45 to 50

In kindergarten, there wasn't a lot of real classwork. We copied the alphabet and learned something of phonics, but mostly it was drawing and singing and snacks and games. There wasn't any question-and-answer drill of the class as a whole. Nothing pointed out how much we knew relative to each other.

First grade was a shock.

Day One: Basic Dick and Jane readers. The classic homogenous primer of the 60s, wherein all the kids were white and none of the words was longer than five letters. Sentences rearranged the same dozen or so words with wearisome frequency and lamentable lack of plot:

See Spot run. run, Spot, run! See Dick run. Go, Dick, go! See Jane jump. Jump, Jane, jump!

And so on, ad nauseum. I was aghast that my time was being wasted with this trivia, and even more appalled to realize that my peers were actually having difficulty with it. Despite the lack of variety and the fact that page after colorful page was filled with virtually the same snoozefest of monosyllablism, they were stammering and stuttering as if they'd been asked to mouth sesquipedilianisms from the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

When they got to me, I rattled off the lame schlock in short order, hoping the teacher would see that *I* could read this crap, and she'd let me finish the darn thing and be done with it. No such luck. Wake me when it's over, 'k?

For the rest of my career at St. Jerk's, I was labelled a daydreamer, and got into trouble for reading ahead of the class, or worse yet, reading something that wasn't assigned, like a library book. God forbid! Why? Because I was reading years ahead of my grade level. If I hadn't been so confoundedly bad at math, I think I'd've been skipped a grade or two, which might have kept me interested, but no.

However, my 6th Christmas did bring a big change to my life. I got a gift that I wanted more than anything---a puppy.

There had been hints for weeks, and walking home from the bus stop in the afternoon, Mom brought up the subject of puppy names. What did I think would be a good name for a dog? Everyone in the house as well as some of the neighbors were in on it, judging by the boxes of dog treats people gave me a day or so beforehand.

My dad worked at the Gulf Oil facility out by the Goethels Bridge, and his shifts changed from week to week. On Christmas morning, he'd worked 3rd shift, and Mom insisted that I stay in my room until he got home. (Because of course, it was Christmas morning, so I was up and wide-eyed well before 7 AM.) She brought something small for me to unwrap---it was a doll's tea set---and I waited for Dad...and presents.

Finally the outer kitchen door opened. I could hear the adults, and Mom finally said I could come out of my room.

I opened the door, walked into the kitchen, and there, piddling on the linoleum, was a little black ball of fur.

I shrieked, "Lady!" and the dog was named. (Fortunately, she was a she.) Mom had suggested a number of more sophisticated names on our walks, but six-year olds are not *that* sophisticated, not even me.

Lady she remained, although the black fuzz was a puppy coat that lightened in patches until she was silver-grey all over, and she grew from a round little mop to a tall, elegant Standard Poodle. After the shock of forking over $35 to have her clipped, my Dad ordered clippers from Sears-Roebuck and became a self-taught dog groomer.

Mom trained her, and she was the most intelligent dog I've ever known. She lived to be 15 years old, and died not long after I graduated from 2-year college.

I still dream about her, although I suspect she thought of herself as Mom's dog more than mine.


.

45 to 50

In kindergarten, there wasn't a lot of real classwork. We copied the alphabet and learned something of phonics, but mostly it was drawing and singing and snacks and games. There wasn't any question-and-answer drill of the class as a whole. Nothing pointed out how much we knew relative to each other.

First grade was a shock.

Day One: Basic Dick and Jane readers. The classic homogenous primer of the 60s, wherein all the kids were white and none of the words was longer than five letters. Sentences rearranged the same dozen or so words with wearisome frequency and lamentable lack of plot:

See Spot run. run, Spot, run! See Dick run. Go, Dick, go! See Jane jump. Jump, Jane, jump!

And so on, ad nauseum. I was aghast that my time was being wasted with this trivia, and even more appalled to realize that my peers were actually having difficulty with it. Despite the lack of variety and the fact that page after colorful page was filled with virtually the same snoozefest of monosyllablism, they were stammering and stuttering as if they'd been asked to mouth sesquipedilianisms from the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

When they got to me, I rattled off the lame schlock in short order, hoping the teacher would see that *I* could read this crap, and she'd let me finish the darn thing and be done with it. No such luck. Wake me when it's over, 'k?

For the rest of my career at St. Jerk's, I was labelled a daydreamer, and got into trouble for reading ahead of the class, or worse yet, reading something that wasn't assigned, like a library book. God forbid! Why? Because I was reading years ahead of my grade level. If I hadn't been so confoundedly bad at math, I think I'd've been skipped a grade or two, which might have kept me interested, but no.

However, my 6th Christmas did bring a big change to my life. I got a gift that I wanted more than anything---a puppy.

There had been hints for weeks, and walking home from the bus stop in the afternoon, Mom brought up the subject of puppy names. What did I think would be a good name for a dog? Everyone in the house as well as some of the neighbors were in on it, judging by the boxes of dog treats people gave me a day or so beforehand.

My dad worked at the Gulf Oil facility out by the Goethels Bridge, and his shifts changed from week to week. On Christmas morning, he'd worked 3rd shift, and Mom insisted that I stay in my room until he got home. (Because of course, it was Christmas morning, so I was up and wide-eyed well before 7 AM.) She brought something small for me to unwrap---it was a doll's tea set---and I waited for Dad...and presents.

Finally the outer kitchen door opened. I could hear the adults, and Mom finally said I could come out of my room.

I opened the door, walked into the kitchen, and there, piddling on the linoleum, was a little black ball of fur.

I shrieked, "Lady!" and the dog was named. (Fortunately, she was a she.) Mom had suggested a number of more sophisticated names on our walks, but six-year olds are not *that* sophisticated, not even me.

Lady she remained, although the black fuzz was a puppy coat that lightened in patches until she was silver-grey all over, and she grew from a round little mop to a tall, elegant Standard Poodle. After the shock of forking over $35 to have her clipped, my Dad ordered clippers from Sears-Roebuck and became a self-taught dog groomer.

Mom trained her, and she was the most intelligent dog I've ever known. She lived to be 15 years old, and died not long after I graduated from 2-year college.

I still dream about her, although I suspect she thought of herself as Mom's dog more than mine.


.