The author’s first-day-of-school jitters were soon replaced by a quick understanding of how the system was going to work
My interest in making mud pies in the playhouse had waned, netting minnow fish in the little creek behind our house was no longer a challenge, and I had a great longing for real, live playmates.
When I pestered Mom why I couldn’t begin school at age six like all the rest, her answer was always the same.
“It’s a whole mile to school and that’s a long cold trip in a horse-drawn van in the middle of winter when it’s 30 below here on the prairie. You’ll be bigger and stronger next year.”
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She made certain the extra year at home was not wasted, however. By the time September rolled around, I could count and read and print the alphabet as well or better than any other seven year old. And I loved every minute of it.
However, the worry and suspense the last week before starting school were almost unbearable.
What if the teacher didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like her? What if the teacher turned out to be a man? Nobody in the district had gone to one of those before.
What if the teacher didn’t let me leave the room in time? What if I were the smallest girl in class? What if I couldn’t do arithmetic?
What if I had to read out loud in front of all the big kids in grade three?
What if…..
Come the first day of school, I was up before the rooster crowed. Mom braided my long blond hair and I put on the red pleated skirt and white blouse she had made for me. The school van wouldn’t be coming for me that first day, which was a little disappointing. I was looking forward to bumping along the road with 10 or 12 neighbouring kids in the “gypsy” type van drawn by a team of horses, but Mom was adamant. She and Dad would drive me to school that first day in our 1931 Studebaker.
But what if it wouldn’t start? More than once I had seen my Dad crank it and crank it, to no avail. And what happened to kids who were late on their first day of school? The humiliation would be unbearable.
By eight o’clock, therefore, I was already making my way out to that cantankerous car. There had been a heavy shower the night before, and I picked my way carefully around the mud puddles so as not to dirty my new shoes. Climbing into the back seat, I placed my shiny black lunch kit on the velour seat beside me. On my lap was a Red & White pencil with matching scribbler, my name printed with meticulous care on the front cover.
I left the car door open so my parents could see that I was ready to go, but I totally forgot about my dog Tubby. Seeing me in the back seat of the car, he came bounding across the farmyard, splashing through every puddle. Before I could stop him, he jumped up into the car and put both front paws up on my new notebook, streaking it with mud.
I cried.
What would the new teacher think if I came to school with a muddy scribbler the very first day?
“Hush. It’ll be all right,” my mother said.
“We’ll leave right away and get you a new notebook before the bell rings.”
“But the store won’t even be open yet,” I blubbered.
And it wasn’t.
My mother climbed up the steep stairs to the storekeeper’s living quarters and explained my dilemma. In no time at all, he had grabbed his set of keys, opened the store and sold me a new Red & White scribbler for five cents.
When the friendly teacher gave us our very first assignment that morning, I launched into it with all the confidence and enthusiasm I could muster. I copied a whole page of “ABCs,” nice neat letters all sitting precisely on the line.
My efforts evidently impressed the teacher because when she handed back our work, the other kids got little red and blue stars, but I got a big gold star on the very first page of that Red & White scribbler.
The village storekeeper would have been pleased.
I know I was.
So this is what school is all about: listen to what the teacher wants, do the very best you can and your efforts will be recognized with a big gold star.
I was hooked.
The other kids could settle for less if they wanted to, but from that day on, I decided that everything I handed in should be gold star good.
I practised. I studied. I read. I did my homework on time. The harder I worked the luckier I got. My sister could tease me about my plain appearance. Rich kids could tease me about my homemade clothes. I could be picked last when sides were chosen for softball. I could be passed over for parts in the school play.
Such slights never really bothered me for long because deep, deep down, I knew for a fact I could be gold star good in my studies.
