I have noticed that fuzzy little memories of life on the Stroh place and then the Ailmore place change according to my mood of the moment. Most of the time I remember those days as carefree and happy. Well there were a few exceptions. Seems like I was always getting my ass beat for something that I was sure I had not done, but someone gave me the credit for being the instigator of one foul deed after another. But when we moved North of town life took on meaning.
Miss Donough was my first grade teacher. She was so pretty and so sweet. The school was two stories tall and we were not allowed to ever go up the stairs. I longed to walk those stairs all the way to the top and see what mysteries lingered there, but alas I was 4 years away from that trip. Little did I know how quickly those years would fly by and then I would be going up the stairs every day and would hate that too.
The first grade classroom was very big. The alphabet danced around the top of the room and the numbers followed. At one end of the classroom was the "cloak room." That meant coat room. It was also the place where we took off our goulashes and there was a shelf for our lunch buckets. Now you should know that when I say lunch bucket, I mean lunch bucket. Some of the rich kids had lunch boxes with designs on the side of them. Some were black. Some kids brought paper sacks and those kids could just throw them away when they were done. While I envied them that luxury I still thought it was wasteful. We carried a bucket that had once held lard. It was called a lard bucket when it had lard and lunch bucket when it had lunch.
At the far end of the classroom was the "sick room." It held a small cot and it was for whoever was sick to lay on until they either felt better or a parent came and took them home. I longed to be sick and lay on those clean white sheets, but it never happened. Being blessed with an immune system that never allowed a disease or virus to enter your body is a curse to a kid wanting to see what it felt like to lay on a sheet. Our beds at home were shared with at least 2 other kids and sometimes more. Sheets were unheard of at our house. Mother cut up old wool clothes and made them into quilts which were used both as a sheet and a cover. Course with that many kids there was a lot of body heat shared. To this day I can not even "rough it" when I go camping. I need a sheet over me and under me and a pillow with a crisp pillow case under my head. I love fresh sheets and if I weren't so damn lazy I would wash my sheets every day. I digress.
At the end of my first year of school, Miss Donough married a man named Mr. Breece. Miss Donough ceased to exist and Mrs. Breece came into being. I sadly left the first grade and moved across the hall to the second grade and Mrs. Wait.
This was where I would learn "manuscript" which is known today as "cursive", but is no longer taught in school as a required subject. Not sure that anyone writes anymore what with the tablets, laptops, and such. It was here I also learned to add and subtract. The second grade class was also responsible for raising and lowering the flag on the flagpole in the sand box. Not the girls though. No, no. Girls were in training from day one to be good little girls and learn how to be good wives and mothers and raising and lowering the flag was not woman's work. Strange, but all my life I have been on the wrong end of the stick as far as boy/girl things went. Second grade passed in a blur. We were kids. There were no class distinctions. We had not yet learned that there were the "haves and the have nots". We had not yet learned that clothes were for anything except covering our bodies.
We ate what was in our lunch buckets and were damn glad to have it. Potato sandwich's, wrinkled apples, or a cold piece of carp were just fare for the day. Just something to keep us fed so we could make it through the day and home to our tar paper shack we called home. A place to lay our bodies down, a place to rest our head and dream of places we were learning about where there was electric lights, a gas stove and water that came out of a pipe in the kitchen, all warm so you could wash the dishes or take a bath. .A fairy tale place that existed just outside our reach. Soon I would learn that Strong Street was the wrong side of the tracks, but for now I was happy and secure, and when I was 8 years old the present was all that mattered.
Miss Donough was my first grade teacher. She was so pretty and so sweet. The school was two stories tall and we were not allowed to ever go up the stairs. I longed to walk those stairs all the way to the top and see what mysteries lingered there, but alas I was 4 years away from that trip. Little did I know how quickly those years would fly by and then I would be going up the stairs every day and would hate that too.
The first grade classroom was very big. The alphabet danced around the top of the room and the numbers followed. At one end of the classroom was the "cloak room." That meant coat room. It was also the place where we took off our goulashes and there was a shelf for our lunch buckets. Now you should know that when I say lunch bucket, I mean lunch bucket. Some of the rich kids had lunch boxes with designs on the side of them. Some were black. Some kids brought paper sacks and those kids could just throw them away when they were done. While I envied them that luxury I still thought it was wasteful. We carried a bucket that had once held lard. It was called a lard bucket when it had lard and lunch bucket when it had lunch.
At the far end of the classroom was the "sick room." It held a small cot and it was for whoever was sick to lay on until they either felt better or a parent came and took them home. I longed to be sick and lay on those clean white sheets, but it never happened. Being blessed with an immune system that never allowed a disease or virus to enter your body is a curse to a kid wanting to see what it felt like to lay on a sheet. Our beds at home were shared with at least 2 other kids and sometimes more. Sheets were unheard of at our house. Mother cut up old wool clothes and made them into quilts which were used both as a sheet and a cover. Course with that many kids there was a lot of body heat shared. To this day I can not even "rough it" when I go camping. I need a sheet over me and under me and a pillow with a crisp pillow case under my head. I love fresh sheets and if I weren't so damn lazy I would wash my sheets every day. I digress.
At the end of my first year of school, Miss Donough married a man named Mr. Breece. Miss Donough ceased to exist and Mrs. Breece came into being. I sadly left the first grade and moved across the hall to the second grade and Mrs. Wait.
This was where I would learn "manuscript" which is known today as "cursive", but is no longer taught in school as a required subject. Not sure that anyone writes anymore what with the tablets, laptops, and such. It was here I also learned to add and subtract. The second grade class was also responsible for raising and lowering the flag on the flagpole in the sand box. Not the girls though. No, no. Girls were in training from day one to be good little girls and learn how to be good wives and mothers and raising and lowering the flag was not woman's work. Strange, but all my life I have been on the wrong end of the stick as far as boy/girl things went. Second grade passed in a blur. We were kids. There were no class distinctions. We had not yet learned that there were the "haves and the have nots". We had not yet learned that clothes were for anything except covering our bodies.
We ate what was in our lunch buckets and were damn glad to have it. Potato sandwich's, wrinkled apples, or a cold piece of carp were just fare for the day. Just something to keep us fed so we could make it through the day and home to our tar paper shack we called home. A place to lay our bodies down, a place to rest our head and dream of places we were learning about where there was electric lights, a gas stove and water that came out of a pipe in the kitchen, all warm so you could wash the dishes or take a bath. .A fairy tale place that existed just outside our reach. Soon I would learn that Strong Street was the wrong side of the tracks, but for now I was happy and secure, and when I was 8 years old the present was all that mattered.
