Category: Childhood Memories

I was so excited!  I was ready to start first grade and wanted to learn new things and do fun projects. School was where I wanted to be. The first day I headed out with my brothers and sisters.  

Mama packed my lunch. I don’t remember what was in it, but I just bet it included homemade bread (the best in the world, by the way) and maybe even a coveted Maple Stick.  Surely, she included a special treat for such a monumental occasion. 

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I have no doubt my mother shed no tears as she watched all of us kids, even her youngest daughter, get on the bus. In fact, I am confident a sigh of relief escaped her lips at the thought of peace and quiet.  When the boys were out of the house, you know it was quiet!  We increased the population on the bus and headed off.  Mr. Brown, the bus driver, would have resigned that morning had he known the torment that would come from those preacher’s kids (pk’s), especially one of my infamous brothers!  But that’s another tale or two or more!

I can still remember the classroom. Desks were lined up neatly in rows and we sat alphabetically.  That meant that I sat in the back. Behind the last row of desks were our mats laid out for an after-lunch nap. 

The first day was a bit disappointing, but I was sure it would get better. The next day was a repeat of the first. I didn’t learn anything! Everything was just a review for me. Many of the kids were not even potty trained, much less already reading. 

Excitement turned to dread. Dread turned to upset stomach. Some folks can fake an upset stomach.  But I assure you – I was sick!  Mama came in to get me up the next morning and I told her I had a stomachache.  After the bus pulled off with my siblings, my pains subsided.  The next morning was the same. By the third morning, my mother made me get up and get on the bus anyway. Oh – that was a mistake. I was warped for life.  

I had so desired to learn but they were teaching things I already knew. There was no challenge – nothing to light that spark of curiosity inside of me. It wasn’t until one of my high school years when I was invited to join an unconventional classroom with only a few select students throughout the county that I finally felt fulfillment in school.

I am thankful for teachers who challenge and motivate their students to cultivate those seeds of interest, creativity and potential and dare to step out of “the box.” My kids and grandkids have had some teachers like that, and I appreciate them. 

Every year when it’s time for the grandkids to start school again, it sparks a memory of my first day of school and for some reason, my stomach mysteriously starts hurting.

One of the greatest institutions of education is the playground. Many things learned on the playground, some not go good, can linger for years. Scars often run deep, and hurts can resurface at just a sight or sound. Great friendships are formed on the playground as well, and in later years memories are brought to light that bring a smile and smug satisfaction.

When the recess bell rang, kids scattered, gathering into groups. I learned early on in years that I didn’t quite fit in. When teams were chosen to vie against one another, I was not selected first or even second. No, the end of the list was my territory.  I was usually the smallest, or at least one of them. It irritated me because I knew I had something to offer but wasn’t often even given the chance, well, except by the principal’s son. He lived for the chance that he might catch me and get a kiss, but I managed to escape when I climbed on top of the monkey bars which he couldn’t maneuver too well. 

I have always been one who observes others, and even as a youngster, I found myself delving into the depths to determine what was in the hidden recesses of those with an apparent innate desire to draw attention to themselves. When I remember those who flaunted their strength, I recognize it was just a front for weakness and insecurities. Overbearing boys and girls alike bragged of their popularity and boasted of what they could do for the others who came to their “side.” Some of their peers’ loyalties were rewarded with bubble gum or undeliverable promises. That resulted in short-lived relationships.

The greatest achievers on the playground stage were those who led by example. They were the ones who encouraged the seemingly weaker kids, those who wanted no recognition for themselves but came to the aid of one who was mocked, dirty, or “different.” Yes, those were the heroes in my eyes. They were few.

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When my daughter was young, during a parent/teacher conference, her teacher sang her praises. Other students made fun of a girl in their class, but not my daughter! When she finished her work, she asked permission to help the girl who had trouble with her work. The teacher said my daughter made all the difference in the world when she befriended the girl. Not only did the student begin to excel in her studies, but her demeanor changed as she finally felt accepted by someone. Years later, one of the other students told me how all of those in the class admired my daughter. She was not loud, opinionated, mean or intimidated. They remembered her act of bold kindness that spoke louder volumes than all the mockery voiced by many.

Strength is not in a fist that can crush a fragile flower or a tongue that can slash one’s hopes. Rather, it is found in a fragile flower that can soften a hard heart or a kind word that can change one’s world.

It was always a treat to visit our grandparents’ house. We liked to eat my grandmother’s cooking – most of the time – but the real treasure was spending time with my granddad. We kids would sidle up as close to him as we could get. One advantage to being little was finding a seat in his lap. That guaranteed dunks in his coffee.

He was “gassed” in World War I with mustard gas. Because of that, he used the excuse that he needed to stay outdoors as much as possible. He had no problem finding things to do outdoors. When the weather didn’t cooperate, he still needed a place of escape.

His barn was the perfect place of refuge. He had it rigged. With one flip of a switch, the light came on as well as the fan and the radio. A cot was the perfect place for a nap! They had a little house that was rented out at times. When the little house was void of renters, that became his one switch refuge – with a tv thrown in. Baseball season was a good time to go to his special place. He watched one baseball game on tv with the sound turned down and listened to another on the radio.

No matter what we did with my Granddad, whether being pulled in a wagon by his tractor, watching a ballgame, dunking in his coffee, listening to one of his tales, or just sitting quietly, it was a good day!

My dad always told “Sister Ellen” stories. They were some of his best sermon illustrations along with Brer Rabbit. Whenever he said, “Sister Ellen,” my ears perked up because I knew a story was coming. I don’t have a sister Ellen, but I do have two sisters by different names.

Sister Lynn is my oldest sister. She was too busy for a little sister. I accused her of always having her nose in a book growing up – except when she was sporting a new boyfriend. Let me just tell you, we were well entertained with her new beaus!

Sister Margaret & I would spy on her.  I don’t know why she’d get mad about that! She was too young to date anyway – and I told mama and daddy so!  

She wasn’t always too tolerant of a little sister. One day she walked in the bedroom we girls shared and caught me modeling some of her undergarments, complete with sock stuffing. She was furious and went to Mama demanding that I leave her stuff alone.  Imagine that! Well, maybe that was a good thing – because from then on, I only wore socks on my feet, reluctantly, and occasionally on my hands when I couldn’t find gloves.

I don’t think Daddy modeled Sister Ellen’s clothes, but he did write her a nice birthday poem one year. That same poem could have been written to my sisters as well:

To Sister Ellen

You are the work of mystery,
You carry the seeds of majesty,
You are the works for miracle,
You carry the breath of eternity.

When I was a kid, I got paid for doing little odd jobs from time to time. The oddest job I had (with the least minimum wage) was tickling my brother’s feet for a nickel. There was one stipulation – his feet had to be washed first. He definitely got the better end of the deal. I say that my brother was odd because he liked his feet to be tickled. Hmmmm, I guess I was odd for doing it! If anybody even touched my feet, I would get madder than a wet hen.  

My brother three years older than me was odd too. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and wore underwear on his head. The only thing he gave me was a hard time and an occasional hand me down shirt.

I sure wish I would have kept all those nickels. If he would have paid me a nickel per foot, I might could have made a down payment on a new house!

It was said Grandma Knapp could roll out a perfectly round pie crust that fit perfectly in the pie pan. She didn’t even have to trim it. 

When I first heard that tale, I thought that might be a good aspiration. As I pondered that seemingly impossible skill, reality set in. Now why would I want to make a perfectly shaped form fitting pie crust? That would be a grim quandary indeed. How would I be able to make lady fingers?

I usually make extra dough just so I have enough for a big pan of lady fingers. Sometimes I take a picture and send it to the neighbors on the hill. Within two minutes I hear footsteps on the back porch and then the back-door slams shut. What a fun treat! We might even have a cup of hot tea!

It was almost dark. A noise startled me! What was it? I went to investigate.

I looked all around and saw nothing. Then I looked down. There was something that had little green feet. What kind of beast had ten green toes and stinky feet? 

It was a puzzle to me, that is until I looked in a long mirror and saw that those St. Patrick green feet belonged to me! Whatever would I do?

It all started when I was just a snotty nosed kid playing in the dirt. My mom said, “Go put some shoes on!” I argued, “I don’t want to put on shoes. They hurt and make my feet hot.”

She questioned, “How can you stand to go barefooted?” Mama was one that wanted her feet covered. “Go put some shoes on!”

“Shoes make my feet hurt.”

Sometimes she relented, other times she wouldn’t budge. I grumbled and complained the whole time my feet were being smothered.

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As I got older, I had to wear shoes more often. My feet were hot, sweaty, stinky and then, they started breaking out with water blisters. Ouch! The folks tried all kinds of remedies. Finally, Daddy took me to the doctor. And you know what he did? He prescribed a pair of clunky ugly brogans and some kind of liquid that had to be applied by a sponge. And do you know what color it was? Yup – green – and it stained my feet. 

You may not know this, but people make fun of someone who has green feet.

One day Daddy said, “Come on. I’m taking you to a dermatologist.” What could a dermatologist do for hot, sweaty, stinky, blistered green feet? The doctor was smart. He took one look at my feet and said, “Ah ha, you must have one parent who is hot natured and one parent who has allergies.” How did he know that just by looking at my feet? Well, however he knew it, he also knew what to do. He created his own formula for a special ointment, and powder to sprinkle on my feet. I was instructed not to pop the blisters but rather cut them with a sharp pair of scissors, then apply ointment and sprinkle with power. His best instruction was, “Go barefooted as much as possible.”

When we got home, Daddy told Mama what the doctor said. I’m sure I wore a rather arrogant, “I told you so,” face. I must say Mama was penitent and apologized for all those years of not believing me. Never again did she complain about me not wearing shoes!

They are still hot, sweaty, and stinky, but they are not green!

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On the ride home, I had my nose pressed against the window in amazement. I could not believe that there were individual limbs and leaves on the trees. To me, trees were blobs like those painted by small children and many adults – you know – the kind that are green swirls and circles with a brown trunk and an occasional red apple. Sure, I had seen leaves on trees, at least when they were close up and right in front of my eyes, but how was I to know other trees really looked like that, too? When I got out of the car, I walked around the yard taking in everything I could. The brick walkway was not just one continuous slab, rather it was made of individual bricks. Wow!

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I wasn’t sure what I looked like to those looking at me, but I was positive what the world looked like through my first pair of glasses. I don’t remember ever being told, “Go put your glasses on.” When I got a glimpse of how things looked through corrective lenses, I didn’t hesitate to wear them.

For several years, I wore glasses. Yes, people made fun of me and called me names like “four eyes.” One girl called me that and I punched her in the nose. Now they are fashionable. Then, there was only one style – cat eyes, clunky and not so attractive.

In my teenage years, I couldn’t wait to get contact lenses. I remember getting my first pair. I might even still have my first pair. Those kinds of lenses last a long time. The next pair was what was called “gas permeable (gas perm) contacts.” They were much more comfortable than the hard lenses. When soft lenses became available, I asked the eye doctor for a pair. He said, “Once you’ve worn gas perms, you won’t be satisfied with soft lenses. You have much clearer vision with gas perms.” He was right. I tossed the soft lenses and stayed with gas perms.

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Then came the age of Lasix. I knew several people who had Lasix surgery to correct their vision. Did I have the nerve to try that? One day I decided I did. I went for an evaluation and found that I was not a candidate for that type of surgery, however, I had another option, Photorefractive keratectomy (aka PRK). The recovery time is longer, but PRK is considered safer and more effective in the long term. I signed up. The surgery was a success. Of course, I must have cheap readers for close up, but that’s okay.

In the course of life, sometimes things are not as they appear to be. We often assume too much according to our vision rather than the way it truly is. Try looking through someone else’s lenses. You might find that you’ve been missing something. I’d hate to think we’ve come this far and still can’t see the leaves for the trees —