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to dash to the collection of Salvador Dali’s living jewelry, Faberge’s masterpieces and an Egyptian mummy thousands of years old. Our group was fortunate to have Debby Helmer, a veteran museum visitor with an uncanny memory of which hall to take to find each exhibit. Without her. I’d probably still be stumbling around, studying my map and trying to determine where we were with my fidgety charges in tow.
The museum was the only disappointment of the trip. I’d expected my eight kids to be awestruck by the masterpieces of art. They weren’t. I expected them to wait breathlessly while we strolled, admiring the paintings, tapestries and sculpture. They didn’t.
They were impressed by the mummy but that probably came from exposure to old horror flicks on late night T.V. The only other art works that drew a noticeable reaction—and that of giggles and chuckles—were the nudes. I had to smile at my girls with their superior attitude of sophistication.
“Oh, those boys. They’re so immature. They just don’t appreciate great art," remarked one miss as a madonna with a partially bared breast sent the guys snickering from the room.
Leaving culture behind, the kids raced back to the bus for the last leg of the drive to Williamsburg and our quarters for the next two nights.
‘‘Oh what fools these mortals be.” Shakespeare could have easily been referring to the management of our motel when he penned that deathless line. When the teachers checked at the desk for keys, they found that the boys were rooming downstairs, the girls upstairs and the chaperones in the next building.
For obvious reasons, we couldn’t stick with that arrangement. It took a little while but Mrs. Henry finally managed to juggle room assignments until she had the boys upstairs with their chaperones—geography teacher Roger Touhey and parents George Cooke and Irvin Kenyon. Two dozen girls were next door with
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