Maybe our memory banks dredge up selective events as we grow
older. My work buddy Steve and I were talking the other day and began recalling
some of the things that occurred during our years in elementary school. They
came flooding back in living color and might have been embellished by the span
of years since they took place.
Some of those memories involved girls. I never understood
why some guys declared that they hated them; I always found them to be
interesting and perplexing. In my first year of school, I developed a crush on
a girl named Andy Underwood. She was in the eighth grade, but I still pined
away for her. War and Peace-length letter on a roll of
toilet paper. I’d like to think that Andy got that note, but to be honest, my
memory fails me.
At some point, I decided that the right thing to do was pen a
love letter to her. Back then, paper wasn’t something that we wasted on such
foolishness. So, being a determined goofball, I wrote what seemed like a
Arlene Moore was a rather mean female who tormented me in
fourth grade. Every day, she’d kick me in the legs, and every night I whined
about how much my skinny legs ached. Mother listened to my pouting for as long
as she could, and then she sat me down for a talk. She first told me that
hitting a girl was wrong. Then she added that enough was enough; if I came home
one more time with complaints of my legs hurting without having retaliated
against Arlene, she warned a spanking would be coming. I left for school the
next morning “loaded for bear.” Never again did I have a problem with the girl.
Suzanne Fletcher came to Ball Camp Elementary, and I was
smitten immediately. She was taller than everyone in class, had curly blonde
hair, and was already developing. To my surprise, she seemed to like me back. I
fell head over heels for her, but before love’s embers glowed to brightly, her
family moved to Tunnel Hill, Georgia. I wrote her a few letters, but replies
soon dwindled. It was the first of many heart breaks I experienced during my
school years.
I also recall some strange occurrences during those years. I
was hefty in those years; more accurately, I was fat. Finding a place on the
classroom field day team was difficult. I couldn’t run fast, jump high, or
throw far. However, I did eventually find a spot on the tug-of-war team. Steve
Buffalo, Steve Cox, and I were the heavyweights that anchored the team, and we
did fine until another team supplanted weight with might.
In first grade, I sat in my desk the first day and shook in
fear. Other kids were leaving the room to get shots. I didn’t understand what
was going on, but I knew that those gigantic needles hurt worse than anything
I’d experienced before. I pouted and tears filled my eyes as I waited for the
teacher to come for me. As it turned out, the kids who received shots were ones
who had failed to get the required inoculations to enter school.
In the spring of the seventh grade, I stood at the window of
the classroom as one wasp chased another. They soared toward the ceiling before
dive bombing into my shirt. The stings began
This is the best I could find. I wish I could find a picture of the school prior to the fire. |
Lots of other things
come to mind, but space limits me to these few events. Elementary school
memories are always more interesting when they come with 50-plus years of time
passing. Given the chance, all of us can conjure up those mind pictures that
bring smiles and grimaces.
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