Ode (Owed) to a School Long Past

Contrary to popular belief, I never attended a one room log cabin school house. As a matter of fact, my first school was huge. It was a two-story building with a gymnasium, music room, principal’s office, and bathrooms on both floors.

It was pretty intimidating the first day I showed up there. And it hurt! They lined us up like cattle going through a slaughterhouse and gave everybody shots in both arms for protection against small pox, diphtheria, mumps, measles, whopping cough, rubella, diarrhea, heart worms…. OK, I might have made those last couple up. But the point is they stuck us a lot.

And remember, this was way before those skinny round needles they use today. Big nurses with names like Ratchet, Whoppamyer, and Bertha Clodbuster would get a running start and hurdle that square shaped javelin into your little arms. Time has not diminished the sadistic glint in their eyes!

The one thing we didn’t get a shot for was polio. We were given a small block of sugar to swallow to ward off that terrible disease. Buddy Wiggleton wondered through his tears why they couldn’t just have one big sugar cube for all of the evil things….

My arms were hurting so badly I don’t remember one thing Miss Carolyn said in her welcoming speech. I do remember the big white alphabet letters on the green paper background that hung above the chalkboards. I remember the big silver radiator that ran under the outside windows. And I distinctly remember the horror on Miss Carolyn’s face as she paused when she got down to my name on that first day’s roll call, “Please tell me you are not Leon’s little brother!”

Bobby Brewer broke the awkward silence for both of us by “accidentally” rolling a small steel ball bearing across the wooden floor. In the moment, it sounded like a runaway freight train on steroids. I had found a friend for life.

It always amazes me how quickly young people adapt. We didn’t think about it. We took our shots. We endured the Blue Bird reading class. We lived with the cold mornings and very hot afternoons as the radiator dictated. We cut out presidents’ heads in February. We lined up for spelling bees. We waited our turn at the pencil trimmer. We laid down our heads after lunch and pretended to rest.

We rolled (like a steel ball bearing) with the flow.

We did discover fairly quickly that recess, lunch, and the clay modeling table at the back of the room were the best part of being in the first grade. We made fun of the girls. Who, for some strange reason, pretended to be mad, but really weren’t. Some days I’d swap my peanut butter and banana sandwich for Suzie Cozart’s cornbread and stewed tomatoes.

Ricky Hale used the outdated inkwell hole in the desk to mount his Wilson A1010 baseball. LaRenda Bradfield would give everyone in class a Valentine card. Pam Collins would tell you what to do….whether you wanted her to or not. Phil Cook tried to keep us all on the right path.

You know, I can’t name the last five presidents of the United States. But I can, and do, remember every single student in that first-grade classroom. I’m not sure exactly what that means. You’d probably need Sigmund Freud or Madame Rue to explain it fully. But I believe it has something to do with the people that have made the most lasting impact on your life.

Miss Dorothy Booth gave me a softball for not missing a day in the second grade. Miss Belle got us into cursive writing the next year. We moved upstairs for the fourth, fifth and six grades. It was almost like a graduation. Except the math problems got longer….

Vicki Fields would outrun me on the playground. We had swings that would take you almost to the sky. Every once in a while, a basketball game would break out during the fights we’d have in the gym. Charlotte Melton kissed me over by the monkey bars. I don’t think it was an accident.

Miss Mary Ann Jackson made us memorize and “say out loud in front of the whole class” the poem “Little Boy Blue.” I almost died a thousand deaths. It was about a little boy who kissed his toys. I told Daddy I would quit school before I’d say that poem. He made me an offer about staying in school that I COULD NOT refuse.

And almost 70 years later, “The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and staunch he stands; The little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands….” still rolls off my tongue.

Pam Collins called several years back. “You’re not going to believe this. They have torn down the elementary school. It is all gone. It’s like we never were there. Just an empty lot. There is absolutely nothing left!”

Well, I don’t make a habit of disagreeing with Pam. But there might be a bit more left…. than mere mortals could ever destroy.

Gratefully,
Kes