For the children who have no visitors on Sunday, or do not go out, Betty may plan a visit to the Zoo, the museum, a park, or an afternoon of window shopping, with a stop for a soda. She takes groups on bicycle rides; occasionally she goes with some of the Junior Misses to an Under the Stars concert, or on a hike.

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She brings a fresh point of view and a new set of skills. Another positive feature of staff participation in play is that it gives the children a legitimate chance to outsmart us, to get even, and to push us around a little—all acceptable ways of working out resentments in f u n or as part of a game. If there is this opportunity to "play it out" with us, there will be less insolence at other times and fewer cherished resentments. I am at home in the water, so when we are on a picnic that includes swimming, I let it be known that anyone is free to splash or duck me. It is interesting to see which youngsters make the most of this chance. Here comes big, thirteen-year-old Julius, who is a foot taller than I am, and to whom I have had to say N o on occasions, No's which he has resented. He does not merely splash; he brings a big bucket of water and douses it over my head, and again and again. Then there are Karen, Peggy, and Eddie; Karen is an overly conscientious child who never "talks back" or argues out her point; Peggy frequently looks resentful, but is not very expressive verbally; Eddie is rather a new boy, uncertain about how much a staff member can "take." All three splash water in my face with much glee and abandon. When we are out skating, a boy may come toward me at great speed as if headed for a major crash. Just as he reaches me, he cuts sharply with a flash of skates on the ice, and I am saved, but he lets me know he could have crashed into me, if he had wanted to. All the Big Boys can skate circles around me, and do. It gives them a chance

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Play

to take me down a bit, and a better relationship develops because of it. Naturally we are careful not to encourage overaggression for if self-expression is permitted to the point where it is destructive, or hurtful to others, the child becomes frightened or feels guilty, and that, of course, is harmful to him. In the summer, when we all go off on an all day picnic, the cooks go too. Not only do they enjoy a day in the sun and in the water, but there is an opportunity to have pleasurable and companionable times with the children in a setting other than the kitchen. A child who is a member of a strong family is carried along with the good times, the family celebrations and recreations that originate and take place in the home. Children who live at the Center come from, and may go back to, families in which there are problems, and often more weaknesses than strengths. The child who returns to such a home has to depend for his satisfactions to a larger extent on his own inner strengths and abilities than on recreation planned for him by the family. We like to think and hope that any new skills he has learned during his stay at the Center will carry over and help him to make a more satisfactory personal adjustment after his return to his home and old neighborhood. The institution has an obligation to introduce children to community resources which they may continue to use after they return home. These facilities supplement homes which offer too little by way of play life for a child. While at the Center, Steve became a member of the Boys' Club, and continues to attend the club after his return home; in fact, he goes three times

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119

a week instead of only once. Gertrude learns to know the Y . W . C . A . because of her swimming there; she continues membership, and at eighteen joins the Business Girls' Club; at a " Y " Co-ed dance she meets Edwin, the young man whom she later marries. Jean is a Girl Scout while at the Center, and she stays in the same troop after she goes home. All of the children know the program of the city playgrounds, having attended the one at Maryland Avenue, and whatever part of the city they return to, there is a city playground, a swimming pool, and ice skating rink not too far away. While careful over-all planning is necessary in order to keep the children busy in an interested or enthusiastic way, not all play needs to be directed or supervised. There should be periods when a child has some choice about what he wants to do, and there will be times when he may not want to do anything at all. A group of children sent outdoors to play, with bicycles, coasters, roller skates, a baseball and bat, jump ropes, marbles and tops, can get along very well for an hour or so on their own, and they will want to play that way for some of the time. We must remember that children are in the institution twenty-four hours a day, and that a play program for which every moment is planned and directed may become too much of a strain on them, and may also keep them from developing any initiative of their own. Moreover, we must be able to shift plans quickly, adapting our activities to the way the group feels, or to the weather, or the day. During the winter the children some-

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Play

times go out after supper to skate or toboggan, but when these sports are over, there is not much to do out of doors in the early evening. However, when March comes, and the first mild, spring-like days, it becomes very exciting again to play at dusk, games such as kick-the-can, sardines, or Red Rover Run. There is something about the high excitement of this time of the day and the feel of the air that cannot be duplicated, and which should not be denied the children if their minds are set on it, even if something interesting was planned for inside play that evening. True recreation is participation, not observation. This is a good principle to keep in mind. Our own little ice pond, on which all of the children, big and little, struggle to learn to skate, and do skate, is much more important for the children than to see five glittering ice frolics, even featuring Sonia herself. It is better for the boys to play baseball, and as a team to be so enthusiastic about playing that they cannot wait to get out of doors with their ball and bat after school, than to watch seven major league games. O f course, here in Milwaukee the boys do go to see the Brewers play at least once a year, but they appreciate the Brewers all the more because they themselves are pretty good players. The children are so accustomed to participation that they join in of their own accord, even when they are expected simply to listen or look. At Christmas time, when groups of carolers come in, the children sing along with the singers. Downer College students have been coming to

Play

i2i

the Center for years and are familiar with our ways now, so after they sing a song, they ask the children to sing one; some carols they sing together. A magician and his son and daughter once put on a magic show, making a rabbit disappear and doing some of the other standard tricks. Pinky, the cat, ambled in to look things over, and one of the children called out to the magician, "Now make Pinky disappear." At another point, when an act was held up for a moment by just a hint of uncertainty on the part of the performers, Ronnie asked, sympathetically, "Are you having a little trouble?" We find that many of the children who come to the Center have been in the habit of going to the movies regularly every Sunday, sitting with hundreds of other youngsters through an entire afternoon. Some of those who were troubled at home relied too heavily upon the movies as a refuge and an escape. During the course of the intake study, a child usually asks the case worker about going to "shows"; he wants to be reassured that he will not be cut off from them. At the Center, we go to the movies and we enjoy them, but we try to be selective. Fortunately, the Oriental Theater in the neighborhood works with a mothers' committee in an effort to present on Saturday afternoons a show suitable for children. There is one feature, together with a few shorts. The program appeals to the Hightops and the Pigtails, and they go occasionally, but not every Saturday. Sometimes a well-meaning theater manager offers a Home free admission one evening a week. The free admis-

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sion, the regularity of attendance, and the lack of selection are all negative features of such an arrangement. I t is best to avoid a definite commitment of this k i n d , because, if the children k n o w there is a possibility of going to the show free, they will, of course, w a n t to g o and will feel deprived if denied the chance. In any case, they should p a y admission as other children do; moreover, an occasional suitable picture is preferable to regularity of attendance. O n e of the surest tests of a good institutional p r o g r a m is the lack of drive on the part of the children to go to the movies o f t e n . O t h e r things become interesting to them, too. W e always have a f e w children at the C e n t e r , usually girls under eleven, w h o prefer not to go at a n y time; scenes of f a m i l y quarrels, w a r , or violence f r i g h t e n and upset them. Others were sent to the movies so o f t e n b y parents w h o w a n t e d them out of the w a y , that they became satiated w i t h shows long before they came to the Center. W h e n the Oriental has a good feature that w e all w a n t to see, several of the groups, w i t h a housemother or t w o , perhaps the cooks, and I g o to the 6:00 P.M. show. W e have an early supper and everyone helps with the dishes. W e usually stay f o r only one feature, and are at home by eight o r eight-thirty. W h e n I k n o w that a good picture is c o m ing, and that w e will probably go to see it, I mention that it is due at the Oriental in three weeks, and w e w a n t t o be sure not to miss it. T h e children like to have the staff k n o w about the outstanding attractions that are coming, and to k n o w who's w h o in the glittering world of cinema stars,

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although their choice and ours do not always coincide. ("Can we go see 'The Two Mrs. Carrols' tonight?" asks Jack. " I love a good murder!") We welcome the chance to introduce the children to presentations of children's plays. Many have never seen good children's theater, and this is a new and exciting experience. The Department of Municipal Recreation of Milwaukee, until recently directed by Miss Dorothy Enderis, sponsors a winter series of these plays, usually given in a near-by high school on Saturday afternoons; each time one occurs, some of the children go. It opens up a whole new world to them. Organizations that would like to do something for the children in an institution often have one of these three ideas: ( 1 ) To take the children out as a group and feed them; (2) To come in and direct a party, and bring gifts (this is often the idea of a scout troop, a sorority group, or a young women's industrial or business club); (3) To bring gifts, such as scrapbooks, and present them directly to the children; they would like to see a children's Home, and to observe the children. There is always an increased interest at Christmas time on the part of people who want to do something of this sort. This is an area in which institutional staffs need to do a careful bit of explaining, and sometimes of redirecting well-intentioned groups. People who had a party in mind might be willing to consider instead, the purchase of a bicycle or some new books, chosen from a list supplied by us, or a sled, toboggan, or other sports equipment. It is

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rarely wise to arrange for the children to go out to eat with a group of strangers whom they do not know. Children like and need to have their parties with others who are their friends and acquaintances, and with whom they feel sure and natural. Would you, as an adult, eagerly anticipate a party where you were going to meet a lot of new people with whom you had nothing in common? Aren't the happiest times those in which you meet your best friends and most congenial acquaintances? It must be remembered that children in an institution must adjust themselves to a good many adults on the staff alone. There is a limit to the number of personalities they can accept, and they should be sheltered from party-giving groups whose chief object is to observe their reactions. Most people are good-natured about changing the plans they had in mind. If they want to see the Center, we ask them to come at a time when all the youngsters are at school, and instead of exhibiting the children we show them scrapbooks of pictures of year-round activities. Our first obligation is to the children, and we must be guided by what we know is right and simple and natural for them. Many kind people donate used toys to children's Homes. Such contributions have meant that we are able to have a fleet of bicycles at the Center and two at Holiday Cottage, a good pair of shoe skates for each child at the Center and in foster homes, and a popular horse and slide in the Jack and Jill playroom. Donated toys have been put into playrooms or departments for the entire group to use, but only when they are in good condition or have been repaired. A

Play

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group should never be given anything that is shabby or broken, and when a child receives toys at Christmas, for his birthday, or on other occasions, they should be shining with newness. Life has already treated these children shabbily. Our job is to give them a fresh start, and this start includes good attractive clothing and toys that are mint-new.

^r^jiMM

THE

Children's Books and Reading Do you know Wanda Petronski? Have you ever met Gooseberry Jones, or Bill and Janie Popper? They are characters in children's books of today who are likely to become lasting personalities. A cottage parent, case worker, or board member should have at least a nodding acquaintance with them and their contemporaries. In a children's Home we have an unusual opportunity to help youngsters know fine books. There are booklovers in the community who are more than eager to help us develop good libraries and to teach us about children's books— librarians, bookstore people, and editors of juvenile literature. I know of no other group that approaches its subject with greater enthusiasm. Back in 1941, with the aid of a newly appointed board library committee, we decided to evaluate our children's books. What had happened to us has happened to many an institution. Numbers of books had been donated and had been put on the shelves because they were in good condition. Some really good and fairly new children's

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127

books are among them, to be sure, but Elsie Ddnsmore, the Rover Boys, the Pansy books, and worn and faded copies of Alice in Wonderland and Little Women still continue to come in. The first step taken by the library committee was to ask Mrs. Norma Loos if she would help us out. Mrs. Loos was at that time Chief of Children's Work of the Milwaukee Public Library, and she has since become a member of the corporate board of the Center. Mrs. Loos came to meetings of the board and staff to talk about books and children's reading interests. She then examined all of the books on the shelves, one by one, discarding those which were worn out, the ones with yellowed pages and too fine print. As Mrs. Loos weeded out old books, a card file was made of those we were to keep, to which she would refer as she compiled new lists. These lists included some of the recent children's fiction and attractive modern editions of the classics. The board gave Mrs. Loos carte blanche to use her skills, knowledge, and experience in making her selections and removing books of no value. Mrs. Loos not only knew good titles, artists, and publishing companies, but she had been checking books in and out in the library's children's room for a long time, and she knew the year-in and yearout favorites that youngsters loved. The first batch of new books was a big one. It came a few weeks before Christmas and was made a feature of the annual meeting and tea in December. Children, staff, and board browsed through the collection, and Mary, eight, could not be lured away from them. It was a delight to see

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her, oblivious to everything else, looking through a new Epaminondas, chuckling again over a story which she had known for a long time. Each year since then, there have been one or two purchases of new books, with the needs of each group in mind. Twig and Bright April would go to the Pigtails; Matchlock Gun to the Big Boys; Mr. Popper's Penguins and Honk the Moose, to the Hightops; and so on. But when the books first come in, they are spread out on tables in the general living room so that all of the children from all five groups, as well as the staff, can look through them. Fortunately, there is a fund which takes care of the cost of new books. Many years ago Amos and Sarah Breinig left a legacy to the agency, the income of which was to be used for educational purposes. This fund provides for the salary of the tutor; it pays for materials used for arts and crafts; for Paul's tuition at Saturday morning art classes, and for the new books. I wish that Mr. and Mrs. Breinig could know and enjoy with us all of the fine things which for years have come to the children from their contribution. Mrs. Loos' project became a learning experience for the board and staff. We became familiar with some of the authors and the artists who illustrate children's books; with the Caldecott and Newbery awards; and print, paper, bindings, and costs. Often "series" books, practically new, had been donated, and we noticed that they were usually read only once. It is true that a child would sometimes read a series book quite intently, but he did not go back to it, to page it over with affection. Perhaps that is why children

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in their own homes are quite willing to have their mothers give away series books, which then find their way to institutions. There is usually nothing harmful about them, and many children like to read them at some time or other. But as we mend books, the ones that show loving wear are Judy's Journey, A Tree for Veter, Make Way for Ducklings, and The Hundred Dresses. The newer books and the group favorites have a place in the rooms in which the children sleep, play, and live. Books of a more general nature, and duplicates, are in the big first-floor living room. When new books come in, the housemother usually keeps in her own room two or three of the Junior Misses' books, which she then reads to the entire group at bedtime. She is fairly certain, as she reads one of the attractive new books, that the girls will enjoy it. Then, too, the entire group hears the story that the housemother reads—they are all eager listeners even though they may be just casual readers. The Jack and Jills love to hear a story told, so Mrs. Leitske usually reads one or two to herself in preparation for the time when she is on duty as Jack and Jill relief housemother. Their regular housemother reads to them. Not all people like to tell stories, and if it does not come naturally or easily, it is better to read. It is especially good when the adult in charge of a group can do both. All never easily when

the books at the Center are kept in open shelves, under lock and key. Books should be where they can be taken from a shelf or a table just at the moment a child feels the urge to read, to look at the pictures,

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or to visit with an old friend. To ask children to check their books in and out, as they would in a library, seems to me a somewhat artificial arrangement, and unnecessary in an institution caring for not more than fifty or sixty children. It does not encourage free use of the books, as do the open shelves all over the house. On the other hand, we do want the children to have the experience of using library cards, and most of those of about eight years or older have one. The East Side Branch Library, half a block from the Center, is visited freely by both children and staff. As donations come in now, I go over them and select only the ones which we want to keep. We never put torn books on the shelves, or books in which a child has scribbled with pencil or crayon, for part of our job is to teach children to respect books and to take care of them. Some of this respect develops as the child becomes fond of books and learns to know them. Sometimes one of our youngsters will scribble, too, or throw a book at a friend, in a fight, but we try our best to keep our books in good repair. Some of the Junior Misses cheerfully volunteer to mend books for the younger children. Repairing books also makes a good project for a volunteer worker. Besides purchasing books, we subscribe to several magazines, Boys' Life, American Girl, Jack and Jill, Story Parade. These are also financed by the Breinig Fund, except for Boys' Life, which is a gift of the Boy Scouts. Board members are encouraged to bring in their magazines, Time, Life, the Saturday Evening Post, particularly. The children

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like to look at the pictures (Life) and cut out articles for current events and history (Time). The older ones occasionally read Post articles and cut out ads for scrapbooks. Certain of the board members come to meetings, regularly bringing in an armful of magazines. At this point we come to the comics. They are with us at the Center, and we must accept the fact that they are seemingly here to stay. Anyone who has lived with a child knows how he can pick up a comic and leave his surroundings forthwith. It's a strange and exciting place to which he goes; his face takes on a rapt expression and the present environment fades away. I have seen children look up reluctantly when called back to earth from a comic, and gaze right straight through me with an expression very different from their usual one. One evening I was serving a supper table of boys and girls of various ages, and we began to talk about comics. I asked them who some ol these awe-inspiring characters were, and they rattled off Bat Man, Plastic Man, Prince Valiant, Dick Tracy, Black Hawk, Lone Ranger, and so on. These are all heroic figures. Doll Man and Bumstead are funny. The Joker is bad, but he is a character in the Bat Man, and the Bat Man always makes everything come out fine. I was a little incredulous that there were no really bloodthirsty, wicked central characters, and asked Roger about it. "No," he said, "that's right. They're all good guys." Many child psychiatrists tell us not to worry about the comics, that through them, children identify with harmless expressions of aggression, and that everything always works out best

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in the end. A good many comics paint a moral, and right usually triumphs. On the other hand, many not-soinnocent comics are being printed these days, and they certainly have nothing constructive to add to child life. The cheap print, the colors and format are unattractive and hard on a child's eyes. We find that when a child is offered plenty of other activities, plus good books and magazines, and when he lives a life from which he does not seek long periods of escape (via the comics, pulp magazines, movies, or daydreaming), he is able to take the comics in his stride. I have often heard the comment from staff members of institutions that children living in groups are not readers, that they are too restless to read all the way through a book, or too busy at more active play. There are many distractions in the very setting of a children's Home; a child can always find a playmate. But it is true also of almost any youngster of this age (five to fourteen) that active play with other children is their first choice and is more natural for them than reading. Heavy reading is not good or healthful in childhood. But many children in institutions do not read books at all simply because there are not enough good ones around. Books with ancient yellowed pages and fine type will not tempt or hold the interest of children. We are always glad when a child asks for a book for a Christmas or birthday gift. Barbara wanted a copy of The Yearling for her very own, and Irene made a special request for They Loved to Laugh. One of our board mem-

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bers, who has four growing children of her own, introduced to us a book called Suzy Cucumber. Every Christmas Mrs. Trostel gives Suzy Cucumber to children in each one of the three younger departments. Suzy is a dog, an ordinary, friendly plain sort of black and white dog, and the story is written about her. Then, and this is of particular value to a small child living in a Home, each month Suzy sends a letter to Virginia, or Milty, or Arnold. Several times a year, a special little gift or favor comes. If the children want to answer Suzy's letters, they are encouraged to do so. Virginia came in a few days ago with a package of cucumber seeds which Suzy sent, so in June we will help Virginia plant them in a special place. The book, the letters, and the prizes which follow are particularly helpful to the child who receives no mail and few visits from relatives. There is only one Suzy book in a department; thus, the child who receives it has something special. To return to Mrs. Loos for a moment, after she became acquainted with the Center, she took more time from her busy schedule to tell stories to the children. She came at noon, after the dishes were finished and before the children went back to school. Staff and children gathered in the living room to hear her spin her wonderful tales. The children were absorbed in the story, and the staff was observing the art of storytelling. The children's librarian in a town is a resource which every institution should draw upon. People dealing with children's books are, I have found, stimulating to work with and delighted to be of help. Children's books can be

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a subject for a board meeting and one or a series of staff meetings. Child care staff members occasionally get tired of discussing problems and arrangements, what to do about Ellen and Jonathan, and a change to the subject of books is refreshingly positive, one which concerns a subject of which we found we had a great deal to learn.

Bicycles Bicycle riding appeals to most children; they have an urge to learn, they are persistent about teaching themselves, and they love to ride. I feel so strongly about bicycles as a necessary part of institutional equipment that I must devote an entire small chapter to them. The new child, or the troubled one, whose attention span is brief at almost any other activity, will struggle for hours with a bike until he masters it; then he rides along, beaming with selfsatisfaction and a sense of accomplishment. I remember when Danny learned to ride. Danny, seven years old, a slight, sensitive, troubled, overeager boy, came to the Center with his five-year-old brother Bing in tow. Dan had had a hard time trying to compete with chubby babyish Bing, who was cuddled by everyone while Danny stood by, wistfully watching. When Bing smiled, people melted. Danny was actually much more of a person than Bing, but he was unsure of himself, modest, and kept in the background. We had the feeling that even at seven, Danny realized that he would have to get most of his satisfactions from his own accomplishments. He was able to

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hold his own with other children in general performance much better than his brother. Well, here was Danny, introduced to bicycles for the first time. They were in the rack, and a small boy could go and pick one out and learn to ride. We never tell the new child that we expect him to learn; he does as he pleases about it. Dan began with the sidewalk size, kept at it until he was sweating and distraught, went back to it after supper, before school, during his noon hour and again after school, until he was able to ride, wobbling somewhat, to be sure. Very soon he took a regular-sized bicycle, before we thought he was ready for it, but we said nothing. He could not sit on the seat and reach the pedals with his feet, so he stood up and pumped, with the joyful feeling that he was master of something bigger than he. The height of achievement came the first time he sat on the seat, put his feet up on the handlebars, puffed out his chest, folded his arms high and sailed down the drive. He probably felt a little less cocky than he looked, for later he went back to the smaller size and put in some more work on the fundamentals. Danny's first riding around was done on the driveways and the playground area of the Center. Zip Morgan laid out a track on the grounds, two-tenths of a mile long, and the youngsters are content to do the greater part of their riding here and around the playground. Traffic on the streets surrounding the Center is too busy for most of the younger children to cope with. Bicycle riding is a good odd-moment activity. Children

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have fifteen minutes here and there when there is nothing special to do, and can casually cruise around for a while. There are also times between seasons, uninteresting months like March and November, when bicycle-riding fills a gap. It is often used by the child who prefers to play alone some or most of the time, or who stays on the outskirts of a game. It gives a child a good sense of timing and coordination; all our youngsters will probably drive cars when they are adults, some of them even planes, and the sooner they learn to steer and to control speed, the better. A bike-hike is a good group activity. It gives a youngster a goal to strive for beyond riding by himself on the playground. A group ride may be only a mile or two along the lake drive, or it may be an all afternoon jaunt, ten miles and back. Once a year, Zip Morgan takes a group of boys on a two-day tour, with an overnight stay at a youth hostel. Boys as young as nine or ten are able to take and enjoy these longer trips. Going off on a shorter excursion, with perhaps a lunch in the basket, has the fillip of personal adventure, and youngsters in institutions need this kind of experience, with the security of a leader who is familiar to them. To digress, for a paragraph, to other wheel toys; frequently, in the homes from which our children have come, there were no wheel toys of any kind, no coaster wagons, no roller skates, skooters, or tricycles. To make up for this early deprivation, a big boy may play for days with a coaster wagon, compensating for the time he lost at six or seven when most boys are interested in this toy. The

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coaster is good for the rather dull child, too, or the youngster who has been stunned by too much trouble, or the one whose coordination or courage does not permit bicycle riding. Frankie, for example, did not learn to ride a bicycle until he was nine, and during his fourth year with us. He was one of the most fearful, uncertain, upset children I have ever known. At the time of his admission it was a question whether he was mentally retarded or in a state of emotional shock. The psychiatrist who referred him thought it was the latter, and advised us never to push Frankie beyond a simple performance, but to let him proceed at his own tempo and to give him lots of reassurance. Frankie was too distraught to stick to one thing for long or to take part in games. For three years we saw him pulling the coaster wagon around on the playground as a fouryear-old would do, often with his brother in it. With the patient, gentle help of· the housemother, the case worker, tutor, and teacher, and after four years, Frankie functioned at last like a normal child. Toward the end of his stay, he learned to ride a bicycle on his own initiative, feeling like Superman as a result of his prowess. Many children come to us completely deflated by their previous experiences. N o one wants them, and what's the use? Sometimes, of course, the ones who have this feeling most strongly act bold and tough and strong. Sometimes, like Danny, they are self-effacing and fade into the background. At the Center we t r y to give the child as many opportunities as possible to find the satisfaction he feels when, for example, he puts his feet on the handle bars of

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a bicycle, expands his chest, holds out his arms, and ridec along, achieving a skill and success through his own efforts. There is authentic "show-off" value in this, as in any accomplishment that gives children the chance to call attention to themselves in an acceptable way: the boy who learns to dive and calls out for everyone to watch him; the girl who makes herself a cotton skirt with a splashy floral design and swings her hips as she wears it proudly. It is the best thing in the world to have this sense of achievement, to "feel like somebody," and it is far healthier for children to have opportunities to acquire skills by which they can impress others with an actual achievement than to boast of improbable accomplishments, or of wealthy parents and a palatial home. To return to the bicycles: they are also used by the children who do errands. Each week we appoint an errand boy, and this is one of the favorite work assignments. Aim may send the errand boy downtown to the Community Chest or to pick up the News Letters at the printer's, or to call at a store for something she has ordered by phone. The errand boy needs to be an experienced rider if he goes by bicycle, otherwise, he takes the street car or bus. But in any case, he feels important; he goes downtown on his own, which he loves. Occasionally an older child is shy or uncertain about going out, and then Aim draws a map of the street and helps him plan the trip step by step. A fleet of bicycles around the place create certain problems and some institutional directors are frightened by them. It is true that bicycles are expensive to begin with

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and that their upkeep is an item, both in labor and in cost; occasionally a child does use one to go AWOL; staff members must see that every child has chances to ride, and that the children take fairly good care of them; and, finally, there is the endless putting away at night! But offsetting these negative aspects there are other strongly positive ones. The therapeutic value has been discussed. It is not very difficult to acquire new bicycles once the community knows that you want them. Sometimes a kindly group can be diverted from their idea of taking the children downtown for a big dinner at a hotel to your idea of buying a bicycle instead. Then there is the Christmas money, which may wisely be used to purchase a gift for the "whole Home." Board members and other individuals whose children have outgrown their bicycles are often glad to know that the institution can use them. When care and upkeep become a burden, we should remember that when so many children get so much fun out of a single activity, it is worth any amount of effort and struggle on our parts to see that the bicycles are there, and in good riding condition.

If dogs have an I.Q., Freckles' is certainly not over sixtyeight. Freckles is lovable and thick-skinned, as well as thick mentally. He likes everyone, especially children, all children. Mrs. Kurt Meyer, a board member, bought Freckles for us. She selected him thinking he was a springer spaniel, but he grew to enormous size. Brown and white spotted, he has the sad look of a St. Bernard, but he never suffers. He is a perfect dog for a group. He is with the children every moment they are at home, and often when they are at school, he flops heavily and sleeps hard with noisy snores, storing up energy for the time when they come home again. One of his favorite resting places is near the front door, where it is hard to see him on coming in from the bright outdoors. The mailman sometimes steps on him, and often asks us to please put a tail-light on him. Freckles really extends himself to give a new child a welcome. He wags the entire rear part of his body and almost drools in the eagerness of his welcome. "The more the merrier" has always been Freckles' philosophy. He attends staff, as well as board, meetings. Being such a ridiculous and

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well-meaning dog, he has many times served as comedy relief in a situation of strain or unhappiness. The public school intrigues Freckles; besides our fifty children, five hundred others are enrolled. The school playground with all its activity, noise, and confusion is a heavenly place for him, and he is always going back to it. The Principal (who likes us) used to phone to tell us gently, "Look, Freckles is in school again, and you know the rule—no dogs allowed in the school building." Then he would send Terry or Joe to bring the dog home. At other times, Jake, the neighborhood policeman, would complain. He is a family friend, but even though he is on our side, he does have to carry out the law. So he tells us when Freckles is where he shouldn't be—an almost daily report. Jake reminds and admonishes us, and we have tried and tried to train our dog to stay at home, but either we are poor trainers or Freckles is too dumb. "Freckles is sitting in the middle of Maryland Avenue, and the buses and cars all have to go way around him," one of the children announced one day. Freckles loves the green bus, and one of his unfulfilled ambitions is to ride in it. If he sees a staff member or a child bound for the corner to board the bus, he lopes along behind. There is always a small crowd waiting for the bus on the corner of North and Prospect. Freckles sometimes sits in their midst, wistfully watching them get on, or he nonchalantly works his way on with them, and the driver has to shoo him off again. The best bit of publicity we ever had came about one

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summer when Freckles was lost. He had been gone four days. All attempts to find him were fruitless. When I came back to the Center on Sunday evening after a week end off, the children were really worried. To comfort them I made one more attempt to get Freckles back. Even if you are not at all sure that your efforts will bring results, it satisfies the children if they see you do something, and they like to share in this action. So on that Sunday evening, with Terry and Andy, Joan and Darlene, standing behind me and the typewriter, I wrote the following letter to the city editor: Dear Sir: I wonder if you would put something in the paper about our dog, Freckles—he's been lost since last Friday. We've phoned the Humane Society every day, and he's not there. Forty-six children who live at the Center miss Freckles like everything. I t was hot on Thursday, and Freckles was warm and uncomfortable. He's a big, thick-furred springer spaniel. We think he went down to Bradford Beach for a swim Thursday evening to cool off, and that he couldn't find his way home, or that someone may have picked him up. Freckles just loves the beach, but the children couldn't take him when they went because in his excitement and joy he would bound around, right through people's picnic lunches, and kick up sand all over sleeping babies. He was likely to get wet and then come out and shake himself near ladies who don't like that sort o f thing. Freckles is big for his age although he is just two years old, and the children have had him since he was a puppy. He doesn't know any tricks and isn't too smart, but he is so crazy about the children and so sociable that we've often said he was a perfect dog for a family of fifty, like ours. Some dogs would get irritable with that many children around,

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but not Freckles. A t the Center he loved to be where the traffic was heaviest. He liked the kitchen at mealtime, and everyone had grown accustomed to stepping over him or walking around him. He was always right in the midst of everything we did, sometimes bewildered, but always enjoying it. We were so used to having him around. We never thought we'd miss him so much. We'd never find another dog like Freckles—but it's more than that; Our youngsters don't want any other one—they want Freckles!

Terry and Andy were dispatched with the letter to the main post office. It was raining, which added to the dramatics of the occasion. Terry and Andy put on their raincoats and took the bus downtown to mail our appeal, which reached the kind city editor on Monday morning. It must have been the sort of news the papers relish once in a while as a relief to the then constant war news. At any rate, the editor printed it just as we wrote it and gave it a good spot on the first page of Part II. The afternoon paper was no sooner off the press than the phone began to ring. From 3:30 on, Aim did nothing but answer calls from board members who inquired if we had found Freckles, neighbors who were sure they had seen him here or there, and individuals from all parts of town who saw a dog which exactly answered the description. While Aim was on the phone, I was off to Fourth and Centre Streets with a carload of children in response to one of the first calls, to the home of a girl, Florence, who had him! Florence got him from Maynard, who lived across the street. Maynard first saw him at the Center Street playground where he was having a wonderful time, but did not seem to belong to anyone in par-

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ticular. Maynard had taken him home and fed him, and when Maynard saw the paper he told Florence, who had a telephone, to call us. When we said we would be right over, Florence held Freckles in her house until we arrived and claimed him. Freckles got all the attention of a returning hero, but the telephone kept on ringing, and kind people, who were anxious for us to have our dog, kept seeing him in every brown and white spaniel that ambled down their street. For weeks afterward, we were asked if we had found our dog. One of the case workers was in Juvenile Court, and the Judge stopped in the middle of a case to peer over his glasses and ask, " B y the way, has Freckles returned?" The psychiatrist paused during a Guidance Clinic staffing to ask the same question. The newspaper sent a photographer to take a picture of the children welcoming Freckles back, and also one of Maynard, hero No. 2. Pets in a Home add interest to the daily lives of the children, but they sometimes present complications too. First of all, the staff must have a genuine liking for animals and must be willing to help care for them. We can't just say, "Here, children, is a dog (or a cat); now you feed it and take care of it." The children may have excellent intentions and they can take an active share in the care of a pet, but someone on the staff must assume the final responsibility. Much can be gained by the children from the attitude of the staff toward animals—a housemother superintends the care of the dog and takes him to the doctor when he is ill; the cook saves scraps for him and is willing to prepare his

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horsemeat and other special foods; and the director worries if he is lost. Freckles was acceptable to all of the children because he was too huge to sit on laps and because he did not attach himself to any particular person on the staff. Children often do not like it when a housemother or a director has a small dog, a little cocker, say, or a dachshund, which is always at the heels of the adult; they want the entire attention of staff members for themselves. They need all of our attention and interest and resent sharing it with pets which are our personal property. Cats have come to the Center, and cats have gone; cats really do not care much for group living. Pinky was the only one who stayed for any length of time. She was with us three years, in fact, and then I took her to my own home for the peace and quiet of life in the country. The children brought Pinky in from the street as a lost kitten. She was black and white, with a very pink nose, and that's how she got her name. Pinky had certain favorite rooms, the kitchen and che offices particularly. She had one chair in the office in which she relaxed completely, and people coming in were amused at seeing her sprawled out there. Many children have never before had a pet in their lives. Freddie, at seven, knew nothing of a cat's purr, and asked, "What's that little noise she makes?" When Patsy came to stay, she petted Pinky, drew a purr and blink of acceptance from her, and announced, "She likes me!" Pinky was particularly fond of board meetings—she watched the women's

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hats, sniffed at the f u r coats, and took a great interest in the discussions. The meetings are held in the large living room. We place a table at one end of the room and use the maple chairs and davenports in two rows for seating the members. Whenever Pinky saw or heard those chairs and davenports being pushed around in preparation for a meeting, she appeared on the scene. Once she selected a chair right in the middle of the first row, curled up tightly to sleep until the meeting started, so that no one coming in took the chair which she occupied throughout the meeting. Behind and to the right of the table at which the president, director, and secretary sit, is a window with an arrangement whereby Pinky could go in and out on her own. She often walked across the room during the meeting, making several trips in and out, which I think were nothing but show-off devices. The only time I have ever known her to catch a bird was on one board meeting morning, when she made a startling entrance with a struggling sparrow in her mouth, bringing us all to action. Pinky did something for me personally by being quiet, calm, composed, and most of the time, utterly relaxed. Moreover, she could be in the same room with me for hours without talking. Sometimes she blinked at me with compassion, and sometimes she looked at me long and hard, as cats do, in an accepting and yet evaluating way. Living as I do on the second floor, surrounded by girls from five to fourteen,; who talk all day long and often in their sleep, and having many daily conversations with highly articulate house-

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mothers, women board members, and the front-office staff, there was something restful about being with Pinky, a female creature who said nothing, nothing at all. We have found that female cats and dogs are better with groups of children than males. We made a mistake in bringing two male cats to the Center one time. Both cats had grown up in the country, and after a peaceful, quiet kittenhood in the barn and around the back steps of a farmhouse, the confusion and numbers of people in the Center were too much for them. If and when we acquire another female cat, I shall try to find one that is born in a home where a number of children have been around her from the first day of her life. In an institution which never had animals, it is necessary to introduce pets carefully. A cat will need protection from being chased; a puppy and kitten, from too much handling. Children grow to learn how to be kindly and considerate of pets, and careful not to overwhelm them at first. Those of us who do like cats are inclined to like them very much. If a director or housemother who has never cared for cats decides to have one, I would suggest that she first read as preparatory reading, How to Live with a Cat by Margaret Cooper Gay, a delightful book, and an excellent reference. Pets in children's Homes become an interesting part of the family. There is Lassie, a collie at the Muskegon Children's Home. (Collies are good with children.) When the children go anywhere as a group, Lassie takes it upon herself to get them there, and when the bell rings at meal times,

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she gently nips at and hurries the stragglers into the dining room. Maude Butler told me about Butterball, a cat who lhade a good adjustment at the Bethany Home in Illinois when Maude was director there. Butterball was a comfortable cat, who liked to curl up in a child's lap while the youngster was reading. Rudolph Hirschberg took a funnylooking, nondescript dog, named Sandy, across the continent from the Children's Village in N e w York to Hathaway Home in Los Angeles. Sandy is a busy, important little personality, who adds life and distractions in any Home in which she lives. Hi Ho Silver is a small, patient riding horse, to whom all the boys at the Wisconsin Farm School at Dousman, Wisconsin, are devoted. Whenever I hear the name of the Strawbridge Home for Boys near Baltimore, a lovely winter scene comes back to me. I visited there in 1938 at Thanksgiving time, and the snowy countryside looked like a Christmas card. From the gate at Strawbridge, a hill, a good quarter of a mile long, slopes down toward the cottages. That day the hill was filled with boys, sleds,-and dogs, all having a wonderful day of sliding. Each cottage had a dog or two, and they lived an easy, natural, contented life, as dogs do in any farm home. I doubt whether Maude Butler has ever had a cat or dog of her own, but she has a fine appreciation of what animals add to a children's Home. It was she who told me about the pig at St. Edwards, Cincinnati, a city institution for boys, now closed. One of the St. Edwards boys, who was going to a farm foster home, somehow acquired a pig which he was going to take with him. His placement was delayed, so

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the pig was established in a rear shed where the boy spent hours brushing, feeding, grooming it, and talking to it, with the interest and encouragement of the staff and the directoh When Dick Clendenen and Dr. Dill were at the Indiana Boys' School, Dick said that if any boy had a dog he wanted to bring, the dog came along as a matter of course. The school also seemed to be a place where stray dogs sought refuge, and if a dog came to a cottage, apparently homeless, he was taken in.

Work and Work Attitudes If one were to say "Orphanage" or "Children's Home" to the average citizen, he would probably react with more negative than positive feelings. One of the unfavorable impressions would undoubtedly be that children who live in institutions are overworked. The practice of requiring boys and girls to assume too much work responsibility and the lack of understanding of the importance of play and of playtime are factors present in the history of many of the older Children's Homes. Not only was this strong emphasis on duties characteristic of the years before the era of enlightened child care, but it remains a very real problem in many institutions today. All of us who are concerned with institutions should take a good long thoughtful look at our own work programs. Part of the traditional pattern of children toiling at housework, maintenance, and farm work arises from the fact that many institutions have struggled along on inadequate budgets. Trying to hold down expenses has resulted in the practice of employing too few staff members in proportion to the number of children cared for. As a result, and in

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order to get the scrubbing, the dishes, darning, and cleaning done, the children have had to do a good share of it. Added to this unsound basis for york was another false premise: the grim notion of many boards and directors that heavy assignments of work are somehow good for children and keep them out of mischief. To do justice to the subject of work, it should be discussed in relationship to the various kinds of institutions—urban, rural, those with farms attached, those caring for adolescent boys and girls, homes for delinquents, units for children who are sick emotionally, and the average institution for grade school age children, such as ours. I will limit the discussion to the latter, in which I have lived and with which I am most familiar. To begin with, good child care is costly in any kind of an institution. There is no way of doing the job cheaply if it is done right. One of the items that increases the size of the budget is a staff large enough to include maintenance people to do the daily cleaning of floors, the routine washing of walls and woodwork, and to do the laundry, unless this is sent out. In the institution in which well children remain in residence for some time, I believe that they should be given some duties, chores, and responsibilities; but at the same time the work program should be so carefully planned, weighed, and balanced that the experience will have positive value for the youngsters. All of our children make their own beds, some with the help of the housemother; they pick up their

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clothes and toys, and then, in addition, each child has another job which changes each week. As we assign these duties and plan ways and means of getting the routine work done, there are a number of things which, we have learned from experience, it is helpful for the staff to keep in mind. We need to remember first that growing children of grade school age need about four hours of play daily, time on which duties should not infringe. Often there are many demands on a child's free time—a dental appointment, a session with the tutor, perhaps a music lesson or homework. These things are necessary, and the time required for chores should be such as to allow for them, as well as for adequate opportunity for free and directed play. Children most easily accept the idea of work in an institution with a strong balance of good climate, interesting and plentiful food, a strong play program, and festive occasions to look forward to. We must remember, always, that new children coming in, and also some who have been in care for a time, are often tense and troubled emotionally. They are not comfortable with themselves, because they are absorbed in their worries —in the things that have happened to their families and to them, leading to placement away from home. Such youngsters may be impatient in play, short-tempered with others in the group, non-accepting of staff direction, and resistant to work. To be expected to do jobs is, they feel, nothing but insult added to injury. These children need first to resolve some of their conflicts before they can be free to play

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wholeheartedly and to take work assignments in their stride. Their tension and resistance must be taken with consideration. When children are suffering in this way, we must overlook, at times, their refusal to work, or the fact that they do a job very badly as compared to another better adjusted child of the same age or even younger. In the background o f many of our children there has been no good pattern of work in which the father goes regularly to a job and brings home his pay check; the mother enjoys her housework, her child care and home management; the children have regular chores to do, from which they gain the satisfaction of helping; all in a livable comfortable home which reflects the joint efforts of a family. When Sam's father ran away, Sam's mother said to the boy, " N o w you'll have to be the one to take care of us. I have my job at the factory, but you have your paper route; you can take care of the furnace, go shopping after school, and look after your little sister until I get home." That, of course, was the wrong thing to say to Sam. Like most boys in this position, he reacted negatively to the strain, the responsibilities, and the psychological implications of being the head of the family. A t the Center later, Sam acted like a much younger child would. He did not want to be considered dependable and was inclined to sidestep responsibility and slip out of jobs. I f a child has had responsibilities at home beyond his years, we must be careful not to repeat the same situation in the institution. The little mother who, at twelve, has been trying to take the place of the mother in a home may need a real rest and change from everything

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connected with housework and child care. This is one of the reasons why it is important for the case worker to tell the housemother as much as possible regarding the child's experiences at home, so that we will not duplicate the unsatisfactory ones when he comes to the Center. As part of the child's preparation, the case worker explains what the work responsibilities will be. In "This Is the Way We Live and Play," specific jobs were described and illustrated, so that the children would know in advance what would be expected of them in this respect. There is then no feeling that something is "being put over" on a newcomer, and the chances are that he will more readily accept this part of his life in the group. When he comes into a department in which the children are going about their jobs and chores with a good spirit, he is likely to be caught up in the momentum of play and work and will go along with the others. It is true, too, that children work harder and play more intently with an adult whom they like. Sometimes when one of the staff sets out alone to do some work, a child or two soon drifts along to talk and visit, and to help. We do not expect the children to do any work which they have not seen the staff doing as well. They accept the garden because the staff, in overalls, takes the major responsibility. We all give a hand with the dishes. As Miss Anna and the children set the dining room tables, Miss Anna works along with the boys and girls. When there are lawns to be mowed, Mr. Novotny pushes his mower side by side with the boys. After a big snowstorm, everyone gets out and shovels, boys, girls, the director, a case worker, student, and

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any housemother who has the time and the inclination. Children are never expected to do any personal work for members of the staff, such as cleaning staff rooms. If they offer to help, that is another matter; but if help is given it must be voluntary, and the work must be done with the staff member, not for him. An important example can be set by the staff, for the spirit and enthusiasm with which they go about their duties is often reflected in the attitude of the youngsters toward their jobs. We do not spend much time groaning that all work is a bore and distasteful to us. The children see that we can and do enjoy a job, and that a chore well done yields a feeling of genuine satisfaction and accomplishment. From watching the adults around them, children can learn, too, that tasks, no matter how grubby, can be approached with dignity and acceptance. Work should never be used as a punishment; K.P. may serve a purpose in the Army, but not in a children's Home. In the first place, it is not fair to the cooks to send to them a child who is sullen because he has to work off some wrongdoing in the kitchen. We want the children to like the cooks, to enjoy the kitchen, and to anticipate pleasurably their periods of duty there; using the kitchen as a place of punishment does not accomplish this end. The purpose may be defeated in other ways: the cook may put a boy to baking pancakes, whereupon the housemother, who thought she was punishing him, may discover that he is having a wonderful time. The same principle applies to garden work. The garden

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should be a popular place, full of interest and exciting new experiences, a place where a child can learn and experiment, have the fun of digging, and planting, and harvesting growing things—not a place to be angry in. For any new or unusual work children should be prepared in advance; they do not like to have jobs suddenly thrust upon them, quite probably having something else in mind to do at the time. Each spring our youngsters have a week's holiday from school. This comes about the time of the garden clean-up. Several weeks in advance, I start to talk about needing their help with garden preparations—we will work out there for a period, mornings; and afternoons will be for play and going places. By the time the holiday starts, this work plan is more or less taken for granted. In this matter of sudden demands upon a child, aren't we adults sometimes too quick and too thoughtless when we interrupt a child at play in order to send him on an errand or ask him to give a hand? We are trying to develop stick to-it-iveness in the children in regard to their play, but at the same time we take Sara from her jacks game or Marvin from his marbles without stopping to think what that interruption does to the child and to the game in progress. Moreover, we run the danger of calling often upon the willing, good-natured child because he does not grumble or refuse. It may be that when a youngster is unenthusiastic about going on an errand or taking a message to someone, he has already been sent hither and yon by a number of other staff members. Do we always check to find out?

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We must remember that children do not work as consistently as grownups, nor do they proceed at an adult pace and tempo. There is a rhythm of play and work, as it should be. Children who are growing fast have off days when they feel tired and lazy and not in the mood for duties. Roy is wiping dishes, and he asks to be excused to go to the bathroom—a familiar dodge that all of us have used at one time or another in our childhood. When Roy fails to return, someone is sent to retrieve him, by which time the others have made good headway with the dishes. Ken, a whiz at basketball, leans on the snow shovel more often than he wields it. Actually, I am amazed that our children do as well, and as cheerfully, as much as they do. Naturally there is always a certain amount of grumbling which we make no effort to suppress; the youngsters grumble, but they usually do the job anyway. Irene likes to put cupboard shelves and drawers in order. One Saturday morning when she seemed at loose ends, I asked her if she would like to straighten out a bookshelf in the office. She was mellow and relaxed as she came along with her dustcloth. She began moving books, and almost at once became absorbed in looking through the agency scrapbooks again. She found a place on the floor where she could sit comfortably, like a cat, in an area of sun which streamed through the window. With her back against a chair, she browsed and read a little here and there, throwing out a casual comment to me now and then. Knowing Irene, I made no effort to hurry her along, for I was sure that she would

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finish the bookshelf eventually. I was aware that it was the Saturday morning of an adolescent girl who had kept up nicely all week with her studies and activities. We ought to cultivate some flexibility as to when a job needs to be done. Musi it be today, or can it wait until the right moment comes along? We cannot insist that the children complete a certain task at a time that is wrong for them, and at the same time to foster a good group spirit. During one very hot spell last summer, we did not go near the garden all week, except in the evening to do a little sprinkling. Even though there was much to be done, it was far too warm to expect cheerful help from the children. This fall, they were to be home for a four-day week end, since teachers' convention came on Thursday and Friday. It was early in November, and we had had a pleasant late Indian summer. All kinds of outdoor activities (not work) had been planned. Well, it rained, and it blew, and we were shut in for two days. Mr. and Mrs. Novotny and the Big Boys found a project which would never have been started had the sun been shining. They decided to wash the walls and ceiling of a dingy basement playroom; later, Mr. Novotny would paint the concrete floor a marine blue. The boys worked for hours with surprising enthusiasm; there was nothing to do outdoors anyway, and they anticipated having fun later in this room, playing basketball, ping pong, punching the bag, and boxing. The girls, at the same time, had a real spurt of cleaning out dresser drawers; this was also an unplanned enterprise. Janice, now at the tomboy stage, never likes to

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straighten dresser drawers, rain or no rain; but like most children, she likes to paint, so she was happy to repaint some of the ice-cream parlor dining-room chairs. Whether weekly allowances should be considered as payment for work is a complex problem. Our feeling is that the weekly task assigned to the child is part of his contribution to the group or family life. This is expected of him as a matter of course, and he is not paid for it. His allowance is a thing apart; he receives it regularly whether or not his work has been satisfactorily done. Many of the children also receive some money from relatives. All of them have chances to earn extra funds by washing supper dishes, washing the car, shoveling snow or cutting grass for neighbors. And now, as to actual assignments and the time that they require. The weekly chores of the girls include wiping dishes, setting tables, helping to straighten up the dormitory, the bathroom, the playroom and dressing room (four separate jobs), and being helper to the housemother for the Jack and Jills, the smallest children. Boys also wipe dishes and set tables; they go on errands; they empty drums and wastebaskets each week; they tidy up and dust-mop the dormitories and "do" the bathrooms. Several boys help Mr. Novotny each morning, shoveling snow, sweeping the outside steps, and cleaning up the fireplaces. Little boys pick up paper from the yard. During the school year, the time involved is as follows: a boy who empties drums can do it in ten minutes a day, an hour a week; helping Mr. Novotny occupies about an hour and a half a week. A girl who tidies a dormitory or

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bathroom spends about three and a half hours a week, or half an hour a day. Dishwashing takes the longest time, about half an hour after each meal, or one and a half hours a day. If a child has a hard or time-consuming job one week, it is offset by an easier one the next week. And if the housemother's group is not a rapidly shifting one, she may devise a system whereby jobs rotate automatically from week to week. The children prefer this, knowing that next week's chore follows this week's as a matter of course. A child's turn at dish wiping comes every third or fourth week, only. During the summer vacation, there are, in addition, grass cutting (mostly in May and June when the lawn is mowed once a week) and work in the garden. The Big Boys are drawn in as garden helpers more often than the other groups, and the maximum time any boy gives in vacation time is about four hours a week. Often children become bored and impatient with any job at which they are expected to stick over too long a period of time. To avoid monotony, work assignments should be changed every week. While this arrangement may not be ideal for the institution, it has merit for the youngsters. Speaking of what is satisfactory to the institution, every maintenance man we have ever had has craved a power lawn mower in order to do a neat, quick, and painless grasscutting job. We have kept our hand mowers, nevertheless, because, like the matron of the old days, I think that this grass-cutting job is a good practical experience for the boys and that it should be their responsibility. They still have plenty of playtime left during the summer months.

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In regard to the children's attitude toward work, curiously enough, there are children in some institutions who would like to help but are not allowed to. This may be because a child is not capable enough to suit the staff person who has to work with him, or perhaps because he is too young. Some of these children who are denied the privilege of helping live in the same institution with others who are required to do too much. When Martin was with us, it would have been much easier for any staff member to do the small tasks that Martin was able to accomplish. Martin was a tall, pale boy of twelve, all arms and legs. He was very near-sighted, and his glasses were always slightly awry, so he had a perpetually puzzled and distressed look. He had eczema and many other allergies, in addition to a never-ending series of physical complaints and ailments. His parents had deserted him when he was a very small boy. He had not been getting along very well at school; he had no friends; games and outdoor play had never been a part of his childhood, and he did not care for them. As a result, his muscular development and coordination were poor; there was no rhythm or self-confidence in anything Martin did. He was never able to lose himself in play, not even at an exciting party—he was always thinking about Martin. The thing he liked best was to be alone in a department with his housemother or in the kitchen with Petey. Petey listened as he told her his troubles. Actually, he was underfoot more than he was a help. One of the reasons that a cook in a children's Home needs to be much more than just a cook was very clear as we observed all that Petey did

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for Martin. I came upon a little scene one day that I' shall always remember. Martin was helping Petey; he was filling pitchers (each holding ten glasses of milk) and putting them on the tables. Martin was always dropping things, and a pitcher of milk slipped through his fingers, the milk running all over the dining-room floor. Petey stayed calm, as she usually does, and said, "Just go get Freckles to lap up the milk, then fill your pitcher again and put it on the table. Petey might have said, "Now look what you've done this time. You are much more trouble, Martin Smith, than you're a help. Clean up your mess, and then I'll have to get someone who is a better helper!" Then she might have told Aunt Molly, Martin's housemother, that she would not have him on the list of kitchen helpers. She had her own work to do and could never finish it with such inefficient help. But, being Petey, she did no such thing. We were all working together to try to help Martin tackle a few easy jobs and play activities, and to complete what he started. We wanted him to feel that he was needed, that he was helping, and that he was a part of what was going on. I once visited an institution which was doing an interesting job and making a pleasant home for its children. The children lived in cottages, and there was a central dining room and kitchen. A group of fifteen little girls, aged about seven and eight, lived together in the care of a brisk and efficient housemother. She worked at a high speed and tempo; her cottage was well organized and efficiently run. At the time I was there, her girls had been sent out-of-doors to play and she was doing her morning work with the help of

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a capable adolescent girl from another cottage. I asked if her own little girls did not like to help, and she said that they did, but they puttered and played too much, and were so slow that she could do it more quickly herself. She preferred to have them out of the way. The kitchen in this Home had a closed-door policy. The cook prepared very tasty meals, but the kitchen was her sacred domain, and staif and children, especially small children, were not welcome there. Sometimes when the cook was off duty, a little girl did manage to make her way into the kitchen, and that was a big treat. This whole group of youngsters were yearning to help and were denied the privilege. In a city institution, such as ours, it is possible that a staff and board will go to the extreme of overprotecting youngsters as far as work is concerned. While we do not want children to do endless tiresome maintenance work, we must recognize the lifetime value of good work habits and the pleasure to be derived from a job well done. Our children will have to depend on their own resources and abilities as they become self-supporting, and it is part of our responsibility to help them become successful young working men and women. While they are with us we must provide ( 1 ) the kinds of jobs that are a part of the growing-up experiences of the average boy and girl, (2) help in developing skills and abilities in doing such jobs well, and (3) help in establishing a good, wholesome attitude toward the idea that an individual works for his living.

Holiday Cottage February and March are often grim, gray months in Wisconsin, and along about that time of the year we begin to look forward to sun, beaches, and summer. Wouldn't it be nice, we thought, to have some kind of simple shack or shelter up along Lake Michigan, a place for a staff member or two to go week ends, and children for overnight and short stays? In 1947 Mrs. Herman Merker, of the board, heard us wishing aloud in this fashion and somewhat hesitantly told us that there was an old abandoned house on her farm land, a house that hadn't been lived in for several years. Vince Schmidt, who farmed for her, was using the place for storing grain. The house was about two blocks from the lake and within sight of her beach house. We knew the lay of the land, because each summer one of our favorite picnics was held on the beach at the Merkers, thirty-five miles north of the Center. Our eyes lighted at the prospect, but Mrs. Merker advised us not to let our hopes get high until we had seen the place. She offered to drive up with us to look it over, and if we thought it could be made habitable, it was

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ours. She told us all the drawbacks: an outside pump, no electricity, and an outside privy, which was on the verge of tumbling over because a wind storm had blown a tree down on top of it. But we went to see, and eagerly. U.S. 141 is the highway that runs north from Milwaukee to Door County. Eight miles beyond Port Washington, you cut in toward the lake to the Old Sauk Trail, a gravel road. Holiday Cottage can first be seen sitting all alone in the middle of farm fields, in its own clump of trees. The house is a hundred years old, a white clapboard, two-storied cottage. The moment we set foot inside, we felt it was for us. True, there were grain, mice, and dirt, and poison-green walls. There were five rooms: a living room, bedroom and kitchen downstairs, a large and a small bedroom upstairs. It was simple, and simplicity was what we wanted. We looked, Bootchy, Miss Anna, and I, and we said, "We'll take it." Mrs. Merker was still a little skeptical, but willing. We came home and told the children about it. They wanted to know, of course, how soon they could go up, and we explained that a lot of cleaning and painting would have to be done first. For the next two months fixing up Holiday Cottage became a project welcomed by the entire staff, the children, and some of the board. In April, the first clean-up contingent left the Center for an all-day stay, armed with buckets, rags, brushes, soap; Alm, Erna, Wanda, Anna, Petey, Rose, and Mrs. Merker. The children watched with much interest as this group set forth and were sorry that because school was still in session they could not go along to help. "When are we going?" was a frequent question. At the cottage,

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each staff member set to work on one room, washing windows, walls, ceilings (these were low), and floors. Mrs. Merker heated the water at her house and gave the cleaning squad a hot meal at noon. Other expeditions went up for a day, until all the walls had been painted with pastel watersoluble colors and the floors with deck paint. Erna measured the windows, and Mrs. Leitske sewed bright cotton curtains. A search of the Center basement and attic yielded odd pieces of furniture and other treasure trove, and Petey found for us an assortment of old dishes. In the basement I painted an old cupboard. Our only pieces of new furniture were an unpainted desk and table, which I rubbed down, shellacked, and varnished. Joe, Bobbie, Roy, and Mama were always at my elbow with, "That's for Holiday Cottage, isn't it?" An SOS for furniture was sent out to the board and shortly brought forth wicker furniture, cots, mattresses, rugs, and kerosene stoves for cooking and heating. Mr. Davidson found for us a little old-fashioned ice box, and, with his everhandy trailer, helped transport things to the cottage. He went up one evening with a trailer full of cots and furniture and six noisy members of the Junior Miss group in his car. The girls came back enthusiastic and anxious for the time when they could go up for an overnight stay. Mr. Novotny made a screen door, screened the windows, and took care of other odd jobs, such as installing curtain rods and towel racks. We looked at Holiday Cottage for the first time .•arly in April; by Decoration Day it was painted, furnished, and ready for use. We took pictures of the cottage from all angles, of the clean-up squads and painters, and gave all

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of the children a close and detailed account of what was going on. The trip to the cottage is a pleasant one, through beautiful Wisconsin farm country. The highway follows the lake, and we have learned to take the back way, a smaller road even nearer the lake. The children like to watch for the unusual octagonal barns that are popular in this section, and there is something reassuring about the peaceful Holstein, Guernsey, and Jersey cows grazing in the fields. These are well-run, prosperous farms, and we are glad that the children have come to know them better. Various members of the staff used the cottage for week ends until the end of the school term, when the children began going up. The week when some of the Junior Misses went to camp, the housemother took the remaining six to the cottage for a Tuesday to Friday stay. Bootchy and the Pigtails, with Margaret Eisele to help, were there for four days; then Wanda and the Hightops; and later, Mr. and Mrs. Novotny with the Big Boys. The only group for which it was not practical was the Jack and Jills, little boys and girls between five and seven. The children loved the cottage. We put five cots in the big bedroom, so that it became a dormitory (we can't seem to get away from dormitories), and two cots in each of the other two sleeping rooms; the living-room davenport was also suitable for sleeping. The children responded to the smallness and the simplicity of the house. Under the pump we made a washstand of two orange crates, weighted down with field stones. Mr. Novotny put a row of hooks on the

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outside of the building for towels and toothbrushes. One of the pleasant things about Holiday Cottage was that the Merkers did not mind what we did with it, and we could be as primitive as we pleased, thus isolated in the middle of the field. The response of all the groups was positive and relaxed. The housemothers said they felt very close to their groups during the periods at the cottage, and we knew before the end of the first summer that this kind of plan was " r i g h t " for our youngsters. The cottage was an extension of the Center. It became a familiar place to all of the children. They went with staff members whom they knew, and therefore there were no new adjustments to make. The change from the larger group at the Center was made without any strain of separation and readjustment. Use of the cottage was supplementary to ( 1 ) the Center's city summer program, (2) vacation weeks at Sylvia and Ben's (to be discussed later), and (3) camp. The four days spent at the cottage by Bootchy and seven of the Pigtails were typical. Margaret Eisele, a young teacher who helps us out summers, went with the group. Petey cheerfully prepared enough baked dishes for the first day or two, and sent along food to be cooked by the housemother f o r the remaining meals. Bootchy was in charge of the house, while Margaret took the girls to the beach, for hikes in the woods, and up to Vince's for milk. The Pigtails were enchanted with the little house; they climbed the narrow back stairs again and again to look at the "upstairs" and to try out the cots. Washing in the basin beside the pump was a

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thrill, and they dabbled around there for hours. The beach was the best of all. With a few sand toys and balls, the children played in and out of the shallow clear water for hours at a time. There was never a limited swimming period; we let nature take its course. It was easier if two staff people could go with a group, but this was not always possible. Wanda and Miss Wehland managed alone, but found it a strenuous task to prepare meals (and how the children ate!) on the slow burning, temperamental kerosene stove, and keep track of their youngsters at the same time. Wanda's Hightops played around Vince's farm in the evening; Vince was good-natured about letting them explore the barns and farmyards. On week ends the cottage was available for staff. There is this to say on the subject of "getting away." One of the good points about a city institution is the fact that it affords an easy breakaway for staff members. The green bus passes the Center on one side, and the yellow bus stops at the front corner. In ten minutes one can be downtown for a little shopping or for a change of scene. All of the staff have relatives and friends in and near Milwaukee—places to visit on days off, and to relax the taut nerves that develop in any children's home from being on the grounds too constantly. Holiday Cottage acted as another safety valve for us. Even the housemother, who worked hard during a cottage stay, came back relaxed and with a refreshed point of view. Each summer, some of the children of camp age, who are ready for the experience, are sent to camps. The summer

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outing division of the Council of Social Agencies assigns a certain number of camp places to each agency. Erna, Rose, the housemothers, and I consider, weigh, and balance carefully our decision as to which youngsters would benefit from a camp experience. The child in his first year at the Center may not yet be sufficiently secure and settled to make another group adjustment. Some children want and ask for a camp period, and their wishes are certainly taken into consideration. If the selection is carefully made, the boy or girl will have a wonderful and stimulating experience. It is not equally valuable for all the children in a particular institution, however. For one thing, they already have one kind of group experience in the institution itself. Many of them need a rest from large groups and planned programs; they respond to the kind of let-down which Holiday Cottage affords. There is still another point: going away to camp means another separation for them, leaving again all that is familiar and going to a new place and to new people. All the children in the Home have experienced one great separation when the placement move was made. They cannot go through another too soon without experiencing a great deal of anxiety. The foster home of Ben and Sylvia Lau, eighteen miles north of the Center, has long been a summer haunt for the children. We pass it on the way to the cottage. Ben and Sylvia have built a modern house on one corner of Sylvia's father's farm. Sitting at the table in Sylvia's kitchen, you can look out over the woods, the creeks and fields, and see Uncle William's herd of Guernseys on the hillside. From the

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back door, it is just a little run past the strawberry patch and raspberry bushes to the farmyard of Aunt Annie and Uncle William Hovener, Sylvia's parents. Two of our girls grew up at Ben and Sylvia's. They went there to live when they were seven and eight; both graduated from High School, and Sue is now a student in college, coming home to Sylvia's for week ends and summer vacations. Going up to the farm is a familiar experience to the children who stay at the Center, the younger children particularly, below the age of ten. Group life may be fairly strenuous for these younger children, and a two-week stay at Sylvia's offers a restful interlude and also provides new experiences and interests. This home has filled many of our needs; in fact, we could not get along without Ben and Sylvia; they are like members of the staff. Sylvia has a bedroom just for her small summer and week-end guests. Most of the children at the Center come from the urban areas of Milwaukee. In their elementary readers they hear about lambs, cows, and haymows, but they have never seen, or touched, or smelled these things. At the farm, the silo, the new-born calf, the pigs and ducklings they have read about become real. We usually plan for two children to be in this foster home at one time, for two-week periods. Mrs. Kurt Meyer, a board member, has for several years taken as her special project the transportation of children to and from the farm. For the child who has no relatives to visit on Sundays or week ends, this home is a happy substitute. Ben is jolly. He jokes a lot, and the children often return

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from the farm to say, "Ben always makes us laugh!" Ben and Sylvia are youthful and energetic, and have the faculty for giving every child a really good time. It is important that the children, most of whom are basically insecure and uncertain, spend their vacations with people whom they already know, and that when they visit, especially for the first time, it is with a brother or sister, or a congenial friend. A good deal of thought is given to sending the right two children together. Occasionally it works out better for a particular child to go alone. During the summer, every child (except perhaps the one who was admitted during the late winter or early spring) has some kind of vacation. Sometimes these periods away are planned by a working mother, during her own vacation; occasionally an aunt or grandmother takes a child for a week or two; about ten children go to camp; and for others there is Sylvia's farm, and all the children except the very youngest have an opportunity to go to Holiday Cottage.

"Are them roses, Miss Burmy?" Betty asks. The "roses" are actually peonies, and Betty is just getting acquainted with the names of a few flowers and learning about how they grow. All summer long, Ralph gives me a day-by-day account of the progress of his pumpkins, and I begin to feel that I know each one of them personally. Gardening is in many ways "natural" for children. Youngsters do just have to puddle around in the dirt, snow, water and sand, and a garden offers opportunities for this kind of activity. The value of the garden is not measured by the seasonal production of so many bushels of beans, tomatoes, or beets. Its real worth is in the enrichment of experience reaped by the young vegetable and flower growers. The garden is relatively small and we run it; it does not run us. We attempt to raise only enough vegetables to keep the kitchen supplied during the summer. The time required for gardening is such that it does not cut down the playtime of the children. Behind the Center's backyard playground lies a three-acre plot. Prior to 1941, the largest part of these three acres was a grassy field. One section was cultivated for the general

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use of the Center, the maintenance man taking most of the responsibility; some of the children had their very own gardens. With the spring of 1942 came ration points, and the great appeal to victory gardeners to raise all the vegetables possible. My father had raised flowers and vegetables commercially; my parents and grandparents had always lived in the country, so I had grown up with roots in the soil, but not much real first-hand experience. The clay of the Center land was different from the lush loam of the Town of Lake, where my home is, but I was too naive about how great the differences were to realize what a job I was tackling. An acre of ground keeps the Center supplied with fresh vegetables all summer. We therefore let it be known that we had extra plots for small family gardens, and they were soon speedily claimed by two board members, several pairs of social workers, some couples from the neighborhood, and a mother whose children were with us for day care. The victory gardeners came with new hoes and digging forks, packages of seeds, and a great desire to raise their own food; but, like me, they had more ambition than practical knowledge. The shining red clay, chock-full of quack-grass roots, looked completely uncompromising and lacking in fertility. Even the air was harsh that first spring. The foggy wind that blew in off the lake, a block away, was particularly clammy. Quack-grass roots were the toughest problem and a neverending one, although each year we tell ourselves that they are less prolific. All of us, staff and victory gardeners, worked along, foot by foot, taking those quack roots out by hand, the only way it can be done.

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Sometimes it seemed an endless job, but there were definite satisfactions in it too. In work like ours there are often moments of tension and strain that become a drag on the spirit. Insecure children and a staff trying hard to help them need constant reassurance. This job of taking out quack roots and putting in seeds afforded all of us a change in pace and tempo. While we worked with our hands, we gave our heads and emotions a little rest. Then, too, a bushel of quack roots is a tangible thing. Tugged from the ground and dumped on a heap, to be burned later when dry, it represents a positive result, something you can see. Responsibilities and work done out of doors are good for us on the staff, and in the spring especially. In Wisconsin, March and April are hard months; winter sports peter out, and we begin to feel cooped up together. But out in the open, noises and feelings are dissolved in space, and the sun and air dispel many tensions. Few of our children have ever had a garden before. Most of them come from crowded streets and tiny homes where there was not even room for house plants. The new children are usually not very enthusiastic. They have no idea what we're up to when we start out in the spring, and they are a little skeptical. Part of this is their uncertainty and unfamiliarity with the whole idea of gardening. I think, too, that sometimes youngsters are completely doubtful whether the rows of seeds they helped to plant will really turn out to be beets, radishes, and carrots which they can eat. Some children think that their gardens are wonderful, a few never do get interested, but most of them go along

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stronger than in the first year. Because there is only one general maintenance man, who does not have much time to work the garden as one of his projects, I have taken over the responsibility for planning, planting, and f o r seeing that somehow the work is done. A farmer comes with a tractor and plows in the fall, and goes over the garden again with a rotary tiller in spring. A f t e r proceeding by trial and error in 1 9 4 1 , I kept a diary as to the time things were planted in 1942, to which I now refer as a guide. Fortunately, Petey and A n n a , A u n t Molly and Bootchy, all know a lot about gardening, and they have all been extremely helpful. T h e victory gardeners like to keep the same little sections year after year. A number of the staff have their own plots, and Miss Frieda Mueller, of the board, and her sister have had a garden from the first year of the project. W o r k ing side by side with the staff and children, Miss Mueller has grown much closer to us in understanding than would have been possible by merely attending board and committee meetings. Children buy their seeds and do their planting in the spring with a great burst of enthusiasm, but being children, they are not too conscientious about keeping out the weeds. Some youngsters like to work on a partnership basis with a friend or a brother or sister. Whether or not he has a garden is a child's own choice. Last year three of the groups, Miss Wanda's Hightops, Bootchy's Pigtails, and the Junior Misses, had group plots. Their collaboration was

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good to see. These group gardens had a little of everything in them, and some of the children who went home on Sundays took bags of vegetables with them. The housemothers worked closely with the children in the group gardens, and the f a c t that the garden offers another opportunity f o r close interpersonal relationship is one of its fine aspects. We begin work in the garden early in May. I usually go out in the mornings with five or six of the Big Boys who have some time f o r outdoor work before school. T h e children like and accept this activity when an adult, who is enthusiastic about it, works right along with them. When the children have helped with the planting, they speak of the growing plants as "ours." Some of the boys who have been with us f o r several seasons know what to do, and I can turn over an entire planting of cucumbers, say, to A r t or Ralph. N o w that we have a system, it takes only an hour or two, several times a week, to start the garden. Sometimes we go out after supper. These evening hours have an element of sociability, since everyone leans on his hoe between spurts of work, while we exchange plants and ideas and compare notes. The garden has given our neighbors a chance to become acquainted with the staff and children, and the victory gardeners set a fine example with their interest and stick-to-it-iveness. The youngsters get the idea that gardening is really the thing to do, that there must be something special about it if all these grownups enjoy it so much. A good deal of visiting goes on from plot to plot, and enthusiasm becomes infectious throughout the entire

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garden. We are glad there are men among the gardeners, too, since our children need more men in their lives. A variety of large and small vegetables is raised, everything that grows in this part of Wisconsin. Beets, lettuce, carrots, spinach, onions, and corn are planted at two-week intervals, for three or four plantings, and in this way, the supply is renewed all summer long. We have learned that one vegetable that never disappoints us is Swiss chard. A n entire strip of land is put in corn, a favorite of the children. Petey is an expert corn planter, and we sometimes work together in the evening. Petey is glad to get out of the kitchen into the garden; she says it blows the cobwebs out of our heads. Petey feeds us fresh vegetables all summer long. Besides giving a boost to good health, our homegrown produce is much more interesting and appetizing than canned foods. The children chew a lot of things right out in the garden; they love raw carrots, always, and even eat green beans as we pick them. One of the positive factors in having a garden is that the children bring in, and see us gather, the fruits of our labor. Living in the city as we do, their experience has been too much that of observing milk coming from gallon cans instead of a cow; trucks appearing with coal and groceries, and in the winter, with vegetables and fruits. Since the dairy company brings the milk at dawn, the youngsters do not even see the milkman. The big cans of milk simply appear there, somehow. This is one of the limitations of living in an institution. The child who runs to

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the store for his mother to buy a dozen eggs or a loaf of bread knows something about the cost of food and the difficulty of getting supplies. We can add some realism to our living if we have a garden and raise the things which later appear on the table. The abundance of food is in itself reassuring. Bushels of tomatoes stand in the back hall in late August and September, where the children may help themselves at any time. In this garden work, as is the case with other chores, children are glad to have a time limit imposed. For example, I may say to the Big Boys in the evening, "Tomorrow morning let's get at the weeds in the squash patch. It rained yesterday, and they will come out easily in the morning, but it will be hard to do next day when the ground gets hard and dry. The job will take just about an hour, maybe less if we all get at it." Thus the group is prepared ahead of time, and any task seems a little more agreeable if it isn't demanded "right now." The Junior Miss group may be asked to give three quarters of an hour to pick beans for dinner tomorrow. That they are going to eat those same beans gives some point to the job they are asked to do. An hour wedged in here and there between other things keeps garden work from seeming too great a chore. All youngsters love to sprinkle with hose and watering cans, and they consider this play rather than work. Cleaning out the garden in the fall has its value. All youngsters, and particularly those who are troubled, experience feelings of futility, of anger, or wanting to smash things. Snow fights, punching the bag, boxing, are outlets for some of these feelings.

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Pulling out tomato plants or corn stalks in the fall, gives children the chance to break, tear, or destroy something, in short, a fine opportunity to be usefully destructive. The pink petunias in the flower boxes at the front entrance add color and interest as one comes in the door, but the flowers in the garden are there for picking. Aunt Molly used to take the responsibility for the flowers and now Miss Anna does it. Both Aunt Molly and Miss Anna have green thumbs. A n especially nice piece of ground near the garden entrance is saved for flowers and is favored with extra fertilizer and water. A riot of color welcomes the visitor inside the garden gate. Here Anna has planted dependable annuals to fill our vases and brighten the whole house— balsam, cosmos, nasturtiums, and zinnias. Along the fence, we encourage a border of perennials—peonies, chrysanthemums, tulips, hollihocks, and a clump of oriental poppies. The victory gardeners raise flowers too, in color patterns outlining their plots. For several seasons Bootchy has been working diligently on a once bare and ugly spot. T o it she has carted rocks and topsoil and has set out a tulip bed and arranged a rock garden. The need for victory gardens is over, but we continue the garden project summer after summer because of all the great good we draw from it. We live in Wisconsin, which is primarily a farming and dairying state, and even though, or perhaps all the more because, we are a city institution, we are happy to give our children some first-hand experience with a family garden, to watch the farm tractor in operation, and to know that corn should be knee-high by

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the Fourth of July. It is a good feeling to clean up a garden in the fall, to have it plowed and ready for the coming spring. And in the winter we like to look out the windows at the back of the Home and see our three acres lying snugly under their blanket of snow.

In a Home the size of the Center, part of the director's pleasure, as well as his duty, is to spend some time with the children. After all, we are in this work primarily because of our interest in, and concern for, children. Among the many demands on the director's time are work with the board, with the community, and with council and fund committees. Usually the director of the small institution must also write the annual reports and other interpretive material. There are also many responsibilities in the actual administration of the institution: finding and hiring staff, supervising houseparents, making the budget (and trying to stay within it), taking care of the needs of the house or the cottages, and planning the over-all program. Some executives have the added task of fund-raising, sometimes on a state-wide basis. These responsibilities all tend to pull one away from the children. But I have learned that in our setting, at least, it is possible to spend about one fourth of the time with them. This is one of the most important things I do—the

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heart and core of my work. It is this part of the total job that I would like to discuss here. In the hours I spend with them, I learn to know the youngsters, what they are like, what they think and say, what they need and respond to. When a housemother asks for suggestions regarding Arnold, I can give better advice, because I, too, know Arnold as a person. He is not a name; he is a boy I know. By the same token, when I open my mail and discover a "good" stamp, I save it for Jim or Lyle, our amateur collectors. I remember that Barbara and Ronnie are in bed with colds today. I wonder with Miss Wehland whether Susan will look well in bangs. When I sign report cards, it worries me that left-handed Joan will never get a higher mark than " F " in penmanship, even though she rates " E " in all her other subjects. On the other hand, my status with the children is important to me, and I think about it often. They like to tease and challenge me, and to argue a point to the bitter end, and they are frank to tell me what is on their minds. I do not like the role of disciplinarian, and I am fortunate in that the housemothers are capable of handling many of their own problems. Every once in a while, however, my word has to be final and decisive, and, of course, some of the children resent this at the moment. Occasionally, there are sessions with the groups, when we discuss such problems as the arrangements for an occasion, or something which is of concern to me—the waste of light or water; wearing overshoes; being less noisy; showing more consideration of the cooks while washing dishes in the kitchen.

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18$

When I make an appointment to see a group (usually in the evening), they want to know, "Is it good or bad?" They seem to welcome me with equal interest, whichever it may be. They do not greatly resent criticism, or an oldfashioned scolding. Indeed, I think that the fact that I am upset or angry signifies to them that what they do, good or bad, is of great concern to me; they are not displeased by that. If most of them have a casual, natural, and relaxed feeling toward me, it is because they know that I am sincerely interested in them, and spend a good part of my time making arrangements for their comfort, activities, parties, and general care. The case workers and housemothers naturally form closer ties with individual children, ties that are still warm long after the children leave. The case workers, Erna and Rose, devote a good deal of their time to the more troubled children. These appointments are regular and their content has purpose and direction. Through these periods spent together, the child builds up a relationship to the case worker which differs from his relationship to the director or houseparent. The child feels, and rightly so, that the worker sees him for the person that he is, an individual apart from his group, his family, the staff. With her special skills, she helps him bring out the things that are bothering him; all of this brings them close together. Most of the case worker's interviews with the child are in the same setting, her office. An appointed time and a familiar place are important to the child. To my mind, the director, even though a case worker by

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profession, should not "take on" children in the case work relationship. In the first place, it is confusing to the child who, at other times, knows the director in the role of disciplinarian, or a strong authoritative person. This is not true of the case worker. She may have to limit the child, but not discipline him in the way that the director must. I do not think the director can successfully and effectively relate to the child in the dual role of case worker and director of the Home in which the child lives. The rest of the children may not understand why the director sees certain children regularly. From a practical point of view, there is not time to undertake intensive work with a few children and also do justice to the other phases of the administrative job. I do spend some time in talks with individual children. These talks may occur when a "situation" arises or when the children are troubled or upset. Paul came at regular intervals to "blow off steam" to me about the Center—his dislike for it, for group living. He and I spend time together on art work. Because of this I am perhaps closer to Paul than to some of the other boys, but the relationship is nonetheless different from that with the case workers. My contacts arise all over the house, at any odd time; they embrace the several groups and the whole family. The case workers, on the contrary, are closer to individual children. I have little or no responsibility in regard to parents. I meet them when children first enter the Home, and I may take a phone message or discuss how a sick child is coming along, but the greatest part of the work with parents is carried on by the case workers.

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Every director must have some skill or interest which affords a natural entree into the lives and interests of the children. With me, it is art, gardening, a liking for walks, ice skating, swimming, or just sitting in the sun. The children like my habit of making simple little sketches of things they do, for the scrapbooks, for annual reports, or to liven up a notice on the bulletin board. Through these sketches I can say something to them that words do not say. From their response I am led to believe that I "get" some of the things they feel and do; together, we see the f u n n y side. It makes for an immediate little understanding between us. The director or houseparent who has musical ability, who can play the piano for the children, has a wonderful means of drawing a group together for singing or dancing. It provides a harmonious setting for enjoying something together. Some children respond to me more strongly than others —just as some respond to the cook, the tutor, the young man student, or the housekeeper. Perhaps they are reminded of someone they like or admire; or there may be something in us, in the kind of people we are, that "clicks"; we give to them what they want of us. Perhaps a child is reserved about making overtures of friendliness or affection and, recognizing this, one's heart goes out to him. At intervals when we have been short of relief help for the Big Boys, I have been "on" with this group. For several weeks now, Aunt Molly has been ill. She is the relief worker on Tuesday afternoons and evenings, and instead of making arrangements for someone else to take over, I have

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substituted for a while. Today at 3:20 I go to the kitchen, where Petey gives me the boys' after-school lunch, and from there I go to the department. If the housemother or the relief housemother, which I am at the moment, is fresh and waiting for the group when they come home from school, it pleases them. The boys sit with me around the radio in the dormitory as they eat their lunch, and we brief our plans for the afternoon and evening. Tom will feed the dog and Glen will take her for a walk. As members of the school team, Art and Ken will go to a basketball game at 4:30 in a neighborhood church hall. They ask me to save their supper—they will be an hour late. Lyle wants a dime from his account; he goes up the street to buy valentines. Roy, Bill, Tom, and I agree to skate on our little ice pond. It has snowed, so together with the girls we get out the scrapers and spend an hour skating and scraping. I serve the boys' table and arrange with Petey to save some warm food for Art and Ken. After supper, Roger, our college student, who is not "on" tonight, volunteers to help me for an hour or so. He takes the boys down to the game room for some basketball. Six of them get into shorts, jerseys, and gym shoes; Art and Jack can't go because they have homework to do. Roger and the boys play basketball for an hour or so, then Roger goes to his room to study, and after their bath the boys visit with me. They chatter about all kinds of things—school, basketball, girl friends, the Valentine party. Bill, twelve, sits with a gun, sometimes shooting at me casually, and all the time doing a lot of talking.

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We listen to the radio together. Just this year the hard, brittle shell with which Bill came is melting, and having shot me thoroughly, he now sits close beside me on the davenport. He brings a comic which he asks me to read to him. It is Donald Duck, and here I am, reading on and on about "Unka Donald." A t times, Bill talks about "dames" like a seventeen-year old, but for these ten moments his age is five. The other boys make no comment. A f t e r their baths, they get into bed at 9:00, having planned with me that I would leave them with Bob Hope. I leave the dormitory then, and the Hightops' housemother agrees to turn off the radio at ten o'clock. Those who do not fall asleep want to hear Red Skelton at 9:30. The tired ones may think they will listen all the way through Bob Hope, but they are asleep at 9 : 1 0 . When Jean's housemother married and left us, Jean was apprehensive about having a new housemother. She could not express her anxiety, but I realized what it was, because she trailed me at any and all odd times, for days: there were all sorts of minor matters that she had to take up with me, and she made many offers to help. N o matter how busy I was, I took time to talk with her, to find (and invent) things for her to do. I never sent her away from me during this period. I took her with me on errands, and Rose, the case worker, to whom she also turned, took her to buy new shoes and to have a bracelet repaired. When a new housemother comes on the staff, some children need reas-

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surance from those of us who have been around for a longer time, and we come forward a little more strongly in this period of group readjustment. Children are pleased when the director is "modern." It behooves us to be informed regarding the things of interest to them—that Perry Como is the favorite singer of the bobby soxers at the moment, that Ballerina is No. 1 on the Hit Parade, that the Dodgers beat the Giants, that ear muffs are in (all the boys at school wear them), and caps are out. Even though one is close to the children, it is necessary to maintain their confidence and respect. I do not invite a too familiar kind of intimacy. Respect is won through hard work, sincerity, and honesty, and through a knowledge of children and a respect for their rights. Many of our children have lacked strong parental guidance at home, and they welcome, though at times resist, being cared for by adults who are thoughtful, consistent, alert, forthright. Is it better for the director to live in, or away from, the institution? There are two schools of thought on this, centered chiefly on the unmarried woman director. A man who directs a children's institution usually has a family, and a house is provided for him on the campus. This arrangement is more or less standard. A few years ago the board gave its approval to my going home nights if I wanted to and could manage it. A f t e r a great deal of thought, I decided on a variation of living in. I sleep at the Center four nights a week and at home three nights. This arrangement works out very well. T o the children, the Center is where

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I live, and I say little about my other home. The housemothers who are off duty, and some of the children, go away on week ends, and therefore my departure is not unusual. Like the housemothers, who have an "off" twice a week, my Wednesday afternoon is also routine. The four nights that I sleep at the Center, I sometimes go out for an evening, or part of it, but usually I am there. The program and supervision of the children are stronger some evenings than others, depending on what activities are planned and who is on duty. I arrange to be around when there is a new housemother on duty, or when I see that someone needs help. At other times I drift around, visiting one group or another. When I am in my room reading, listening to the radio or puttering around, the children and staff come in and out. My bathroom is one of those large, old-fashioned ones which doubles for a dressing room, an arrangement that makes it possible for my room to be a sitting room-bedroom, and for the door to be open most of the time. It is never locked, even when I am not there. The fact that I sleep at the Center makes it possible to dress in slacks a little after seven in the spring and early summer and to get the garden work started. Saturday mornings are general clean-up mornings, and all of us on the second floor are straightening our rooms, dusting, and washing our personal belongings. The children see me and the housemothers busy at all the tasks we expect of them, and all of us get the same help on floors and windows from the two cleaning women who are employed to do the heavier work.

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"Living in" makes it possible for the director to be more closely integrated in all phases of the life of the children and staff. Everyone is more relaxed in the evening: the day's work is over, and we talk of many things for which there is no time during the day. "Living in" means that I am continuously exposed to the pulse and tempo, the morale or climate of the Home. No one says, "Cheezit, here comes Miss Β." I am as familiar an object and as much taken for granted as a piece of old furniture. When I am away in the evening the place does not fall to pieces; in fact, it goes along very well. Each housemother takes the responsibility for her own group, and if she needs help in making a decision, she consults another housemother. In an emergency, Rose, Erna, Alm, or I can be reached at our homes. Bootchy, who has been with us for fifteen years, and who can always be counted on for an honest, forthright answer, says she'd sooner have me around than not, because it relieves the rest of the staff of any final decision or action. They can breathe a little easier. Living with a group of children makes for a feeling of humility. Nothing can "take you down" or "level you off" to the same extent. Children who are natural, comfortable, and relaxed are apt to be direct, forthright and, often, even blunt. They like subtlety and imagination, but not pretense. They have no use for artificiality or ostentation. It keeps us on our toes to live with youngsters who are physically energetic, who are wise, quick on the trigger, sometimes trying to outsmart us, testing us out, or just being themselves. They get into all kinds of situations, and it is

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a constant challenge to one's skill, ingenuity, humor, alacrity, and tolerance to work things out, or to know when to let them alone. One gains something by proximity to children. It might seem that living with numbers of youngsters for many years would develop in the adult a feeling of indifference toward them. That would perhaps happen in the case of a person who does not have much affection for children to begin with. When a worker does have the good essential basic feeling, then years of association with children give him depth, confidence, and an intangible quality that is the reward of successful relationship with many different youngsters. Such a person draws children to him without effort; they gain confidence and security from being in his presence. I am not a "big thing" in the lives of the children, nor a great influence. I do not make deep or lasting relationships with individual children, and they do not miss me after they have left the Home. Whatever I may mean to them is only part of the whole. If the Center has been an influence in their lives, it is the result of unified effort—the combination of personalities and skills, and the integration of services.

Discipline

It is quarter past six in the morning. It is April, and the sun rose early on this day. So did K e n n y , Bobbie, Marvin, and John, who sleep directly above me. They have been scurrying around barefoot f o r the past ten minutes. First there was a thump)—that was K e n n y , who gets up early to go to the bathroom. H e returns and wakes the others. W e try to insist that the children stay in bed until the rising bell rings, at 6 : 3 0 on school days and at 7:00 on non-school days. The Hightops' housemother cannot hear the little boys from her room as well as I, in my room directly below them. I lie still, trying to decide whether I should go up to the third floor and send the boys back to bed with a f e w firm words of admonition. " O h well," I think, "it's spring and on these first few warm days they always waken earlier. Maybe they were put to bed too early last night." I decide to let them thump around until the rising bell, so long as they are not really noisy. Thus begins a typical day. Dan goes off to school without checking out with his housemother; he wore neither coat nor cap, and left his bed unmade. Bobbie is impossible as he wipes the dishes; he flips the end of the towel at the girls, he stalls and fools

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around endlessly. Georgie and Eddie appropriate two bicycles and betake themselves for a spin in the neighborhood —without permission. The traffic officer comes to complain that they were on bicycles which had no licenses. Someone took the shiny identification tag from Suzy's collar; Suzy, the new dog, has strayed away and is now sitting in the Humane Society office, waiting to be called for. Bill was tossing his baseball around in the bathroom and broke a window. Ellen and Susan were supposed to report to the kitchen for "working in early," but did not appear. N o one could find them, and Petey became impatient because she was late with her supper schedule. As a start on the subject of discipline (a discussion which of necessity cannot be a comprehensive one), I would like to use one of the definitions in Webster; discipline, it tells us, is "training which strengthens." Good discipline, along with strength in all the other areas of care, makes for good climate. When climate is favorable, individual children may have periods of upset, of negativistic and hostile behavior. However, the groups will, most of the time, be responsive and interested, and staff and children will be going along in the same direction, not pulling against each other. Individual children assert themselves, and we want them to; five little boys follow their frisky impulses, and we want them to; Anne argues back; Karen comes late to breakfast almost every morning—and all this is to be expected. A good climate does not mean that you have obedient, conforming children. It means that the individ-

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uals within each group are making progress toward better personal adjustment. A strong, secure housemother, supported not only by a director who has confidence in her but also by an enlightened board, is not afraid to let her children be " n a u g h t y . " They will get into mischief, they will talk back, and individually or as a group they will be in some sort of major or minor complication almost every day. But such a housemother will probably have a fairly comfortable and relaxed group. The size of the group has a direct bearing upon discipline. When the housemother is expected to care for too large a group, particularly of young children under fourteen, she may have to treat her youngsters en masse; she will not have enough time or patience for the individual, or to consider each disciplinary incident as carefully, as thoughtfully, and as thoroughly as she would if she had smaller groups. With larger groups, she may be forced to use regimentation as a means of control. And what of the little boy or girl who has to share the housemother with twenty others? Such a child will not be as contented or satisfied generally as the one who belongs to a group of eight, nine or ten children. The child who is a member of a small group will be a "better" child, needing less discipline, because his housemother has more time to devote to him as an individual; life is generally more satisfying to him. Negative behavior of a large group, about which the housemother may be concerned, or for which she may be criticized by the administrator, may be the responsibility

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of the administration and the board, rather than of the housemother. While I believe in self-expression on the part of the children—verbal expression and release of feelings through activities—and in freedom to make mistakes, I do not believe in the complete absence of restraint. The children themselves realize that, in the final analysis, we, on the staff, are in control. It adds to their security to know that staff members understand and are tolerant of hostile and negative behavior but are still quite able to keep the situation well in hand. We need to be consistent and firm and to make it clear that there are certain limits. Children like to know what these limits are; in fact, they sometimes reach for them, to see just how far they can go. For example, with a fleet of bicycles to care for and to keep in condition, certain rules are necessary. We have, on the Center grounds, a black-top surfaced playground, a gravel bicycle track, driveways, and sidewalks. One rule is that a bicycle must not be ridden up over the curb onto the sidewalk, because that would, in time, ruin the bicycle. A child knows that if he disregards a rule, he may be " o f f " bicycles for a day or two, or even a week. The children remind each other of the rules more often than does an adult, and that is a good sign. If a child needs to be punished, the punishment should be directly connected with the wrongdoing. If Jim shows off by prancing out of the kitchen with a stack of twentyfive saucers when he can manage to carry only ten, and if two of them fall off from the top and break, Petey may ask

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Jim to pay for the t w o broken ones. If Frankie flings an e m p t y hand-lotion bottle f r o m a third-floor window just to hear the fine loud crash below, Frankie picks up the broken pieces of glass. If Betty giggles and giggles long after the lights are out, keeping nine other girls awake, the housemother may ask Betty to come out and sit in the hall until she calms down. But, a word of caution here: Betty may be giggling just in order to be sent out into the hall. Sometimes at home the children were able to get attention only b y negative behavior and the subsequent punishment. If they receive enough positive attention from us, they will be less likely to do things that get them into tight places and difficult situations. A child's visits to his home are carefully planned and established by the case worker, and they are a thing apart and separate from discipline. N o child should be deprived of these visits as punishment for something that has happened at the institution, nor should such visits be thought of as rewards for good behavior. A visit may be adjusted, prolonged or shortened, but on a case work basis only, depending entirely on the home situation and the child's reactions to it. These arrangements do not come within the scope of the housemother's responsibility and are never changed or withheld as a disciplinary measure. T h e housemother keeps the case worker informed as to the child's reactions to home visits, but this is in connection with his general adjustment. T h e boys go with Roger to play basketball each Friday night. T h a t is a hard and fast arrangement so long as their

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interest holds and the basketball season lasts. If a boy "fades out" on his job on Thursday, the housemother never says that he cannot play basketball on Friday. This matter of deprivation is a most ticklish one. For example, the child deprived of attending a party may be the very one who needs the values of that party. Then too, our children have already experienced so much deprivation (of emotional satisfactions) that we need always to lean toward giving rather than taking away. Deprivation, if used very carefully, can be effective, as in the case of being "off the bikes" for a period after mistreating a bicycle. There are no pat answers, short cuts, or quick methods by means of which we can be sure of achieving good response on the part of the children. The same way of meeting a disciplinary situation may be used constructively or destructively, depending on the adult's attitude. What about devices such as charts, stars, or a demerit system? To my mind they are not really effective in teaching the child strong self-direction. Suppose Gary anticipates a gold star at the end of a day when he is "good" and a black star when he is "naughty." Suppose, then, he fails to make his bed before school; by nine o'clock he knows that the chance for a gold star is already missed, so he may as well make a field day of it. Karen is a little girl who would get a gold star every day of her life; she is overly conscientious, conforming, she is the first to "tell on" someone else, and she is afraid of her own shadow. She would be a much better-adjusted child, and actually a happier one, if her behavior earned her a series of dark stars!

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A demerit system is a complicated one for the school age child. A child living in a Home, a child whom we want to be relaxed and comfortable, should not have to feel that a star or a demerit will be clapped down on his record the moment he missteps. We want the child to do the acceptable thing a good part of the time because of the strength of his understanding as a result of the interpersonal relationships between him and his housemother, not because of an impersonal star. We want him to be free to be naughty, and to feel that we like him anyway. A word of direction or correction is needed here and there, but nothing so final as a tangible record of the housemother's disapproval for all to see. The new child picks up his cues from the group and to a certain degree, at least, goes along with them. He meets and is cared for by staff members whom he does not know and whom he has not yet learned to trust. Often he has no pattern of confidence in other adults which he can transfer to these new ones. On the contrary, we start in again at the very beginning and have to wait until time and our actions and methods bring a response of confidence from the child, and this does not occur in a day or two—sometimes it takes years. This child may, however, respond fairly well to other children and he is more willing to take his direction from them at first than from the staff. If the children are interested and relaxed, and accept the idea of living in this institution, the new child is likely to absorb some of this positive response and move forward with them. This is one of the values of group living.

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We sometimes see a new child watch the other children in a wary, nervous, eager (often overeager) way. The newcomer may be thrilled at the play activities offered, and at the equipment available, and in order to use them as the others do, he may want to make a place for himself with his group. A t the same time, he merely tolerates his housemother at first, and he keeps his distance from the other members of the staff, except perhaps for the case worker, with whom he has begun to form a relationship. When the worker has an office in the institution where the child can see her often, he may pour out his troubles to her when he is upset; or he may come in calmly to discuss his family situation over and over again. When case work services are used in these ways, the child is likely to merge smoothly along with his group. We move very cautiously in giving a new child correction or direction, preferring to have him pick up his own cues from the group, and we know that he can take direction from his peers much more easily than from us. It is, of course, always easier to take correction from someone you like. N o matter what happens, we should never threaten a child with removal. One of the most important things we have to give him is a place in which he knows he can stay until it is the right time for another plan to be made. If the preliminary case work study shows that this institution is the right place for this child, then we know that we must keep him. We know, too, that we may have our ups and downs, our setbacks and discouraging days, and that a readjustment takes time. If the child's behavior is a prob-

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lem, he may be testing us out. If we keep him in spite of very negative behavior, he will feel more and more secure. Often, if I have a disciplinary or authoritative session with a child, I preface our talk with, "Look, John, I want you to remember that I like you. I'm going to scold you because I don't like what you've done, or the kind of language you're using. But I like you." Children need this simple reassurance, and they need it again and again, even though their behavior of the moment is not acceptable. A director or houseparent may fear the contagious effect of negative behavior: "If I let Betty get away with it, then they will all think they can get away with it!" Actually, it does not work that way. Children know, as the staff does, that there will be days when individuals are upset and hard to get along with. Fortunately, not everyone feels the same way on the same day, and there are usually some children in each group who keep a fairly even keel. We have found that youngsters are quite tolerant of individual differences, accepting them as we do. We try to be flexible and to be as tolerant as we can, to adapt ourselves to the children rather than expect them to conform too closely to any exacting standards or limits which we may set. There are, of course, always some children who are blunt, thoughtless and harsh to others; but I am often amazed by the amount of understanding and respect that children show toward another individual's odd ways, off moments, and bad days—if and when the staff has first shown adaptability and flexibility. After she had been with us for two years, Shirley was discussing the behavior of

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Georgine and Beverly. She said, " I used to do things like that, too. Georgine is really the one who started it. She is even worse than I used to be, and I was pretty a w f u l . " Shirley said this as if she understood both our worry about the incident, and also how the girls themselves felt. Self-government is a technique used by some institutions. I believe that children should be free to express their feelings about themselves, their personal reactions, what they think of the institution and the way things are handled. It is important that they trust us to be " f a i r . " I am always glad to talk things over with them, in a group or individually, to get their suggestions or to hear their complaints. I do question, however, the soundness of selfgovernment when it takes the form of a board made up of the children and one or two representatives of the staff, which meet? for the purpose of deciding how to handle disciplinary problems and other matters regarding children's activities. Children, even of high school age, do not have the maturity, the judgment, or a strong enough set of values of their own to make wise decisions concerning other children, particularly if it is a matter of passing judgment on a misdemeanor and deciding on the punishment. Because of experiences previous to placement, a child may have particularly sensitive feelings or distorted opinions about a certain subject; a child on a governing board may use his powers to punish another child in a hostile way. It becomes a complicating factor in the confused feelings he may already have about people; and it may have a disturbing effect on the relationships within the group.

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The officers themselves may not be comfortable with their responsibilities. There is this point, too, about a representative governing board of children from the various groups. Larry goes to the dime store and takes a top, a nineteen-cent top. His housemother notices the new top and asks where he got it. She knows that his account is at a low ebb and that allowances are not due until tomorrow. She reminds him that he went to the dime store without asking her permission to go shopping. Larry first thinks up a few stories to get himself out of his difficulty, but finally tells the housemother that he did take the top without paying for it. The next day, after she has given out the allowances, she goes with the boy to the dime store. They pay the nineteen cents, and the housemother explains to the manager. Larry has told his friend Rudy, and the two boys and their housemother are the only ones who know. The day after the incident occurs, appropriate measures have been taken, and it is dropped. If the matter had been brought before a children's board, all the other groups would have heard about it, Larry's prestige would have been damaged and he would have harbored resentment. In order to handle a disciplinary or behavior situation effectively, one must know the child's background and the probable reasons for his reactions and responses. Children do not, of course, have this understanding or knowledge of causative factors, and therefore should not share in the responsibility for determining disciplinary action. They might feel that certain infringements call for certain

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punishments, without regard to the child at fault. The professional adult considers the child first, and his adjustment next, before deciding what to do. Sometimes we, trying to be as thoughtful as we can, and calling on any skills which we may have acquired and developed, feel very uncertain about the right course of action. Sometimes we feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility, and we are constantly aware of our limitations in handling each phase of the child's twenty-four hour day to best fit in with his needs. It is an adult responsibility and a grave one—not the children's. Group meetings can be used effectively as a means of developing a good climate—meetings of a group, a cottage or a department, together with the houseparent or the director, or meetings of the entire institutional family and the director. We use group meetings in various ways: ( 1 ) to help a group to get ready for an occasion; (2) to explain a change that is being made in staff or program; and, (3) to talk over a troublesome situation. Children who are uncertain, generally, and who have not had much experience in social gatherings are apt to be apprehensive and at a loss as to how to behave at a party, or an occasion at the Center, such as a tea where there may be adults whom they do not know very well. When youngsters are not sure of themselves, or of what is expected of them, they may wrestle with one another, chase, show off, act "smarty," or resist coming to the party in the first place. If the occasion is explained beforehand— timing, the program, when it will be over—they are much

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more apt to be poised, comfortable with themselves, and at ease. The response of the children will also be more cordial if a group meeting is held to explain any change within the institution. Children like to be "in the know" and in the inner circle, and we are careful to present to them changes that will affect them. Sometimes they have questions and doubts which we would not have anticipated, and it is helpf u l to have all of them aired in the group. The process in itself seems to have value. One of our board members was once riding in a bus that went past the Center. She was seated behind a young mother and a small boy who was a handful, evidently as much so at home as in the bus. As they approached the Center, the mother pointed to the building, saying, "That's where children stay who don't mind their mommies and daddies. There in that Home they'd make you mind!" This mother was using us (to our sorrow) as the "big bad wolf." She was expressing a traditional concept on the part of the public in regard to children's institutions, the old picture of soap, wax, complete order, and conformity. Unfortunately some of these public concepts of children's Homes still have a basis in actual practice today. Many institutions are afraid to break away from rigid discipline and control, afraid that, given an inch, the children will take a mile. Too many children in too many institutions are expected to toe the mark to a much greater extent than are the children in the average good home, and to a much

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greater extent than is necessary. M y final word on the subject is this: if we must lean too f a r one way or the other, let us lean toward spoiling the children a little, rather than toward regimentation and rigidity.

•HUr The Case Worker The Child—the Child's Family I always like to hear Mrs. Fred C. Ellis tell how and why the services of the first case worker were sought. Mrs. Ellis was president of the board in the late 1920s, and she also served as a member of the admissions and visiting committee. This committee considered and approved new applications for the care of children in the institution; the members also visited some of the children who had been placed out, mostly in free foster homes, or who had returned to their own homes. One day the matron called on Mrs. Ellis for help in an emergency; a small boy of nine had run away. With a list of relatives' addresses in her hand, Mrs. Ellis set out in search of George. First she took a long streetcar ride to one of the suburbs to see George's grandmother. Grandma lived in a neat white cottage with a picket fence; there were red geraniums at the window, and the odor of freshly baked bread met Mrs. Ellis as she entered the door. The grandmother was an active woman in her fifties, busily ironing in her gleaming, cheerful kitchen. The entire scene was comfortable and inviting. And there was George, a

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little guilty at having run away from the Home, it's true, but happy to be in the home that meant a good deal to him. As Mrs. Ellis talked things over with the grandmother, it turned out that George would have been welcome in this home for· some time past. There was room for him, and grandma was anxious to have him stay with her, but she thought perhaps the Home had some reason for wanting to keep him. She had not felt free to approach anyone there about taking him out. Since the time of his admission, no one had talked with any of George's relatives, and the grandmother's attractive cottage had never been visited. The episode clinched in Mrs. Ellis' mind something about which she had been thinking for some time. She became determined that the institution would have a case worker—someone who would keep in touch with the relatives of all of the children like George. She had been worried and concerned about the free home placements, also made by the board committee. Moreover, sound professional services were needed at the time of the admission of new children. Mrs. Ellis interpreted the value of case work to the rest of the board and, in 1930, obtained the parttime services of a worker from the staff of a children's agency in the city. The worker later came to the institution in 1931 on a full-time basis, to become a member of the staff. The case work service was thus established because of a need felt within the institution, and because of the insight on the part of the board for improved services. Mrs. Ellis

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and some of the other members knew why they wanted a case worker and what would be expected of her. They did not wait for someone from the outside to come along and point out this need to them. And because the members of the board themselves sought out the services of a worker, it has always been an accepted part of the entire program, and there is a good understanding on the part of the board and staff of case work. The responsibilities of the institution case worker may include all or some of the following: intake; direct work with the child in residence and with his relatives; planning for the child who is leaving; home finding; follow-up care of the child who has returned to his own or a foster home; work with the institution's child care staff. Along with these, there is always the matter of interpretation—to the board, staff, and community. I would like to discuss a few points in connection with some of these phases of the work. When Mrs. Ellis and her admissions committee met in the 1920s to pass on a new application, they gave consideration to the following questions: ( 1 ) is there a bed available? (2) is this a conforming child who will give us no trouble—can he adjust to the institution as it is? and, ( } ) is the family deserving of our services? In order to reassure the committee on this last point, the relatives were sometimes required to present a letter from a pastor. With the coming of case work, attention shifted to the child and what was best for him. Admission work must be done with the needs of the child in mind on the one hand, and, on the other, an evaluation of the staff, the program, and the

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physical care offered to meet those needs. In other words, could this institution help this child? We know that certain children, only, require group care, and for a particular period of their lives. No longer do so many youngsters spend their entire childhood in Homes. The case worker, during her intake study, and often with the help of a psychiatrist, determines what kind of care is best for the particular child for whom placement is needed, and for what approximate period of time. Some of those for whom a stay in a residential institution can be helpful are: ( i ) children who have a satisfactory tie with an own parent, a tie which both the child and the parent want to keep close; (2) children of recently divorced parents, youngsters who have become confused and torn in their loyalties, who require a rest away from relatives and who need what is sometimes referred to as the more diluted or impersonal relationships possible in an institution; (3) youngsters who have experienced many moves and replacements, who need, more than anything else, to stay in one place long enough to put down physical roots and to make emotional ties with an adult or two; and (4) children who, for one reason or another, cannot accept foster home care, or whose behavior is such that they are not acceptable to foster parents. This may include rejected children and those who have reacted negatively to the condition of psychological stress and strain between their parents, and between their parents and themselves. For many of these children it is a favorable factor that the institution is entirely different from a family home. In the institution,

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the child can make a completely fresh start, whereas if placed in a foster home, directly or too soon, he may find too many associations with the home life he has left. With our own increasing knowledge and with the help we are getting from the field of psychiatry, we realize more and more deeply what a serious and often traumatic step the matter of separation and placement is for the child. The admission worker is dealing, in almost every case, with three or four sets of individuals—the own parents who are seeking the placement, the child, the houseparent who receives him, and often the referring social agency, court, or clinic. The parent usually has intense feelings and involved problems centered around both the family situation which precipitated placement, and the child; the child has fears, uncertainties, and a double set of circumstances to face—separation from the known, and going to a new and little known place. The houseparent, too, has certain attitudes about receiving the child. Even to housemothers of long experience, the reception of a new child is a challenge, and both the housemother and her group have a readjustment to make. A new admission involves numerous arrangements. Timing is important. The worker must do what she can to interpret, support, and prepare the child, the parent, and the housemother; she must remain sensitive all the time to the major and minor emotional disturbances which have been set into motion by this placement; and out of this jigsaw of arrangements and cross currents of feelings, she must make some sort of an orderly pattern or plan.

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One of the most delicate areas of our entire work, and one which needs to be handled with the greatest skill, care, and thought, is that of the child's contacts with his relatives. A great deal lies behind the simple statement that "visiting hours are from two to four on Sundays." The deviations from that basic and traditional visiting period and the complications which surround this subject are numerous and involved. Let us look, for a moment, at the history of visiting. The old philosophy of care, which, as we know, did not work very well, was this: the parents were "unsuitable"; therefore the institution took over and became the strong, stern parent; and the less said to the child about his own kin, the better it would be for him. Back in those days, before we had case work services and when not much was known about child psychology, it was thought that simply by cutting the visits of parents to a minimum (thus achieving almost complete physical separation), an emotional separation also took place. Not only were the child's contacts with relatives, even strong relatives, reduced, but he was denied the opportunity for discussion of his feelings surrounding his home and separation from it. However, the children often went straight back to the relatives, whom they were supposed to have forgotten long since, the moment they were released from the strict controls of the Home. Years ago, when Homes were known to be too paternalistic, visiting was restricted to once or twice a month, and children rarely, almost never in fact, went out to visit. It was felt that the same visiting period must do

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for all, that individual arrangements could not be made, for that would not be fair. The management thought that if some children went out to visit relatives, those left behind would be greatly upset and resentful because they had to remain in the institution. This was another form of regimentation, and children· developed anxieties and tensions from these practices and the repression of any verbal expression of their thoughts about their families. Later, with our growing knowledge of the depth and meaning of the child-parent relationships, we began to see the dangers in this possessive attitude on the part of the institution, and we had quite a sharp swing in the opposite direction. We worked hard to maintain family ties. Some of us became overenthusiastic and even a little unrealistic about strengths in the family, which we were sure must be there. A few institutions went so far as to advocate that parents must be free to come to visit their children at any and all times; they should be invited for meals, and children should go just as freely to visit their homes. Many Homes have now settled on a middle course and practice in regard to visiting, which has behind it thoughtful case work, psychiatric consultation and more sensitive observation on the part of the child care staff, of the child's reactions to contacts with his own family. The frequency of visits, and the questions of whether or not the child goes home to visit, and for what period, are tentatively determined during the initial case work study. Changes are often made after observation of the child's reactions to home visits, or of the parents' visits at the in-

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stitution. The skillful case worker will know how to use the positive factors in the child-parent relationship, and how to make the child as comfortable as possible in the light of the negative factors. We have set the time for visiting at once a week, Sunday afternoons. For parents who work on Sundays, another time is arranged. The parent who has a good relationship with his child is free to come daily if the child is ill. In some instances, when parents are divorced or in conflict, arrangements are made for a father and mother to visit on alternate Sundays; when they come at the same time, the institution may become the scene of quarrels, of rivalry for the child, sometimes of reconciliation and love-making. A few children need actual protection from their relatives, and in such cases, the frequency of visits is reduced to once a month. A few children go home for the week end, others go for the day on Sunday, and some for just the afternoon. All of these week-end arrangements are made by the case workers. There is a "week-end list" on the desk in the front office which is available to the child care staff and to the children. It consists of two sheets; the first is the list of the standing arrangements, which are the same week after week. The second list shows arrangements made for the specific week end. Parents phone in on Friday or Saturday morning to make or confirm their plans. The children understand and accept the variations in visiting arrangements, since their workers talk over with them their own plans and the reasons for them. This means, of course, that activities must be planned for those children at the Center

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who do not go out and who are not visited there by relatives. A housemother or relief worker may take a group to the beach, for a ride, downtown window shopping, to Holiday Cottage, to the Zoo, and so on. Even so, Sunday is a hard day, and Mondays are not much easier. There are several reasons why the visiting of relatives at the Center is set at once a week, rather than left as a free and open arrangement. First, the parents of the children are often immature, insecure, and disorganized. Like the children, they respond positively to the rather set pattern of the institution's regime—they can follow along more satisfactorily on a visiting arrangement which is definite than one that is flexible. Then too, if the parent were free to come at any time, the children might be in a constant state of either negative or positive expectation; they would not be emotionally free to participate in activities. Visits would also interrupt play and group activities in which the children might be absorbed. This becomes distracting not only to the child being visited, but to the others in the group. To the child for whom visits with relatives are physically and emotionally upsetting, one visit a week means only one upset a week. Every institution differs from every other; it must be remembered that the visiting plan outlined above is that of an institution caring for children whose parents live in the same community; the youngsters in residence are often admitted because of home conditions to which they were unable to adjust. An important part of the case worker's responsibility is

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the work with the child's parents. There is need for the parents to be seen by the workers in almost every case. Some parents whose children are with us on a boarding basis see their workers mostly regarding arrangements, or to discuss the child's progress. The worker may make occasional suggestions and perhaps give some redirection here and there regarding the parents' handling of the children. Other fathers and mothers have interviews with the workers regularly and more often, in order to talk out their own personal problems as these affect the child. The worker tries to help the parent discuss and understand his feelings; sometimes this leads to a better personal adjustment on the part of the parent, and improved attitudes toward the child. In most situations, it works out better when the worker who sees the child is not the one who has contacts with the family. The child, whose feelings toward his family may be complicated, can make better use of his worker when he is not required to share her with his family. One of her great values to him is his feeling that she is detached from his family, and, to a degree, from the rest of the institution staff. However, because we do not have enough case work service at this point, it is usually necessary for the worker who is responsible for the child to carry the family work also. After the placement of a child, the parent may feel misunderstood or neglected, and may resent the attention which the child is receiving. Sometimes the parent is in actual competition with his own child, and he is threatened by, and resentful of, the attention and care which

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the child gets from the case worker and the housemother. Some parents would like to see their children punished. Some do not like to see others succeed where they have failed; still others cannot accept the fact that the child responds positively and with affection to adults on the institution staff. There are always a number of families so set in patterns unfavorable to children that not much can be done to change them; they are considered to be untreatable by case work methods. Sometimes a child, or several children in a particular family, are referred by another social agency, clinic, or court. Perhaps the referring agency, after the problem of placement is settled, may feel that there is no use in spending any further time with an untreatable family—the problems may be too neurotic, or deep-seated, or well-established to lend themselves to change or redirection. And so the case is closed. We, who have the children in care, often wish that all such cases could be kept open and active by the referring agency, for this reason: the family itself may be untreatable, but the child will have a better chance for success in placement if the agency continues to see the parent or parents. If a mother can gain release from her feelings by talking at regular intervals to an understanding worker (who is a patient and completely accepting listener), then the mother may get rid of some of the feelings of guilt, rivalry, or incompetence which she has surrounding placement, and other problems which she may have. She is able to criticize the agency which has taken over her child. The

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worker acts as a safety valve for the whole store of pent-up feelings. If the parent does not have such a safety valve, the child may receive the full impact of this verbalization when he goes home to visit or is visited at the institution. When the parent is not given opportunities to express his hostility verbally, he may take it out in actions toward the child, or complain to the child about the institution. The worker "drains o f f " this feeling, helps to clear the air. She is accepting in her attitude. T h e child has the institution and the institution case worker; the parent has to have someone too, who understands his side of things, who doesn't blame him, who takes him f o r what he is, and above all, one who listens. In some cases, the court or social agency needs to maintain strong control of the family situations, to set certain limitations in order to safeguard the child. All of this clears the way for us to help the child toward more certain progress. There are several different points of view regarding the length of stay of the child in the institution. Many people can accept the idea of institutional care if it is only temporary care in a receiving or study home. Receiving and study homes do, of course, have a real and important place in child care programs; so do institutions giving residential care over longer periods. Each kind of institution provides a necessary service; it is not a case of one or the other. Let us look, for a moment, at Joel. Joel came to the Cent e r two months before he was six years old. In his six years he had had thirteen placements. H e was born in a maternity home, and lived as a baby in an institution for infants

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and preschool children. Then began a succession of boarding home placements with his mother, short-time placements in unlicensed boarding homes, and several placements in licensed foster homes. Each time he had to be replaced after a few months stay for varying reasons, such as the illness of the foster mother, inability to share the home with the foster parents' own child, and so on. Joel's case record says: On admission to the Center, Joel showed very definitely that he had never learned to establish a relationship with any one adult. He accepted attention willingly from any adult who offered it, but had no idea how either to accept or give real affection. Toward other children he has been extremely hostile, and his anger toward the other youngsters is aroused by any show of affection by an adult toward another child.

Joel had only a vague notion of what a mother was. His own mother had drifted briefly in and out of his life. There was a confusion of foster mothers in his memory. This child had never had a real or lasting tie with a parent or parent substitute, and it was important that this placement should last long enough for him to make such ties. That would take at least two years, and Joel needed, even asked for, the assurance that he was to stay here. We find the following in the case record: Joel came in to see me for his regular bi-weekly appointment. He immediately wanted to sit on my lap, even relaxed a little against me, which is unusual for Joel. He often wants to sit on my iap and hangs on to my neck in a tense kind of way or he sits in a rigid position. Today we read a story about Curley, the Baby Squirrel who ran away from home, got into all sorts of trouble, and then was

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happy to get back to Mamma Squirrel and his own soft bed. Joel made no reference to the running away, but identified himself with the Baby Squirrel by saying, "Naughty boys always get into trouble and have to be punished, don't they?" When I said, "What happened when Baby Squirrel came home?" he replied quickly, "He just crawled into his own warm bed and went to sleep." He avoided any reference to Mamma Squirrel, but said, "You won't ever make me leave the Home?" I assured Joel that this is his home, that we like him and want him to stay here. He replied, "Mrs. Roen brought me here because she knew I would like it here!" [Mrs. Roen is the case worker from another agency.] Joel opened my desk drawer and saw a copy of "This Is the Way We Live and Play." He turned to me angrily and said, "You gave all the other Jack and Jills one of those books, but you never gave me one." I reminded Joel when he came to the Center I had given him one and that he and Mrs. Roen had read it together. "Oh no you didn't, but I remember that day I came. I was awful mad. I didn't like it here at all, but in a little while I began to like it, didn't I?" I said, "I don't blame you for not liking it when you came; after all, the lady who was taking care of you got sick all of a sudden and you had to leave her and come to a strange place." Joel replied, "Oh no, I wasn't mad and I like it here." I assured Joel again that we like to have him here. Joel was asking f o r the reassurance that we would keep him. He dreaded another placement, another change. To a child like Joel, each replacement means to him that he is not wanted, that he has failed, or that adults again have failed him. Another child, Francine, came in at eight, with habit patterns strongly set. Francine had a firm drive to control with negative behavior, such as bed-wetting, stealing, defiance. She was skeptical of grownups. She had never been

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given enough love, so she could not give out in love or with a warm affectionate response to others. How long would it take to soften the hard protective shell which she had built up, to establish new patterns of behavior? A t least two years, we found. It would have been a mistake to return her to her own home, or to try a foster home placement after a short stay in the institution. It takes longer than a few months for a child like Francine to change enough to be able to adjust satisfactorily in a home. D r . Sylvester once suggested to us that we start to figure the length of stay from the point at which a child starts to improve, not from the date at which he was admitted. W e talk over length of stay with the child, who is usually relieved and relaxed to know that he will be settled for a while. When a child is leaving the institution, we must carefully prepare the rest of the group for his departure. W e are often thoughtful in our preparation of the group for the newcomer (as we should b e ) , but are less attentive to the child who is leaving. Because of the factor of sibling rivalry, children often have a wish that other children will be gotten rid of. Sharon may have wished more than once that Mary would go, or that she would be put out of the institution. I f Mary should actually go elsewhere, Sharon might have considerable guilt over what she thought was the fulfillment of her wish. I f a happy occasion is made o f Mary's going away, such as a party, then all, including Sharon, can talk openly and freely about the occasion, and the air is cleared.

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What happens to children when they are ready to leave the Center? Sometimes parents who were divorced, or were widows or widowers, marry again and establish new homes for the children. Some children, after a period of one, two, three, and even four years, return to the very same homes from which they came, and to the same problems which precipitated their placement in the first place. Many of them make fairly good adjustments and gain some degree of understanding and ability to live with outwardly intolerable home and parental complications. Occasionally a rejected child insists on going home, there to fight out his rejection on the home front. We hope that, during their stay, we have given these children something which makes it possible for them to go back home and to continue, in spite of the problems there, in the direction of individual growth and maturity. With some youngsters, we experience success; with others, failure. Sometimes a child comes too late, or is too injured and hurt to be able to respond and to be helped by this kind of a program. Perhaps he needed intensive psychiatric treatment in a more clinical institution. Sometimes, because of the lack of such facilities, children are admitted with the hope that we can help them; perhaps we do help to a degree, or for a while, and again we may fail. Some children, after a period of care in the institution, are placed in the foster homes which are an important part of the agency's program. These may be foster homes of the agency's own selection. In that case, the same case worker

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whom they had in the institution continues with their supervision. Other children who are cared for at the Center are referred by other agencies, who assume responsibility for their care in their own or foster homes after they leave the institution. The point at which a foster home placement is made is important. A great deal of understanding and skill, too, is needed to know for which children, and when, the chances are favorable for a satisfactory adjustment in a foster home. One might think that the child who had never experienced coherent family life should have a foster home very soon, that a good family life might be what he most needs. However, the truth of the matter is that such a child would probably not be able to make good use of a foster home placement, for he does not know how to relate to other people in a family. It is much better that the necessary emotional reeducation, with its ups and downs, its periods of progress and regression, take place in an institution. When attempted in a foster home, it sometimes means the loss of a good foster home, a discouraged foster mother, and a replacement for the child. When the time comes that we feel a youngster's chances are good for getting along well in a foster home, then, sad to say, the foster home that is just the right home for him is often not available. As a result, a number of children are staying on in the institution for a longer period than we had planned. One of the greatest needs of the agency is for more foster homes which will help the child to continue to grow in the direction which was started during

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his stay at the Center. Enough children who have left have had the experience of living in fine foster homes to give us courage to think that if we look long and hard enough, we may find more such couples to take other children. A good deal of follow-up service is needed for the children who leave the institution, whether they return to their own homes or are placed in foster homes. When a child does not have a great deal of security at home, he needs the continued support and interest of his case worker, and it is reassuring to him too that the Home is always there to stand by him in case of need. Perhaps he continues to come back to Dr. Abbott for dental care; the services of the pediatrician, Dr. McMahon, also continue to be available to him. He may be invited back to go on a picnic with his group, and he likes to have visits with his housemother, the cook, or the housekepeer. Problems of readjustment between the child and the parents often require a good deal of the worker's time and skill. Unless adequate follow-up case work service is provided, many of the gains which have been made during the child's stay in the institution may be lost. There is a fairly good general understanding of those areas of the case worker's job concerned with intake, placement, and work with relatives. Often the institution does not have sufficient case work service to allow for enough direct work with children in residence in the institution, which is one of the most vital areas of the case worker's responsibility. For some children the environmental aspects of the care are enough; given a favorable group back-

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ground, a good housemother, and plenty of play outlets, they get along very well. Some children, however, need more: they require direct therapy with their problems. A good deal of time is needed when children are seen as regularly and frequently as is necessary. It is important that the periods and the time that the child spends with the worker be carefully planned, in terms of the needs of the case. The child must be sure of his appointments, and the worker should let nothing encroach on his time. The needs of the smaller, less articulate children must be kept in mind, too; children, like Joel, who are often overlooked in an institution. It is important that the worker respect what the child tells him in confidence. Unfortunately, the demands of intake emergencies and other crises are always impinging themselves on the workers' calendars, so there never seems to be enough time to spend with the children. Many institutional workers feel frustrated at having to spread themselves and their services too thin. Sometimes a worker tries somewhat desperately to give the children something to make up for weaknesses in the general program. One of the questions which arise now and then is whether the institution should have a case worker or workers on its own staff, or whether it is better for case work to be provided by another or an affiliated agency in the community. There are advantages in both arrangements, but the best plan is, I think, for the worker to be on the staff of the institution and to have an office there, for proximity and availability to the staff and children are im-

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portant. Often, however, it is not possible lor an institution to attract a worker of its own, particularly the institution which is just starting a program of this kind, as is the case with quite a number of children's Homes today. The institution which is initiating case work may also be in the throes of revamping its entire program, perhaps changing over from an old to a new regime. Many an institution has not as yet established itself as a recognized agency doing a modern piece of work. Perhaps the board of directors does not have an understanding of the function and importance of case work. To turn for a moment to the worker whose specialty and skills lie in the work with children, the first-rate worker whom the institution would like to have on its staff. There are not enough case workers today in any field. The good worker who is selecting a position finds that she has many offers; her services are much sought after. She may have her choice of cities and of agencies. Probably several agencies are vying for her as a staff member. She herself wants to work in an accredited agency, one with a good national affiliation and an established reputation for doing a first-rate job. She wants good supervision so that she can continue to grow professionally. She has in mind, too, that she would like to be in an agency where there are a number of workers, for then she will have the stimulation and companionship of working with others of her profession. If she goes to an institution, she may be the only worker, sometimes the first case worker. Since many children's Homes are located at the edge of town, she may

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feel isolated physically as well as professionally. If the executive and the board have only a partial understanding and acceptance of case work, she may first have to sell herself and her work to them. In a large established case work agency, she and her profession are welcome and given every encouragement. In the institution having its first worker, she may have to case work her way around and through the board, the superintendent, the houseparent, before she can finally reach the child. Many a worker knows the futility of this kind of a situation, and the discouragement which comes when her work with the children is limited. N o t many well-qualified workers are willing, nowadays, to go through all of that. The point which I am trying to lead up to is this; it is difficult for many small institutions to attract first-rate workers. In such cases, and in order to obtain case work services, it would be well for the institution to see if it can obtain a part-time or full-time worker from the nearest and best children's or family agency. It is better to have part-time services of the best quality than none at all, or second best. But this is not the ultimate answer. The institution should work constantly toward improving its program and its professional status to the point where it can attract workers of its own. The advantages to the institution of having its case workers on the staff are these: the worker is more easily available to staff and children; the staff and board have the assurance that she is their worker; her loyalties are with the institution. She absorbs more of the background of

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their daily lives, and has opportunities for direct observation, and so she has a better understanding of the adjustment and reactions of the children. Her services are more closely integrated with those of the total program. On the other hand, when a worker sees regularly several children within a group, a rivalry situation may develop within the group. This is particularly true and may be exaggerated when the worker has an office within the institution. She may be able to work more effectively with these individuals when her office is in another setting. Then, too, when a worker is very close to the entire program, the housemother's status may be threatened in regard to a child whom the worker sees regularly. Perhaps the housemother feels that this particular child needs strong control and limitations. The worker may be more permissive, reassuring and supportive, as part of her treatment, than the housemother. As a result, and more often when the worker is on the grounds, the child may turn to her for permission to do this or that, or to talk over matters which should be within the area of responsibility of the housemother. Confusion and tension may develop on the part of the housemother and the child. The areas of responsibility of the housemother and case worker sometimes overlap, and it is not always possible to define them clearly. Each of the two may have a somewhat different approach to the child. As a result, a question which often comes up is this, "How can a smooth working relationship be established between child care and case work staffs?" We must remember, first of all, that case

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work has not been an integral part of most institution programs for as long a time as it has in other social work settings, and is still in the process of orienting and establishing itself. In a child caring institution the division of lines of responsibility must of necessity be flexible; interpersonal relationships between members of the staff and between staff and children become complicated, due to the very nature of the setting, which includes nonprofessional as well as professional workers. It would be difficult and presumptuous to try to set forth a formula for a completely harmonious interdepartmental relationship. Even though the housemother, the case worker, and the director each fulfills a different role in the life of the child, the child feels that we are all working together when and if this three-way relationship is good. Some children try to play one staff member against the other. Frequent conferences act as a safeguard which helps to keep things clear and in balance and working smoothly. There are a few points for the administrator and child care staff to remember which will help the case worker to work with the child most effectively: i. Let the children have easy access to the worker; youngsters should feel free to go to her office at any time. Children running to the workers' offices can also be a problem, particularly in a large setting when the housemothers need to know exactly where their children are. The children who are seen regularly should have definite appointments and the time for these worked out by the housemother and case worker in joint conference.

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2. D o not get upset if a child goes to his worker to complain about the staff and program. O f t e n such a child has feelings of hostility and anger, and a conference with his worker gives him a chance to blow off steam. Sometimes he is not really angry at the institution at all, but at his parents or his home complications, but his anger comes out at the things nearest to him at the moment—the other children, the staff, or some situation. The child should feel that he may complain to the worker without any expression of disfavor from her or f r o m his housemother; he should not be made to feel guilty about it. This is often hard f o r the housemother to accept, but she should remember that she also goes to the case worker f o r the release and support and reassurance that come from their discussion of the child's ups and downs in his group and in his cottage or department. 3. D o not ask the case worker to act as disciplinarian. This is not her function. The control and direction of the group and of individuals is the job of the housemother and director. A housemother should never march a child into the case worker's office with a recital of his wrongdoing; this will upset the case worker's relationship with the child and handicap her in her long-time planning and work with him. The child will only feel that several adults are united against him. 4. T h e housemother should be alert to situations that might well be referred to the case worker. For example, Frank, aged twelve, shows a good deal of impatience and antagonism toward his brother Eddie, age ten. The house-

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mother has barely saved Eddie from being hit over the head with a blackjack which Frank had made for the purpose of conking others who annoyed him, especially Eddie. The housemother says, "Look, Frank, all boys get angry sometimes. But you get angry pretty often, and pretty hard, and especially at your brother. Why don't you go and talk to Miss Smith some time about this? Tell her how you feel, and maybe she can help you." j . The institution often expects a magic answer from the case worker, a prescription, as one would from a physician. John has an infection; the doctor prescribes sulfa, and in two days John is better. Ben is stealing right and left; Sally wets her bed every night; Alfred is rude and impertinent. The housemother would like an answer which is as specific for the stealing, the enuresis, and the sauciness, as sulfa is for a temperature and an infection. The case worker may say t.hat the child needs continued love, acceptance, patience, and time. She may explain again why a child does a certain thing, but she has no quick formula for changing him, and this sometimes makes the house staff impatient. 6. The worker wants to hear all the positive, interesting things about the child, as well as his negative behavior. She should have opportunities to observe the children at first hand. However, we must remember here that a certain amount of detachment is necessary on her part, for if she gets too involved in the ordinary mechanics of everyday life, she loses part of what she can offer in her therapeutic relationship with the child.

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7. Do not ask the case worker to make a change f o r the simple purpose of relieving a crisis. The child should, whenever possible, be returned to his own home, or placed in a foster home, or moved to another group when he is doing well, rather than when he is in a difficult spot. 8. Remember that the case worker should make the arrangements regarding the child's visits home or the visits of his parents to the institution. The housemother should never deprive a child of visits home as a disciplinary measure. 9. What information should the housemother be given regarding the child's family history and his previous experiences and reactions? The housemother should know the total problem, why this child is coming for care, what events precipitated placement, the reasons behind the child's reactions prior to his admission, and the possible reactions after he comes to the institution. The housemother may need some cues and suggestions for the preparation of her group. The case worker, the housemother, the cook, the director, all will be working toward the same end—to help this child who is in trouble. And each staff member will be able to be most helpful if he has a good professional understanding of the causative factors leading to the child's separation from his own home. Some information which the parents or the child give to the worker may be of a confidential nature, and then it should, of course, be treated confidentially. 10. Some of the differences which arise between house staff and case work staff could, I think, be ironed out if

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conferences were held frequently enough. When housemothers are free to come to the case workers at any time, and when the workers have plenty of time to talk things over, there is as a result a better understanding of one another's responsibilities. The case worker, realizing what a hard job the housemother has in trying to manage her group and to keep up with the needs of, and give enough attention to, all the individuals within the group, is able to give the housemother some of the support and reassurance she needs. Here at the Center,· the housemothers have attended conferences with the consulting psychiatrist, in which the director and the case worker have also participated. The housemothers are members of an association composed of members of child care staffs of children's institutions. Institutes and training courses centered around our problems and children, and attendance at other institutes and conferences, all help give the housemother a dignity and status which are rightly hers. All of these things help to minimize any self-consciousness which she may have regarding differences between her own professional background and training and the case worker's. She grows more and more impressed with the importance of her contribution to the child's welfare, and she responds to the respect which the psychiatrist, the director, and the case worker have for her part of the total job. It would be an invaluable experience for every case worker who is going to work with children, whether in an institution, in foster homes, or their own homes, to serve

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an internship during her training in the direct care of children. Such an internship might be in a summer camp for children, in a convalescent home, or a children's Home. It would help the worker to learn about children through proximity to them in a daily living relationship, and to appreciate fully some of the practical problems of the parent, the foster mother, the camp counselor, or the housemother.

Afterthought The reader may wonder at my tendency to "accentuate the positive," particularly in the examples used as descriptive or typical of happenings or methods at the Lakeside Center. Some of the negatives are mentioned, and the reader will be aware of others, as he reads between the lines. My purpose in using those positives which it has been possible for us to achieve was to present some phases of the hopeful side of child care in institutions. The sad and discouraging part of the picture has been recorded so often that I wanted this to be a cheerful little book. I might have written a chapter on what happens to a group when the experienced housemother leaves, a housemother who has been able to give her children strong support, loving care, and the security that goes with those factors. Here is an example of what sometimes happens: during a two-year period, Aunt Molly retired, two other housemothers were married, and a third was tempted away to a position which carried greater professional prestige, shorter hours, better salary, less social isolation, and no stairs. We felt that the bottom had dropped out of our

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little world. The long discouraging search for new workers began. Rarely is it possible to find a housemother who has had good training for, or previous experience in, institutional child care. Occasionally someone who is not qualified is hired in desperation, merely to keep the group covered. When a new child care staff member comes, there follows a long period of orientation and training until she "gets the feel" of the job. During this time, additional responsibility falls upon the workers who have been with the agency for a long time. But more serious and most difficult is the readjustment of a group of children to a new personality. On the other hand, many new housemothers without specific training approach the job with hesitation and many qualms; they make mistakes. Children whose adjustment was marginal sometimes go all to pieces during such a change. This chapter, which I have omitted, would have been a sad one, familiar to all institutional workers. We have been beset by all sorts of crises, big and small, and somehow we have always managed to muddle through them and to make more or less of a comeback. The going is often slow. One has to learn to rebound, to live with limitations, and to get enough of a lift and impetus from the positive values in order to survive and carry on. During the past year, a Board member and her husband have taken colored movies of year-round activities—views of the house, the school, a birthday party, a picnic, a group at Holiday Cottage, the Vegetable Fair, a small boy making his bed, the Big Boys cutting grass, and all of us at work in the garden. When these pictures were first shown to the

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staff and children, we were struck with the additional depth, color, rhythm, which the colored film added to everyday life. Actually, the fa5ade of our high, ugly, old building looks truly cold and exactly like an orphan asylum, especially on a stark winter's day. But the moving pictures of the house were taken in the early spring, when the trees were crowned with hazy young leaves and the sky was blue. Our reaction was, "How nice the House looks! We will be glad to have this picture for the records." In the movie, the grass looks greener, the water of Lake Michigan bluer, and the ice pond deeper than in real life. A young skater, actually rather hesitant, seems quite skillful as she does a solo exhibition, thanks to the somewhat slower timing as the colored film is projected. Whenever we had warning that the next few feet of pictures were about to be taken, we wore our brightest clothes. The purpose of the movie was to give the Board, staff and children an opportunity to enjoy again some of the happier days of our lives. Will the reader forgive me, if with the same spirit in which the movies were made, and with maternal pride, I have taken some pictures of the Lakeside family looking its best?

Excerpts from News Letters David, aged five, was standing on the top step of the stairs, with an audience of Junior boys and girls below. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced in a loud, slow and impressive voice, "I am THE ATOMIC BOMB, and I'm gonna go off any minnit!" One evening during the holidays, we went to the movies. We looked forward to a rare thing, a double feature when both attractions sounded promising. We had a pleasant time of Welcome Stranger, a mild, wholesome Bing Crosby-Barry Fitzgerald show. Then came Margaret O'Brien in The Unfinished Dance. It does quite a bit for the Pigtails to have such a prominent star as Margaret O'Brien as their contemporary in age, interests, and way of doing her hair. She is their girl. But the Pigtails felt considerably let down at this movie, because for the first time Miss O'Brien Did Something Very Wrong. No angels themselves, the Pigtails, but they never went so far as Margaret did. In all her previous pictures the little star was such a Good Girl, so this Unfinished Dance came to us

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somewhat as a shock and a disillusionment. What is more, after she had done this bad thing, Margaret told no one, and her girl friend, the only other person who knew, told no one—and such restraint is beyond us. Margaret was a little dancer in a ballet school, and she greatly admired a grown ballerina whom we shall call A . When Ballerina Β came to town, and it seemed as if she would steal all of A's glory, Margaret pulled a switch in the theater while Β was dancing (thinking only to turn off the light), but the switch opened a trap-door, and Β fell down a hole, to be hurt, and never to dance again. Margaret looked glum and unhappy for at least fifteen minutes of our time, and what seemed like months of her life, brooding over her wrong-doing, and trying desperately to patch things up. A t one point, our Janice announced in a clear, authoritative and diagnostic tone of voice to two or three rows of Oriental Theater patrons, "She's feeling guilty!" Marlene borrowed Miss Wehland's handkerchief— she had trouble not only with sniffles, but her eczema began to itch too. Added to the switch business, Margaret O'Brien shifted in her loyalties and affections from dancer A to B, and that bothered the Pigtails too. All in all, as we plodded down the snowy street at 1 0 : 1 j (late for us) yawning and talking it over, we were disturbed, confused, and not too happy over the trend that things were taking with M. O'Brien. " I , " announced Armand, just seven, "am the very nicest one of the Little Boys!" Part of this was Christmas, part

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of it was Armand, whose opinion of himself is rising rapidly, as we want it to. What would you have thought if you had walked through the yard at 9:30 (thinking to yourself that the building was dark and all the children were snugly tucked in their beds), and then, as you looked up, you saw two housemothers over on the toboggan slide, taking a couple of rides? It happened like this: Mr. Novotny, the maintenance man, usually checks the furnaces at 10 P.M. and puts them to bed. His wife, who is Big Boys' housemother, has a fireman's license also. That evening, Mr. N . had a bad cold, so Mrs. Ν said that she would remove the clinkers, set the gauges and whatever else needed to be done. As she went out of the Center building, Miss Arndt said she'd come along, and together they fixed the furnace. Then, on the way in, Mrs. N . noticed (oh dear!) that the boys had left their toboggan out again. It was a clear, sparkling, moonlight night, and as she went to get the toboggan, she and Miss Arndt decided to slide down once. It was such fun, they took a few more slides. " A n d you know," she said, " w e went even farther than the children usually go." "Miss Petey," asked Bobbie, "If Joe picks up a piece of cheese and smells it, doesn't he have to eat it?" "I've got to have a talk with you about your dog," a police officer said to us. This was not Jake, our regular

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officer and good friend, but another kindly cop who has the neighborhood beat. It seems that our new dog, Suzy, was causing complications at the six point intersection of North Avenue, Farwell, Oakland and Ivanhoe Place. Even the best drivers and most precautious pedestrians become confused at this corner, and Suzy was not making things simpler for anyone. The officer told us (always calling Suzy " h e " ) , "There he was, working at a big chunk of bubble gum that was almost cemented to the street. He tried it first from one side and then the other, but he couldn't get it loose. The cars were honking at him, but he paid no heed. I told him to go home, but he and I didn't see eye to eye on that. So I took him by the collar to lead him away and he takes a nip at me." (When you try to make Suzy do anything she doesn't want to do, she either lies down on her back with her four long legs in the air and acts coy and silly, or she takes a nip.) One must learn not to nip at the police, and the officer gave Suzy a sharp disciplinary slap on the nose. At that point, two ladies came along and commented loudly that that was a mean thing to do, and the officer had better send the dog to the Humane Society. "I told them," he went on to say, "that I keep a rope in my sand box to tie up dogs who are on the loose, and have to go to the Humane Society. But, I said to them, Ί know this dog. H e has a home and he has plenty to eat. He isn't after this bubble gum because he's hungry.' With that, the ladies went on their way, and the dog was at the gum again. I finally got him headed toward home. I was coming up North Avenue anyway, so I led him to your corner.

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B u t he didn't come in the driveway. He went up Prospect, cut across the lot toward Farwell, and probably

went

around the block right back to the bubble g u m . " "To

weeks at Sylvia's. Patsy and me were at Sylvia

f o r to weeks we had a lot of f u n to we had a lot of apples and cherries and raspberries to. once we went to a barn dance all patsy did was sat down and me i danced. Jean was there to and i danced with her. I had 3 glasses of soda and so did Patsy, there was a county fair to it started on f r i d a y and ended on Sunday we went all three days i got to letters f r o m m y Mother, we had a good time. B y Janice." We are getting more and more fond of Western Union. T h e other day, after having given our message on the phone, the operator's disembodied voice mechanically asked us, as they do, " A n d in whose name is this telephone listed? I will now repeat the paid telegram, etc." A t that moment at the Center, the children came bursting home f r o m school, and the front hall was full of the noise of voices and the dinner bell. The automatic tone of the operator suddenly changed and became a warm, human, womanly one. " A w , I can hear the children," she cooed, "isn't that cute. I ' m coming up there sometime." Davie was admiring himself one day in the mirror. " I ' l l look even cuter when I get m y cap and coat o n , " he said to no one in particular. The Killdeers. Before we began the garden activities,

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Mr. and Mrs. Killdeer chose the center of our three acres as a fine place to build their nest. They thought they had a perfect place, near the lake, convenient to the city, lots of room, and no one to bother them. They built a beautiful nest, right on the ground, lined with small stones. Mrs. Killdeer laid four eggs, just the color of the stones and sand. Mr. and Mrs. K . were quite surprised and not a little alarmed when we moved in with wheelbarrows, pitch forks, bushel baskets, and all of our spreadings. It was a good thing that Irene discovered the nest. We put sticks around it so that none of us would go too near. Mrs. K. was peaceful during school hours when the children were learning their lessons, but she was always upset when we worked in the garden. She would screech and fly about and pretend she had a broken wing, to detract our attention from the nest. Life was more exciting to the Killdeers than they ever wanted it to be, but May 1 0 was the Big Day. Of course it -would, happen that way at the L.C.C. The day Mr. Millard came with his noisy motor driven rotary tiller, going up and down, up and down— that day the eggs hatched, and Mr. and Mrs. K . were frantic. We had told Mr. Millard all about the nest and he watched the sticks carefully so as not to get too near, but even so, the birds were very worried. As soon as Mr. Millard had finished his tilling and had gone, we closed the garden gate and let no one go in. The next day was Saturday, and the Victory gardeners wanted to plant, but we thought the Killdeers should have one whole day to them-

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selves with their four children without any worries. Little killdeers get on their feet quickly, and by Monday they were on their own, and Mr. and Mrs. K . were relieved that they had raised a family even in the midst of so many difficulties. We wonder if they will come back next year, and hope they will. Wonderful scene: Aunt Molly, sitting in the basement on a sawed-off stump of one of the trees that Mr. Fred took out last summer. Her throne is between the coal pile and hot water heater, and she sits there complacently knitting something of delicate pink. Miss Wanda calls her Ella Cinders. Aunt Molly was down there supervising the skating situation. The children change their skates in the basement and come in there to warm up. Aunt Molly pauses at her knitting to keep one eye on the skate changing, one eye on the pond (through the window), then she takes up her knitting again. One day a large, impressive Kaiser car rolled up, and here was Emil, who was in the institution in 1936. A f t e r a year or two in the Center, Emil stayed in the Hovener foster home. He had several active years in the Marine Corps, and is now doing two things: he is manager of the Metropolitan Vending Company, and he is attending a State College in the southwest. He is taking Educational Administration, says he is going to run a college sometime, and we think he probably will. Emil visited with the staff

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and looked over the Center building—it looks much smaller to him now than when he was eleven years old. Before he left, he treated all the kids to ice cream. Miss Alice Blanchard enjoyed a different kind of a ride than she ever had before. There was this day off between semesters, and we all went out to Brown Deer Park for a day of skating. Mrs. Meyer, Mrs. Frank and Miss Blanchard, of the board, each drove out a carload of children; we had Mrs. Falk's station wagon, which she loaned us. We took our lunch, and the lady at the lodge heated the hot chocolate for us, and played records, which came out over the skating pond loud and clear. The lake is sheltered, and it was warm in the sun. Mrs. Frank and Mrs. Meyer wore their skating clothes, and skated with the children. When we rested, it was at the far end of the pond, quite a way from the lodge. Miss Blanchard doesn't skate, and she thought she'd like to walk down the pond from the lodge to our benches in the sun, but the walking was pretty slippery, so the children suggested that she sit on a park bench and they'd push her. The skaters and the bench gained greater momentum than Miss Blanchard anticipated, and they made quite a picture, sailing at high speed the length of the lake. Miss Schloemilch says that some day she is going to write " M y Day," for she gets the most surprising phone calls and visits sometimes. One morning she answered the phone, and an impressive voice said, "This is the United States

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District Attorney's office calling, and we have seized—" Miss S. held her breath in awe, wondering what we had done wrong now, and then the anti-climax came " — a carload of cough drops, which are not quite up to weight, and we wondered if your children would like some of them?" We declined the cough drops, but Aim, ever resourceful, suggested that maybe the Home for the Aged would have more use for them. The U.S.D.A. thought that was a wonderful idea and was delighted to have found another way to dispose of all those cough drops.