September Revisited

A few years ago as I walked past the racks of back-to-school clothing, a familiar fabric stopped me in my tracks. I felt like I had tumbled back in time and landed in the Newberry’s Department Store with my mother. A turquoise plaid from the 1960s had resurfaced in the 21st century – a fabric identical to the new cotton dress that I wore on my first day of school. It was my first store-bought dress, and the peter pan collar was nothing like the homemade, rick-rack trimmed dresses I had always worn.

September always arrives with a rush of nostalgia. The sound of crows cawing in the distance puts me right back at the edge of my parents’ graveled driveway, listening for the shifting gears of the school bus as it slowed down before turning into our driveway. We were the southernmost family on our bus route and the turnaround point before Bus Number 15 headed back to Shepherd Public Schools. With legs barely long enough to reach that first tall step, I made it to the top of the place where I would spend the next 12 years, like it or not. Windows covered in dust from miles of back-road travel would be the lens through which I would see the world until I had almost earned the right to vote.

A decade later, this same bus would sit in our driveway again under completely different circumstances. Our petite substitute bus driver had pulled into our driveway and left the driver’s seat to deal with two brothers who were fighting with each other. When she grabbed the arm of the younger brother, he turned and pushed her down into the empty seat across the aisle and began punching her repeatedly. We all froze, not being able to think quickly enough to react. Finally one of the older high school boys pulled him off of her. She immediately marched into our house and called the bus garage, refusing to move the bus and demanding they send someone else out to finish the route. My father saw no reason to wait until a replacement arrived to deal with the situation. He stormed onto the bus, zeroing in on the likely culprits. His 6’4” frame was intimidating, but it was the outrage in his voice that let everyone know who was now in charge. He let loose with a tirade, and the boys shrunk back into the seat without saying a word. He ended his verbal onslaught with a vicious warning. “You mind your Ps and Qs!” I stepped off the bus completely mortified, knowing that I would be hearing the bus bullies parroting this odd admonishment for the foreseeable future. I was also a little bit proud that I had a father who knew how to put these two hellions in their place, standing guard over both of them until another driver showed up to take everyone else home.

I have only one memory from Kindergarten – a huge, wax-coated cardboard box filled with dress-up clothes in bright florals and pastel chiffon. They were mostly adult dresses, donated by little old ladies who weren’t that much bigger than a hefty farm girl. At the first parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Ella Wilberding told my mother that every day I would choose the same plain,  mustard-colored dress to play in. When she eventually asked me why I always chose that dress, I had told her that I felt sorry for it because no one else ever chose it. Every child should have a teacher who is curious enough to ask these kinds of questions. I was so fortunate that she was my first teacher.

St. Vincent de Paul Catholic School was where I spent the next six years. I lingered in the cloak room every day during the winter months, waiting for all the other girls to go into the classroom. Sister Antilia insisted that the toes of our snow boots touch the wall, but my size ten boots with the Wonder Bread wrapper inserts stuck out several inches farther than all the other girls’ boots. I quietly slid every pair of boots away from the wall so that the heels were all perfectly aligned. Humiliation averted.

Our school had no playground equipment, except for rubber kickballs, a baseball, and a wooden bat. Most of the time we played games that required moxie and a decent amount of body weight. Any self-confidence that had been maimed by long division at the chalkboard was restored by playground games that rewarded brute strength. Crack the Whip and Red Rover were my favorites. Veterans of Crack The Whip knew that you always positioned yourself anywhere but at the end of the line. That end position either took you on a thrill ride with your feet flying two feet off the ground, or you were airborne until the person in front of you let go of your hand and you crash landed with a solid thud. It’s how we learned who we could trust and who we couldn’t. Red Rover was another game that required positioning. Even if you were a bigger kid, you never wanted to lock wrists with someone who had pretzel stick arms or someone who was already crying before the game even began. Either one made you an automatic target. The closest thing we had to supervision was someone running indoors to tell the nuns that a kid was down. In the winter months, games became even more savage as we shoved our way to the top of the pile that the snowplows had left for us, screaming that we were King On The Mountain! My black, front-buckle rubber boots usually kept me at the top of the pile until the bell rang. There were literally no rules, and more than once the bottom of my clodhoppers made direct contact with someone’s face as they tried to reach the top. Any words we had heard at morning mass about the meek inheriting the earth meant nothing when some kid had both hands clamped around one of your ankles, trying to drag you off the top of the mountain. By the beginning of 5th grade, I realized that boys don’t like girls who kick them in the face.

It was roughly around this time that it was decided we would now all be wearing uniforms. Black Watch plaid jumpers and white blouses and knee socks would certainly make us all act like young ladies, or so the nuns thought. My best friend Barb and I, in an attempt to be seen as young ladies, volunteered to clean the chalk out of the erasers at the end of the school day. The job was simple. Take two erasers at a time and beat them together outdoors. We grabbed the bucket of erasers and headed for the area at the side of the building just beyond the outside doors. Ten minutes later, Sister walked outside to find both the red brick wall of our school and our dark uniforms plastered with rectangles of chalk dust. “Now”, Sister Imeldine scolded, “your mothers are going to have to take time out of their busy day to wash your uniforms.” We both hung our heads in shame when she returned minutes later with a bucket of soapy water, instructing us to wash the chalk dust from the brick wall. The following morning, we both showed up at school in chalk-dusted uniforms. Clearly Sister did not know our mothers or the level of dirt required to necessitate starting up the washer on a farm.

It was tradition at our school that every year, the 5th graders got to go on a field trip to The Shrine Circus. It was the only field trip we went on during our six years there, and every student looked forward to finally reaching the 5th grade and being allowed the privilege to go to the circus. The class before us had behaved horribly the previous year, so it was decided the next year that perhaps the 6th graders would be more manageable. They weren’t. So when our class reached the 6th grade, they went back to taking the 5th graders, which meant that our class never got to go to The Shrine Circus. For the next twenty years, whenever someone mentioned The Shrine Circus, my mother would roll her eyes and brace herself for yet another recounting of the tragic circumstances that prevented me from going to The Shrine Circus.

In an attempt to smooth the ruffled feathers of 15 jilted 6th graders, Father Bouchey invited the entire class, along with several parent chaperones, to his cabin up north for an afternoon of swimming and a picnic of grilled hot dogs, potato chips, and Coke. You can’t imagine the thrill of this simple hot lunch unless you have spent six years eating Velveeta and butter sandwiches out of a metal lunch box. We ran around like uncaged animals, creating a circus that rivaled anything The Shriners had to offer. When it was time to head back to school, my classmate Cindy and I got to ride in the front seat of Father’s car. I remember feeling like I had been chosen to ride with God Himself.

As the heat of summer abates and the night temperatures come down enough to open the windows again, I find myself thinking about the better parts of those earliest school days. The night-before-the-first-day excitement encompasses so much, from crisp graham crackers and cardboard cartons of milk to the strange ache I feel in my chest as I watch mothers and daughters in Target filling a cart with Twin XL bedding and everything else that’s on the ‘what to bring to college’ list. My own children are long past their college days, but watching these strangers navigate this new, uncertain territory makes me miss that edge-of-the-nest feeling when I held my breath with anticipation as they leapt for destinations as yet unknown.

I linger too long in the back-to-school aisle, the unsharpened pencils and pristine notebooks creating the same kind of giddy exhilaration that they did 60 years ago. They were, and still are, the tools of possibility. Having educators in my family who can use classroom supplies for their students gives me a legitimate reason to toss packages of markers and crayons into my cart. I head to the checkout without even attempting to hide my excitement, happy to still be a member of the back-to-school club. No other month on the calendar feels like a blank slate the way September does. For me, it will always symbolize the opportunity to chase a new idea or explore something that interests me, and it’s as good a reason as any to wear plaid.