30513 Memories: Elementary School

For many my age, true socialization and a more formal learning passage beyond our family and church began when we started to school. Kindergarten was not required when I was that age so first grade was really the first time I was introduced to a large group of others my own age. It would also introduce all of us to a group of people tasked with helping us along our own educational journey which would lead some of us into a world of possibilities and others into a world of infinitives that split and participles that dangled. Looking back this journey started at my first initial zip code, 30513, but more precisely at the zip code, 30541, the home to Epworth Elementary School.

The Epworth school was within ten minutes of our house. When I first walked through those doors as a student, my brother and sister had already passed through those halls. Over time I realized this was a mixed bag for me. My sister was a very good student so when teachers realized who I was in relation to her they no doubt had high hopes that I would often dash. Meantime, when they realized who my brother was, they likely were unsure what to make of me. He wasn’t a bad student but he was always much more interested in how cars ran and how to fix them than why algebra related to his life. I wasn’t mechanically inclined, so I fell somewhere between the two although me and algebra still struggle to get along.

If memory serves me correctly, the Epworth school was a compound of five buildings, a couple of ball fields and several playgrounds. The building that really truly looked like a school house was the building that housed the principal’s office, the auditorium and when I started there, grades six, seven and eight. Off to one side was the gym and to the other side the library. Behind this building was a long covered walkway that led into the upper building which housed the lower grades. Past this building was the school cafeteria.

Over the years, the county school system built other schools and rearranged the grade levels at the existing schools leaving some schools to close. Epworth would close although to this day most of the buildings remain standing as the site now serves as a satellite branch for a college in the region. One of those buildings, the cafeteria, was available a few years ago as a community center and our family surprised Dad with a birthday party there one year. I was able to go back then and walk around those grounds I had roamed so many years earlier.

The visit stirred a lot of memories. I recall how we sat at tables in the first grade then at some point in another grade transitioned to our own desks, complete with a hollow shell under our seat for our books and coats. A small lip at the upper part of the hollow shell was the ideal place to stash your number two pencil. There were no white boards like in the modern classroom, we had real chalkboards, green in color with real live chalk. Sometimes being asked to go outside and pound the erasers together or against the school wall was a privilege and other times a punishment. We had a pencil sharpener at the front of the room and had to raise our hand to ask for permission to use it. It seemed each classroom had a wall of windows to the outside. We had no air conditioning so the lower windows would open in while the upper windows would push out. There was even a window high on the inner wall and even now I am not sure why it was there.

We would bring our lunch money and hand it to the teacher at the start of the week. In the cafeteria, I remember we would sit in different locations depending on our grade. When lunchtime came, we would get in line, march through the hall into the cafeteria then wait to go through the line where our plates were filled. An extra milk cost a nickel. I recall a bowl of onions being on the table once when I accepted a dare to eat a few spoonfuls of raw chopped onion. I did even though I was unsure what I would wash them down with since milk was the only available option. I remember getting in trouble once after eating all I wanted but leaving a good deal on my plate. At that point me and a classmate began mixing the leftovers on our plates into a messy goulash of likely uneatable portions. We thought it was funny, our teacher did not. Sometimes, you were called to duty to wipe off the tables after the class left. You were handed a dishrag and a cleaned-out giant-size tin can of green beans now filled with warm soapy water. This was the first place I probably ate pizza and admittedly I still have a soft place in my heart for that unforgettable cheese and cardboard flavor. I remember dumping our trays in the garbage cans when it was time to leave, one can for food and another for napkins and milk cartons. Most lasting though, I recall the hot homemade soft rolls made by the talented ladies who fed us each day. I can still taste those rolls to this day.

At this school, we learned to write in cursive, memorized multiplication tables and visited the bookmobile when it came to visit. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning then usually read a chapter from the Bible as well. Sometimes when we got in trouble we had to write something along the lines of “I will not turn off the bathroom lights while others are in the bathroom” two hundred times by the end of the day Friday or face greater punishment. I don’t recall being allowed to chew gum but I imagine almost every one of us begged our parents for thirty five cents each morning so we could buy a Nutty Buddy at afternoon recess. The teacher reserved the right to sit us in any order she preferred and if you happened to be able to sit by your buddies, you hoped you could behave enough so the teacher didn’t move you to the other side of the room closer to her desk.

We would go to the Auditorium for special events. I remember performers singing and even a reformed convict telling his story of misfortune and redemption. I recall pep rallies in the auditorium, we were the Eagles, by the way, where we clapped and stomped our feet on the aged wooden floor so loud it must have been heard in the houses nearby. I remember trips to the library so we could check out books but I also remember it was the place we went to have our class picture made. It was also pretty cool to realize the librarian was married to the custodian.

On the playground, I remember swinging as high as I could then jumping out of the swings hoping to land on my feet. I recall the cold gray steel of the monkey bars and becoming brave enough to swing through them skipping a bar every other grasp. We played tag and freeze tag, red rover and took turns going down the slide. On the bigger playground we moved to in the fourth grade, we might play baseball or football. We would even make claims to be searching for arrowheads on the ground. I even remember a few fights on the playground. We also won’t discuss who did and who did not have cooties.

For P.E. class, I remember jumping jacks and dodge ball, basketball and the trampoline. We ran laps in the gym every class period. I was always leery of the trampoline so the coach let me and a few others walk the bleachers instead. In hindsight, I should have got on the trampoline. I recall field day and tug of war and relay races. I even recall the changing room we used to get into our P.E. clothes. Did I say we ran lots of laps?

I rode the school bus every day as well. We were often the final bus leaving the school. Our bus driver worked at the local Chevrolet dealership and had to work his bus driving duties into his schedule. I recall once our regular bus, number 18, was sidelined for repairs for a few days. We were outside on the playground waiting for the bus. We heard it coming and looked. Someone recognized it was our regular bus and the group of us waiting to board cheered that our regular bus had returned to duty.

My class was only in the older building one year, sixth grade. The county school system was in the process of changing things but this one year allowed us time in the building with old waxed wood floors and stack heaters. It was also where the principal’s office was located. If you needed to buy a pencil, Mrs. Williams would sell you one. If you felt sick, you went to this office and they would let you phone home. It was from this office the intercom we secretly wished we could commandeer to announce how classes were dismissed was housed.

There are so many other memories that rush back. Mostly now as I look back I am amazed at how things really operated. When I stepped into first grade, I was stepping into a room of other kids I did not know. In time, I would. What I didn’t realize though was how most of the parents did know one another. Many of our dads worked together. Many of our moms knew other moms because they had grown up together. Our parents often knew our teachers as well. One teacher I had for three separate years was the mother-in-law to our neighbor’s daughter. You better believe I was on my best behavior in her classes. I like to think it was this close sense of community that helped keep me out of trouble at times and helped guide a path I could travel to where I am today.

Looking back at then to compare it to now it becomes easy to lament that things today aren’t the good ole days we knew. It is easy to do this when I look back. Today though is what it is. Gone are the days when most families were intact with two parents. Gone are the days when we knew the teachers in the school system. Gone are the days you were okay with your children riding a bus to and from school. Gone are the days when school lunch was not a politically correct football tossed around on the cable news shows. Gone are the days when there was no confusion which room you went in to change into your P.E. clothes.

While those times are long gone, the memories remain for now. This makes me grateful for that old school on the hill beside Lickskillet Road. I am grateful for those teachers and others at that school who became were part of a magical six years of my life and the lives of the friends I have known all my life.

Elementary school playlist:
The Carpenters: "We've Only Just Begun" 
The Jackson 5: "ABC" 
Ozark Mountain Daredevils: "Jackie Blue" 
Lobo: "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo" 
Joni Mitchell: "Help Me" 
Kris Kristofferson: "Why Me Lord" 
John Denver: "Thank God I'm A Country Boy" 
Maxine Nightingale: "Right Back Where We Started From" 
Karl Douglas: "Kung Fu Fighting"
Gary Wright: "Love Is Alive" 
Lynn Anderson: "Rose Garden" 
Tony Orlando & Dawn: "Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree" 
Morris Albert: "Feelings" 
Linda Ronstadt: "Love Is A Rose" 
America: "Sister Golden Hair" 
The Doobie Brothers: "Black Water" 
Parliament Funkadelic: "Give Up The Funk" 
Ace: "How Long" 
Gordon Lightfoot: "Sundown" 
CW McCall: "Convoy" 
Ringo Starr: "Photograph" 
Sweet: "Fox On The Run" 
Elvis Presley: "Burning Love" 
Three Dog Night: "Joy To The World"

Time Is The Best Gift

The day after Christmas, 2018

The gifts have been exchanged. The pretty paper has been ripped apart then discarded into a pile on the floor. Things that were needed were received. Things that were wanted were probably obtained. For so many of us, it is a time when we can realize, if we try, how blessed we truly are, at least materially.

Prior to the holiday, Jennifer asked me what I really wanted for Christmas. There was really nothing I desperately needed or wanted so I provided one of those answers we all wish could be fulfilled. “Time. What I really would like is more time.” Admittedly, when I gave that answer it came from my selfish side. I thought how I would like that time to just sit and chill out, maybe watch a football game from start to finish or get swallowed up in the endless rabbit-hole of watching old music videos on YouTube.

Time, though, is what it is. It is always present but since it always moves, it is elusive. It can be frittered away as if it were nothing of value by binging hour after hour of a TV show with little redeeming value or by glaring at a tiny screen an arm's length away in the palm of a hand while deep down knowing that time holds worth that cannot be measured. While I wished for more time, I knew I wouldn't get it as a gift sitting wrapped under our tree. Somehow though, time, as a gift, is one thing I received in another form during this season of giving and receiving.

The holiday season finds us on a very different schedule than most of the rest of the year. Hannah’s school will be closed for several days past the New Year. I return to work in a week then Jennifer will take some time off from her work to spend some time with Hannah. When all that falls back into place, the routine we have carved into our life as a family will return, two parents working outside the home and a student charging her way through first grade.

Between now and then we are left with some time to fill that we normally don’t have. A day earlier, we opened presents becoming overwhelmed with all the new stuff now at our fingertips. Now, with time to spend, we delve into these gifts.

One of our day-to-day routines that has come into place is how after Jennifer cooks our supper, we then sit together to eat the meal. Afterward, it is my responsibility to clean the dishes and kitchen. No, it is not how I would like to spend a half hour or so of my day each day, but I understand this is how it works and I am okay with that.

This part of my routine is important to know because one of my gifts this year was a case full of plastic containers and lids. That said, know I do not enjoy scrubbing on a frying pan. I blanche at the whiff of leftover ketchup on a plate as I scrape it into the no-longer-edible food pile. I hold my temper when I think I have finished for the evening but then locate a big spoon or small plate that somehow hid when I was washing all the other items. None of those though compare with attempting to store the leftovers from supper into some container when I can find a container but cannot locate a matching lid. Simply said, it drives me bananas.

So, this Christmas, as I unwrapped my gifts, Jennifer carefully watched for me to tear into one particular package. I let out a hearty laugh and maybe even gave a fist pump when this gift, one she had spotted weeks earlier, and a gift I almost asked for, that set of matching containers and lids, was revealed.

A day later, Hannah and I are home. While we play with some of her new toys and even a few older ones, I can’t help but think about some of the things I know need to be done. One of those things was to clean out the container cabinet then wash and dry the new containers and lids for their new home.

I looked at the case full of containers and lids. I sized up the approximate time it would take for me to accomplish this task. I stopped though to ask Hannah if she would like to help me. Without hesitation and with plenty of enthusiasm, she said she would help. And, so for the next hour and a half, Hannah and I filled up one side of the sink with soap and water. We used the other sink to wash off the soap before handing it off to be towel dried.

We got wet. We splashed water all over the sink and even to the floor. We probably took more time to complete this task together than if I had decided to do it on my own. Nonetheless, we washed then dried each container and each lid. We then stored away our work in the ready-made case before placing it into the cabinet.

I admit I am a bit excited how I will soon use these gifts to make my daily kitchen clean-up a bit easier. That realization isn't the thing that will remain with me though. What I will recall is the time Hannah and I spent laughing and joking and sharing time with each other. It is also in some way, an understanding that holiday gifts or really any other gifts that we give and receive to celebrate important times are just material things that we desire or that we believe can make life easier. Such things just seem to be substitutes for the things we really want or need that we can’t purchase online or from a business, things like someone's time, happiness from shared laughter and memories made that will last beyond a limited sixty-day guarantee.

While I would love more time to do things I enjoy, it is nice yet sobering, to be reminded from time-to-time, that the value of time is often more important when invested on others rather than self. Even then, it seems to find it's way back as a gift all it's own.

The Dance I Would Not Miss

We were at our supper table one night recently. Hannah looked at me and asked, “Daddy, can we go to the Daddy-Daughter Dance?” I was aware of the upcoming dance but was unsure if it was something Hannah would want to attend. Frankly, any kind of dance is not my cup of tea, so briefly I wondered, maybe even prayed, that we had already made plans for that night. I knew better though, and, with her question, I realized it’s importance to her, so I, told her I would be glad to go.

With just a few weeks to pass before the dance, preparations began almost immediately. Hannah had to buy a dress. I had to make sure I had decent enough clothes to accompany my daughter to this special event. During the time before the dance, I would joke with Hannah about my inability to dance and how it might embarrass her. She did not seem concerned.

Finally, the big day came. It rained much of the day which concerned me that we might get wet later. Still, as the afternoon crept along, we began to get everything together while outside the rain slacked. I trimmed my mustache and beard. I chose a tie then slipped into a jacket. Hannah got into her red dress trimmed in white then allowed her Mom to style her hair. Soon enough, we were ready to go. Mom snapped a few pictures then off we went.

Hannah was rather quiet on the ride. Once we were there and in line for photos, she remained quiet. She looked around at the other Dads and daughters. It seemed to me she was trying to get a handle on what was happening and how she could fit in to it all. More than a bit anxious at any social event, I am sure I was doing some of the same.

After we had our photo made, we stepped into the room pulsating with music. There, we found other Dads and daughters. Some stood in line for food and drinks. Some stood around the edges watching everything from a distance. Some bravely took the dance floor. Still quiet, Hannah just watched. I asked her a time or two if she wanted to venture out onto the dance floor. She shook her head no. I would wait then ask again. For a moment we took a few steps of the electric slide but found we were limited to what we could do since we were so close to the wall. After a few minutes, I, a lifelong and proud wallflower, realized we just might spend the next couple of hours in the same spot, just on the fringes of all the activity.

Noticing the line to the food and drinks had thinned, I asked Hannah if she wanted to get something to eat and drink, so we did. I placed a small sandwich and cookie on my plate, while Hannah placed two small cupcakes and a cookie on her plate. We found a place to sit getting away from the music momentarily.

Hannah ate one cupcake, handed the other one to me then determined she didn’t like the cookie she chose. We ventured to the other end of the room. Once there, the deejay played a current song I did not know but which Hannah did since it finally got her dancing. Realizing a moment was happening, I began recording this with my phone. Then some of Hannah’s friends found her and they all took off onto the dance floor leaving me behind.

I would try to follow them with my eyes through the crowd. Now and then, they would zip past me. I would change my location a time or two, always standing off to the side, always with other Dads watching in amusement and amazement at the chaos. There were plenty of songs I didn’t recognize but “Isn’t She Lovely,” “Sweet Caroline” and “Brown-Eyed Girl” made me perk up a bit. I continued to watch for her. I would see her as part of a conga line a few times. Moments later, she passed by me riding on the back of one of her friends. I could only smile knowing she was having a good time. Once or twice, she would run up to me. Then we might take a few dance steps to a song before she would run off to be with her friends.

In time, I noticed the crowd dwindling. I located Hannah who confirmed she was ready to go home. On our way out the door, we stopped to take a balloon. We also snapped a picture before walking to our car. At the car, I asked her if she were hungry, she said she was and that she really wanted a Happy Meal from McDonalds. There we were, all dressed up and Ronald McDonald would be the nightcap. It was her night, so I told her we could do that.

During the drive home, Hannah relived some of the evening. She would tell me she had a fun night. That was all I needed to hear to judge the night a success. When we got home, she provided details of the night to her Mom.

At some point as I reflected on the night, I chuckled to myself thinking how little dancing I had had to do on this night. I thought how in years to come, that might change. She might want to dance with me when “My Girl” or “Cinderella” plays. And, even though I can’t dance a lick and probably won’t learn to dance before that moment, I know without reservation, for her when that moment comes, I will try. That is what Dads do for their daughters, and, that is what daughters expect, and should expect, from their Dads.

Until then, I am thankful to God for that precious little blonde girl and the journey her, her mom and me are on together. It is the dance I would not miss for anything.