My First Day of First Grade with Mrs. Wilson

So I brought up my internet browser a few minutes ago and as usual it started off in my default news reader, where I delight in being told the important news of the day. The news generally features such relevant topics as who's dating whom, who's fighting with whom, and who's leaving whom. I guess all that stuff is important, given how much space is taken up at grocery store checkout lines with magazines devoted to these topics.

It occurred to me though that maybe one reason we are blessed with memories is so that when the current news isn't newsworthy, we can think back on the good old days and tell stories that are worth listening to.

The good old days in Minnesota were days of cool autumn mornings, the dew glistening in the apple orchards above our house on the hill in La Crescent, with the orange hues of summer just an ember glowing somewhere in the distant past.

Those were days of changing from a little little kindergarten student to a medium little first grader. I had gained confidence in kindergarten, learning how to shoot marbles on the playground and how to actually fall asleep during nap time.

I had enjoyed my kindergarten teacher -- Miss Engrave, I believe her name was, who seemed older than the hills but was actually (I found out years later) teaching in her first position out of school. She must have been all of twenty-three years old. That would put her at more than four times my age. Yep, I guess she really was older than the hills.

Anyway, the summer between kindergarten and first grade seemed to move slowly. It was the first - and last - summer where I really looked forward to school starting again. But start it did.

On the first day of first grade, we students were all seated in the classroom and the teacher walked in and introduced herself to us. I won't use her real name here - I don't want to be sued for libel by her family - so let's call her Mrs. Wilson.

Now, when Mrs. Wilson walked in, at that moment I realized that Miss Engrave had indeed been young and quite pretty. I looked at Mrs. Wilson again. No, Miss Engrave had been very young and really really pretty.

Before Mrs. Wilson said anything, I realized that maybe I had made a mistake and that I wasn't ready for first grade after all. Couldn't I go back to kindergarten for another year? After all, I hadn't quite perfected marble shooting to the fullest extent possible, and nap time wasn't always successful, and ...

Mrs. Wilson started taking attendance, going alphabetically by last names (I discovered later) but only calling out first names. She called out, "Joel." I immediately stood up and walked to the front of the class, following her instructions. To my surprise, another boy also stood up and walked to the front of the class. He looked equally perplexed.

Mrs. Wilson scowled. I'm serious, she really scowled. I thought for a moment that she might be preparing to send the flying monkies after one of us. She hissed, "Which of you has the last name beginning with 'M'." Well, that wasn't I. The other Joel raised his hand.

Mrs. Wilson squinted and gave me the evil eye -- I think she put a curse on me too, though I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever been quite right since that moment.

Then she grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around so that I was facing the classroom, and -- I swear this is true -- she kicked me on my bottom and sent me hurling across the room back to my desk. Well, maybe not hurling, but I got to my desk in a hurry and sat down, humiliated and embarrassed and thinking again about Miss Engrave and wondering if she would take me back.

A few more kids were called up, one at a time, and then she deliberately and slowly said, "Joel" again, looking at me. I wasn't about to fall for this trick, so I sat for a few seconds looking around to see what other Joel might be lurking in the corners of the room. No one else stood up.

"Joel, get up here," she commanded, looking straight at me. I meagerly walked to the front of the class, feeling like a whipped puppy who didn't quite understand why he had been whipped.

So that's how the day started off.

It was actually pretty uneventful for the next 3 hours, until lunch time.

Mrs. Wilson announced it was time for lunch and she issued the orders: all kids who brought their lunch, line up on the left wall, and all kids with meal tickets line up on the right wall.

Suddenly there I was, still sitting at my desk -- and I was the only one sitting. I hadn't brought a lunch, and I knew nothing about a meal ticket. Mrs. Wilson marched all the kids out of the room, and there I was, still sitting, wondering what to do next.

I sat there for a minute or two, my heart racing. Do I go follow Mrs. Wilson? Or what do I do? I knew better than try to talk to her. I stood up and poked my head out into the hallway. Nobody was there. I didn't know where the cafeteria was, either -- although kindergarten had been in the same building, our kindergarten had only been a half-day class so I never ate lunch there.

I did what any normal 6 year old would do in that situation. I panicked. I raced home -- 7 blocks non-stop -- and ran up the front steps and through the front door faster than you can say, "I'm melting, I'm melting."

I'll never forget the look on Mom's face. Mom was in the kitchen doing motherly things, and she was startled. "What's wrong? Why are you home?" I explained about the lunch dilemma. It turns out that Mom had bought a meal ticket for me -- and Mrs. Wilson had the ticket -- but I didn't know.

Anyway, Mom graciously cooked up a box of macaroni and cheese -- my favorite -- and then told me she was going to drive me back to school. I was reluctant to get in the car to go back to school, but I did.

However, when we arrived and Mom got out of the car, I performed the most brilliantly defiant act of my tender age. I locked all the car doors. I was still inside the car.

Mom pleaded for me to come out of the car. No way, said I. I was done with first grade. It wasn't for me. I wanted another round of Kindergarten where the teacher was like Tinker Bell or Glenda the Good Witch, not like Mrs. Wilson, the Wicked Witch of the West.

Mom walked to the playground and found a couple of my friends, who came over and tried to convince me to get out of the car. Thanks Mom. Thanks guys. I was crying. This wasn't good. A crowd gathered around the car. Finally, I relented. I'm not sure why -- I think my friend John offered me a piece of candy or something.

I walked back into the school, found my seat in the classroom, and a moment later Mrs. Wilson walked back into the class. The first words out of her mouth were, "Did you hear about the cry baby who locked himself in the car and wouldn't come out?" All eyes -- Mrs. Wilson's too -- turned to me.

That was my first day of first grade. I think I noticed my first gray hair that evening.