With day cares and children activities so prevalent now, kids don’t find anything special about the first day of school. For those of us who are just a bit older, that date was something that brought plenty of excitement. We’d get to see our friends after a long summer. The excitement of discovering who our teachers for the year would be was another big part of that first day. However, on a couple of occasions, that opening session was filled with pain and fear.
The beginning of first grade wasn’t particularly exciting for me. For the first time in my young life, Jim and I were separated for more than just a few minutes. He was in Mrs. McNew’s class, and I’d landed in Mrs. Longmire’s room. The place was filled with boys and girls, but I didn’t know any of them. My desk was in the back, and there I tried to shrink from sight. It was an impossible task; no one could miss the burr haircut on a head that looked to big for the shoulder upon which it sat. During that first day of formal education the reality about my “buck teeth” also sunk in.
My nerves were shot by milk break. Names of some kids in the class were called. They left for a while and returned back red, swollen eyes and tear-streaked faces. From the sobbing and murmurings of other students, I heard a word that sent panic and fear through me—SHOTS. Some children had failed to get the required inoculations for beginning school, so they were sent to a room where compliance could be completed. My worry was that my name would be called and I’d be marched to the line where a giant needle would be stuck in my arm. At the end of the day, I sprinted from the room to find Mother, who was teaching an upper grade, and she assured me that I had all my shots.
Ball Camp Elementary School housed students in grades 1-8. By the time my class had reached the final year, we’d experienced the burning of part of the school. Our sixth grade year was spent in a converted hardware store, and during the following year we lined up during breaks outside a large outhouse with one side for boys and another for girls. That last year, the school was reconstructed, and we were the first class to reign over it.
That first day of school that eighth grade year was more than a relief. Daddy had been diagnosed with lung cancer during the spring, and the summer saw him travel between the hospital and home. Our home was a sad one that was unusually quiet. Jim and I refused to believe that our dad would die and tried to do things to ease the burden that Mother already felt.
I was placed in Mrs. Slusher’s class and Jim in Mrs. Taylor’s. My excitement about the school year was tempered with a healthy dose of fear of the meanest teacher in Ball Camp. Still, it was the first day, and eighth graders changed classes, so we had to survive her for only a short period of time. On that first day, Mrs. Slusher instructed us to take out the grammar books she’d assigned and begin work.
Only about ten minutes into that morning class, Mr. Fowler, my sixth grade teacher, appeared at the door and asked to speak to Mrs. Slusher. She stepped into the hall and then came back in. She called my name and asked me to step outside. A bit scared and confused, I did as instructed. When I exited, I looked down the hall and saw Mother. She was crying, and I knew—Daddy died. I walked back into the room to get my things and felt the stares from the curious faces of my classmates.
Most of my first days have been wonderful times that I recall fondly. Those two occasions were exceptions—big ones—but exceptions all the same. It’s a shame that school isn’t an exciting place to kids these days. Those of us with a few years remember those first days as ones complete with new clothes, shoes, and school supplies. I almost wish I could go back myself. There’s still plenty to learn.
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