The Joy of Rambling

The first school I ever attended (other than a pre-school, or what they called a nursery school back then, of which the only memory I have is waiting by the door for some lady in a station wagon to pick me up), was in the town of Winchester, MA, where in the fall of 1963 I started kindergarten.

Parkhurst elementary sat at the top of a large, grassy hill, about 300 yards from my house. It was amazing how we lived so close, and still I’d be scrambling frantically to get out the door each morning with the sound of the school bell blaring in my ears. Our house was utter chaos in the morning. Our dog, Samantha, was a maniacal mutt, and in her exuberance, would jump up and maul us at the breakfast table. I took to eating my cereal sitting on top of the table, rather than on a chair that offered no defense whatsoever against the beast. I am convinced that my lifelong dislike of dogs started at this point, and it wasn’t until I was fifty that Charlie changed this. But I digress. 

I had to visit Parkhurst prior to my first day of school, and got to see the big empty kindergarten room, all pretty with its shiny floor and giant books with lettering the size of my hand. There were tables where I would learn to do finger painting and crayon drawings of rainbows later that year. And there was the quiet corner where our mats would be laid out for rest time – my favorite part of the day. It was mind-blowing. I knew this was the first step in my journey toward becoming a big girl, and I was ready.

I soon discovered, however,  that the experience wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. First of all, it turns out, I wasn’t the smartest kid in the class. The giant Dick and Jane books that many of the kids crowded around at reading time made no sense to me. The colors the other kids chose when creating their rainbows seemed more tasteful and vibrant than mine. One boy in particular, John, had a knack for doing everything right. He was a great reader and he used orange and yellow together in phenomenal ways to create art that I never imagined possible. I felt very inferior to John and wished I had come up with the ideas he had. It’s weird thinking about this now, because as an adult, I’ve often felt that way. When I spent my years creating artwork as a graphic designer, I saw my co-workers’ pieces as so much more inspired than mine. So creative and artful. I’d sulk to myself, Why didn’t I think of that?

I don’t know if I wanted to fit in, or be popular or what, but I used to bring things to school to sort of show off. My sisters and I got giant stuffed animal snakes as gifts for Christmas one year. Sounds creepy, but they were really cool. Mine was purple and I named her Penelope. I loved her.

My mom did not want me to bring her to school but I must have convinced her, because there we were one day, me and Penelope at rest time hanging on my mat. Another time I brought a small poodle created from blown glass that my grandmother had given me. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to bring it to school either, but I put it in my tiny plastic purse and headed out the door. I knew it was expensive and very special and I showed it off to a few friends during the day. That afternoon I got home and it was not in my purse. It was gone. Someone had stolen it. I couldn’t believe one of my classmates would do such a thing. I was pretty sure it was John.