For In-Betweens

One day in September 1948, a tired-looking Denver postman stood in a grade-school principal's office and heard these words: "I'm sorry, but we simply don't have any place for your sons." To Joseph Vincent Calabrese the words were deadly familiar. For years he had searched for a school that would take his boys. The answer was always the same.

The fact was that Joe's boys were unfit for normal school life. Despite tireless coaching at home, eight-year-old Larry had only a halting vocabulary of no words; 13-year-old Donald could barely dress himself. They were tragic "in-betweens," not quite eligible to enter even Denver's special schools for retarded children, yet not so hopeless that they had to be shut away in a state institution. Said stouthearted Joe, after his last turndown: "If there's no school 'that can help my kids, by golly I'll build one myself."

Paint & Paper. And so he did. After months of tramping the streets, he found a ramshackle, three-story building that he thought he could afford to rent. He and his wife scrubbed it from top to bottom, then painted and papered it. Out of their thrifty life savings of $10,000 they equipped classrooms, dining room, kitchen, isolation ward and dormitories. Then they named the school Laradon Hall, after Larry and Donald.

Last winter Laradon Hall opened its doors with but one entrance requirement: the ability to learn, however slowly. Soon 17 children came--most of them thin and staring youngsters suffering from nervous instability and poor muscular control. With the children came volunteer teachers: an ex-G.I. from the University of Denver, a former schoolmarm whose own son was born mentally defective, a young Negro woman who was studying psychology, one Ph.D. candidate and two undergraduates from the Denver university.

As the weeks passed, Laradon Hall began to win a few small victories. It cured nine-year-old Billy of pyromania by letting him burn the rubbish each day, until gradually ("Aw, I don't wanna") he lost his interest in lighting fires. Another boy had a mania for stealing keys. So Mrs. Calabrese bought a whole batch of keys for Harold and gave him one whenever he deserved a reward. Now Harold has a pile of keys and has stopped stealing them.

"Please Close the Door." But most of the children had deeper trouble. The most clearly retarded ones had to be taught to wash and feed themselves, and to understand such simple instructions as "Please close the door." For them there were courses in handicrafts, exercises to improve muscle coordination. For those less retarded but held back by emotional disturbances, e.g., a ten-year-old who vomited whenever he became excited, there were courses in reading and writing, and patient guidance.

Today, beyond its teaching staff, Laradon Hall has a registered nurse, a night matron and a dietitian. To get everything started, Joe had exhausted his savings. Boarding students are supposed to pay $140 a month, day students $40. But for parents who cannot afford to pay, Joe has been charging nothing.

By last week the Denver Area Welfare Council, without whose approval no organization can get community chest funds, had recognized Laradon as a member. That was the first help Joe had had, but it might not be enough. "Sometimes when the going gets rough," says he, "I wonder if the whole thing's worth while. But when I look at these kids, my own and all the others, I see that we've got to go on."

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