Continuing my life review...
It seems like a day doesn't go by when I think to myself "What have I done with the first 45 years of my life and why did it fly by so fast?" The wrinkles are getting wrinkles. Parts of my body starting to droop and sag with fears that it will drag on the ground. My ever-thinning hair is migrating south to my chin. I'm not sure my face is any warmer than the top of my head so I'm not sure what's up with the migration. It's just not right.
Just the other day, I was entering kindergarten as a scared youngster wondering what did I do to deserve this. My Mother loved to tell the story about the neighborhood carpool to the Methodist Church just outside the business district of my small hometown. She would stop behind the church, let the rest of the kids out, then park, and proceeded to coax me out of the car. I'm not sure what she used to promise, but I'm sure some never happened. My Mother always carried the blame. She and my Aunt Carolyn took me everywhere with them before my school days -- shopping, lunch, the park. When kindergarten arrived, I'm sure my five-year-old brain was thinking "I'm no bother, so what's the problem?"
Then came first grade. I can still remember standing in line at the elementary school gym. White tile walls. Hard wood floor. My Mother was there to enroll me into school. One of life's rite of passage. My friend, Scott, and his Mom were in a line near us. Two hopefully 5 or 6 year olds heading into the education system for the next twelve years. Twelve long years of growing up. Going through the "Wow! There's hair there!" puberty years all the way through the teenage-anxiety-ridden-who-am-I-and-I-know-it-all years.
My elementary school memories are few and far between. And all I have to say is Thank you for that, God! One memory I have is the smell. Elementary schools of the 1970s have a distinct smell. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it. Maybe it's asbestos off-gassing. Or maybe it was the smell of the now-cancer-causing cleaning fluids. Whatever it was, I just remember it. Oh, and one other smell... Remember the mimeograph machine? Runny-blue printed homework. That distinct smell of the ink. It was always a great moment when you knew the teacher had just come from the printer with a stack of papers and hand them out. Ah, getting high at age seven. Maybe that's why I don't remember a lot of my elementary years.
There's no doubt about it. I hated school right from the get go, until I hit college. That's when life for me really began, but that's another story.
In hindsight, I feel sorry for my teachers. No wonder they always looked stressed and, in some cases, aging in front of us. They would have to deal with a crying-five-year-old who didn't want to be there. I'm sure they saw me and said a prayer that we would make it through the day of learning colors, shapes, and letters.
CSM
It seems like a day doesn't go by when I think to myself "What have I done with the first 45 years of my life and why did it fly by so fast?" The wrinkles are getting wrinkles. Parts of my body starting to droop and sag with fears that it will drag on the ground. My ever-thinning hair is migrating south to my chin. I'm not sure my face is any warmer than the top of my head so I'm not sure what's up with the migration. It's just not right.
Just the other day, I was entering kindergarten as a scared youngster wondering what did I do to deserve this. My Mother loved to tell the story about the neighborhood carpool to the Methodist Church just outside the business district of my small hometown. She would stop behind the church, let the rest of the kids out, then park, and proceeded to coax me out of the car. I'm not sure what she used to promise, but I'm sure some never happened. My Mother always carried the blame. She and my Aunt Carolyn took me everywhere with them before my school days -- shopping, lunch, the park. When kindergarten arrived, I'm sure my five-year-old brain was thinking "I'm no bother, so what's the problem?"
Then came first grade. I can still remember standing in line at the elementary school gym. White tile walls. Hard wood floor. My Mother was there to enroll me into school. One of life's rite of passage. My friend, Scott, and his Mom were in a line near us. Two hopefully 5 or 6 year olds heading into the education system for the next twelve years. Twelve long years of growing up. Going through the "Wow! There's hair there!" puberty years all the way through the teenage-anxiety-ridden-who-am-I-and-I-know-it-all years.
My elementary school memories are few and far between. And all I have to say is Thank you for that, God! One memory I have is the smell. Elementary schools of the 1970s have a distinct smell. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it. Maybe it's asbestos off-gassing. Or maybe it was the smell of the now-cancer-causing cleaning fluids. Whatever it was, I just remember it. Oh, and one other smell... Remember the mimeograph machine? Runny-blue printed homework. That distinct smell of the ink. It was always a great moment when you knew the teacher had just come from the printer with a stack of papers and hand them out. Ah, getting high at age seven. Maybe that's why I don't remember a lot of my elementary years.
There's no doubt about it. I hated school right from the get go, until I hit college. That's when life for me really began, but that's another story.
In hindsight, I feel sorry for my teachers. No wonder they always looked stressed and, in some cases, aging in front of us. They would have to deal with a crying-five-year-old who didn't want to be there. I'm sure they saw me and said a prayer that we would make it through the day of learning colors, shapes, and letters.
CSM
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