(This is me in September 1963 - my first day of 1st grade)

Something got into me that day.  I remember it well. I was full to the brim with energy. It had to come out. And, it did.

I don’t remember what it was, but I had to tell Cindy Gilbertson something important and the teacher was so busy talking I didn’t have a chance…so I just scooted my chair closer to Cindy’s and talked in her ear.

The teacher moved my desk beside hers. However, I was not done telling Cindy so I whispered…really loud!

So, my desk was placed in the corner. Well, that freshly painted wall was the perfect place to write a few of my reading words along with a couple of flower sketches.

The teacher didn’t find my mural until after lunch. Returning to our room, I was led by the arm to the cloak room where my desk was set in a sunny corner. Perfect! Alone, I could sing. At the top of my lungs.

Out in the hallway a few minutes later, the floor cool on my bottom and legs. Refreshing. Invigorating even. There were four classroom doors in that hallway…with three other students propped outside those doors. Well. That was a game of tag waiting to happen! I urged the others to join me and they did.

They were also far more experienced in hall sitting than I was. They sense the stealthy approach of Mr. Carlson and were seated by the doors before his large hand rested on my shoulder.

Sigh.

He asked what I was doing. I looked up into his eyes confident the truth would be best.  “We were playing tag.” He looked at the other kids and nodded. Together we walked back to my classroom as the end of day bell rang – it sounded very loud in the hallway’s now complete silence. 

I overheard my teacher and principal talking – they were going to call my mom.

It was a long ride home on the bus.

I don’t remember my punishment at home but I know my parents spoke to me. I went back to school and promised Mrs. (I don’t know how she spelled her name but it was pronounced Mayo) I’d be good. I’d really try.

I did try. And then someone else whispered during class from clear across the room and Mrs. M. assumed it was me. She didn’t let me go to lunch and called my parents again. I stood my ground at home and told them it wasn’t me this time. I wasn’t afraid to confess to them…but I really hadn’t done it and she made me mad!

Dad did an amazing thing for me. He went to school with me the next day and together we walked up to my teacher’s desk. His voice was respectful as we stood there – united. He believed me. She backed down although she was crabby all day. Who cared? Mom & Dad were behind me…nothing Mrs. M. could say or do that day could steal the shine off their faith in me.

I remember the first day I stood in front of her desk before school started. It was the old-fashioned orientation. I think that could have been the start of our problem. She asked me what my favorite color was and I told her it was lavender. She asked me how many colors I had in my box at home. Well, I had 48 didn’t everyone? I guess not in the first grade in those days.  Then I proceeded to read all the words she had up on the bulletin board – words she was going to teach us. Words I already knew. I do remember she raised her penciled eyebrows very high at our first meeting.

Well, and I didn’t win any  brownie points when she was teaching us to count and when it came to 3 she said “tree.” I didn’t know her dentures were loose and I thought she was being funny so I laughed out loud. She asked me what was funny…so I told her. One…two…tree! My imitation ended with me giggling alone.

Man…this truth thing was a challenge. But I didn’t give up. I kept trying.

Mostly I guess I tried her.

On the last day of school, she kissed me good bye and told me she loved me. That felt good. Then she informed me she was no longer going to be a teacher because of me. I’d worn her out. She also told me I’d be having Miss Schoenborn for my 2^nd grade teacher – it had already been decided that a difficult to teach child like myself needed Miss S’s discipline.

I felt guilty and ashamed. Some of my zest for life leaked out and continued to all summer. I worried like crazy about Miss S. She had a reputation for spanking children and yanking them around by their ears and digging her fingernails into tender scalps. In my 2^nd grade year I witnessed them all – only the fingernails in my scalp personally…and not for talking but instead she caught me day dreaming during a test.

I worked hard and tried to obey and mostly succeeded in being good at school although there was the day I kicked the tar out of Jimmy when we were in like the 4^th grade. That’s another story!

Years later, when I worked at Tempo in the ladies clothing department, Mrs. M. was one of my customers. She left without a purchase…upset by my very presence. I watched her go with a mix of sadness and anger. It had been a long time and she was not about to forgive me. I’d said I was sorry the last day of school and again that night. It didn’t matter.

The truth is, I loved Miss S. and as an adult she and I became friends. After a grade school class reunion, Miss S. and my 3^rd grade teacher (best friends for life) Miss B. (can’t spell this one either!) took me to lunch. We shared some sweet memories – they loved me as much as I loved them! They told me Mrs. M. went to her grave believing I was the naughtiest child she’d ever taught. They had disagreed with her vehemently. Yes, I was naughty, in a normal kind of way. They had a lot more trouble with some of the kids Mrs M. had no trouble with – like Jimmy and Tommy.

Maybe you had to be a boy to make the grade in her classroom.

I liked pleasing my teachers…I was never teacher’s pet – that position was held by other kids who got good grades and worked “up to their potential” which I guess I rarely did. (according to the old report cards I have tucked in our storeroom) I was a normal kid with normal grades and a passion for life, stories, and fun.

I don’t know if Mrs. M. will be in heaven when I get there…I hope so for a couple of reasons…it beats the other place for her sake…and I’d be forgiven.

It’s really hard to be unforgiven. Even after all these years.