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In the 1950s, sixth-grade boys could gain considerable status by making the basketball team. In Indiana, the birthplace of “Hoosier Hysteria,” even elementary schools had teams and cheerleaders.

Serving on the Safety Patrol was nearly as prestigious. The patrol members were always boys, with one selected as captain. Each wore a thick, bright yellow plastic-felt belt diagonally across his chest and around his waist, forming a Day-Glo Z. A badge attached to the belt added to the sense of authority.

The boys arrived before the other students and collected their equipment from the principal’s office: 10-foot bamboo poles with red handkerchiefs tied to one end. Patrols stood at intersections on either side of the school, with two boys positioned diagonally from each other. When children needed to cross, they lowered their poles to stop traffic on the two intersecting streets.

Drivers were expected to obey. After one man failed to stop for a crossing guard, the principal, Miss Marsh, learned his identity—a simple matter in a small town where everyone knew everyone else. She called his employer, and the chastened driver later telephoned her to apologize.

Then, for reasons now forgotten, all the patrol boys were absent. The girls finally had an opportunity to take over, and I was among those chosen.

I proudly put on the patrol belt and hurried to my corner carrying the long bamboo pole. Feeling important, I took the assignment seriously and made sure the younger children crossed safely.

The moment ended far too quickly. Running late as I returned to school, I carried the pole horizontally while rushing toward the building. Its end struck a nearby tree with a sharp crack, snapping the pole in half.

My pride vanished. Mortified and trembling at the thought of facing the principal, I knew my brief career in elementary-school traffic control had come to an abrupt end.