Recreation 1

Boston Free Library, Boston, New York

    During a few of the summers when I was in grade school, there was a program called Recreation. A regular school bus would pick us up and take us to either Boston Valley School or another elementary school further south in the town of Boston – the driver would go to both places – kids could get off at either one on any particular day. There were young adults there – I don't really remember there being more than one or two at a time – not teachers, more like recent college grads or maybe even college students.

     In the mornings we could go in the school to drop off our lunches, and I seem to recall games such as duck duck goose and who stole the cookies from the cookie jar that we played inside. But mostly we had to play outside. Aside from baseball, there was no organized play – we could do whatever we wanted on the school grounds – but there was no playing in the woods beyond the fence or wandering off. At lunch time we could eat inside, and occasionally we could stay in out of the summer heat in the afternoons, and at the other Boston school, sometimes there were craft activities – I mostly remember the boondoggle – colorful plastic strips that could be woven into key chains.

     Recreation was free! Can you imagine something like this existing in today's world? And my mother thought it was a godsend! She went to work and did not have to worry about where her kids were and whether or not they were safe – they got on a bus every day and got to play with other kids with adult supervision and it was free! Could anything be better than that?

     I think Recreation at Boston Valley School is where I remember chasing the cloud shadows I mentioned in another posting – I can see the fence and the flat mowed field of the school in between the playground and the baseball diamond – the latter where I was hit with the baseball. And there was a fence beyond the baseball field that I always wanted to climb over and explore the woods – but I was never quite bold enough to do it.

     The other Boston school held a lot of curiosity for me because it was different. The bus ride was fun as we went miles in the direction opposite of Hamburg and Buffalo – a direction the family didn't usually travel. And you know, Boston was and still is quite beautiful! Once a week we walked, with supervision a little bit down the street to the Boston Free Library and someone read to us – we might have even checked out books. After a while, a friend and I did take to escaping the confines of that school property to walk to the store and buy Necco Wafers and stuff them in our pockets. We eventually got caught and got a lecture.

     Another highlight of the second Boston school during Recreation is the story of Clark locking himself in the boys' bathroom! Now mind you, Clark is three years younger than I am – so he was school age, but a young tyke. I did not know what was going on that tday – but suddenly there were sirens and a firetruck arrived at the school! Then firemen were at the boys' bathroom door, and kids around me were saying that my brother was locked inside. I looked around and did not see Clark anywhere – so it could have been true! I do not know if the firemen picked the lock or if they took the hinges off the door, but Clark finally emerged, face tear-streaked but otherwise okay.

     Today, the second Boston school is now an apartment complex. I drove into the parking lot last summer for a look around – I felt no aura of the past surrounding me. Boston Free Library is still there – I took a picture but did not go inside. The store is still there too – I'm sure the Necco Wafers are right where they used to be.

83 20150324 Recreation 1

Part 2 of Fifth Grade

     Here is part 2 of fifth grade. Mrs. Hrycik was a real stickler about penmanship. For those of you of the computer age – penmanship is handwriting – and my handwriting has always been known as less than stellar. My report cards before fifth grade sometimes had an added note that my handwriting could be neater. I did try, and I wanted to make teachers happy – but this was one area where I did not succeed.

      Mrs. Hrycik's thing was that she wanted the ending to each handwritten word to have an upward curve. In fact, she was obsessed with it! Mrs. Hrycik nagged us about it – if only she could get us to end our words with a swirl as easily as she forced us to memorize our times tables, life for her would have been wonderful.

      After a while, I would write my sentences, and then I would go back over them again adding the upward stroke to the last letter of every word just to make her happy.

      But no, that apparently did not make her happy at all! One day Mrs. Hrycik walked up and down the aisles of the class while we were writing essays. I know I was adding curves to my word endings during that particular exercise, and I thought I was careful not to do my swirly curves while the teacher was watching. However, Mrs. Hrycik saw someone doing it! She gave a lecture to the whole class: penmanship was not about adding strokes after we were done with the word, it was about doing the task correctly, naturally, while we were writing. She continued, even more bitterly: the curve at the end was to be instinctive, not arbitrarily added afterward because some teacher told us to do it that way! I don't know why she was so sad – after all, I was just trying to give her what she was asking for!

      Now, my parents were not the kind to stress over grades. They knew we knew what was expected of us. They did not nag me over the fact that I did not get straight A's in grade school – they merely encouraged me to do my best. I am sure that if they felt I was not doing my best, I would have heard about it. So you can imagine my mortification when we got our report cards after the first quarter of fifth grade, and I saw a D in the column next to penmanship! Oh my gosh! What were Mom and Dad going to do to me for bringing home a D? Shame to the family – infamy – I would never be able to hold my head up again. Maybe they would even disown me. Why didn't I put the swirl on the end of my words the way the teacher wanted? Well, she sure showed me! Maybe next quarter Mrs. Hrycik will be mad enough to give me an E in penmanship!?

      I nervously handed the report card to Mom after school, and then she showed it to Dad when he got home from work. To my astonishment, they thought it was the funniest thing ever! A D in handwriting? Well, some people sure made a big deal out of nothing! They told everyone about it, much like I had imagined they would – but it was not with shame, but with laughter! A D in any other subject on the report card would have been serious indeed, but the Folks did not much care about some teacher's obsession with penmanship.

      I was so relieved to be off the hook with that D. And I learned from my parents' example that there are some things we do not have to take too seriously. May we go through life without feeling compelled to add that final flourish to the end of each handwritten word!

81 20150323 Fifth Grade Penmanship

Baseball Clown Story

     This is the official baseball story from when I was 9 years old. It was written up several years ago – but the incidents related here are not memories of memories but rather they are still very clear. And I have told the tale at storytelling events.

     It was the summer between fourth and fifth grade – so it was 1963. I was at a Little League baseball game on the field at Boston Valley Elementary School – it was early evening, and the sun was still shining brightly. I was with my best friend, Diane, and her mother and sister. Her brother was playing in the game. We were sitting on a blanket on the ground way out past third base.

     At some point in the game, I saw the pitcher throw the baseball to the third baseman. The third baseman did not catch the ball – so the ball kept flying past third base and was heading in our direction. Diane's sister ducked to one side and Diane ducked to the other side. But I stayed right where I was – I thought, “What are the chances?” I blacked out, and my head went down to the blanket. The baseball had smacked me in the mouth! The right side, upper teeth. It didn't hurt immediately, but there was bleeding.

     Diane's mother got me to her car and drove me home. Dad was out in the yard, and he met us in the driveway. Mrs. C explained what happened in as calm a voice as she could. Dad squatted down to my eye level to survey the damage. I can still see his expression as he put one hand to the side of his face in a “Oh my gosh” expression. He then helped me into the car and drove all the way to the emergency room at Mercy Hospital in South Buffalo.

     The folks at the hospital attempted a couple of x-rays, but nothing would come out clear. While we were waiting for the x-rays to develop, there was a nurse who was taking all our information. When we told her our address, her face lit up – she lived near us – on the hill off of Zimmerman. When she realized how old I was, her face lit up again and the nurse asked if I knew a boy named Kevin and she said his last name also. I said that I did indeed know him, he had been in my class at school. “What do you think of him?” the nurse asked, and I said, “Not much.” Everyone giggled as the nurse explained that Kevin was her brother! When the staff realized that better x-rays were needed for my mouth, they suggested to Dad that he take me to our dentist and ask if he could do some x-rays.

     So we drove all the way back to North Boston. And at first Dad was going to wait until the next day, Saturday, to take me to the dentist, but we were driving right past the dentist's home, and Dad decided to stop. Dr. H lives in a huge house – the front of it is the living area, and the back is where the dental office is. Dad knocked on the front door. By this time it was late on Friday evening. Dad explained things to Dr. H and asked if it was possible to take an x-ray of me, and Dr. H opened his office and did just that! My baby teeth in that area of my mouth were long gone, and the permanent teeth were in. A couple of those teeth were bent and loose after the baseball hit. My lip was split, but it was decided a stitch was not needed. The teeth, with luck, would go back into place and be all right. The very front right tooth was probably dead – a dead nerve – but we would not do anything about it unless there was a problem later.

     The next morning I woke up with a top lip that was hanging down almost to my chin – there was a scab over the split portion in the lip. I felt like the ugliest person in the whole world.

     In the kitchen, Mrs. C was sitting with my Mom at the table. Mrs. C was so upset at what had happened to me, and she was worried that my parents were mad at her! Mom assured Mrs. C that she and Dad were not mad at her – it was my own fault that I did not have sense enough to get out of the way of a baseball heading straight for my mouth! Mrs. C said that her family had an extra ticket to the circus in town that night – could they take me with them?

     My Mom was usually a negative person – and never was I more grateful for that than when Mrs. C asked if I could go to the circus with them. There was never going to be a better time for NOT going to the circus – I just wanted to hide at home with my wounded face. But to my infinite surprise, and adults were always surprising me with the things that they said, Mom answered that I could, indeed, go to the circus with them that night!

     Inside the big top, a mousy girl with a fat lip sat on the bottom bleacher hoping no one would notice or stare at her. A clown with a brightly colored beach ball stopped in front of me and wordlessly handed me the ball. Then the clown motioned for me to stand up – I felt so self-conscious, but I got up.

      The clown motioned me to walk to the nearest ring. And when I did, there was another clown in the ring motioning for me to throw the ball. I threw the beach ball toward the clown in the ring – it bounced wimpily, pitifully rolled to the clown and stopped halfway. The clown in the ring clapped and bounded to the beach ball as if it had been the most perfect throw in the world – picked it up and then was on his way. The clown outside the ring clapped and smiled and walked me back to the bleachers. I sat back down again but sensed that the clown was still there – so I looked up and we made eye contact. Then the clown waved a giant good bye and was on his way to the next set of bleachers.

      My eyes followed him until he was gone. What the clown had given me that night was my first ever experience with unconditional love.

      When I think back now on those who helped me through the baseball- in-the-mouth incident – I realize that they are all nothing short of heroes – from Dad and Mrs. C to the emergency room staff and the dentist Dr. H. The examples set from this experience taught me that I wanted to be all of them when I grow up.

      And most especially, I decided, from that moment forward, I wanted to be that clown!

81 20150322 Baseball Clown Story

Second Day of Spring

Happy second day of spring/

And Poetry Day too, if you will/

I’d write a little celebratory rhymy thing/

But it would shrivel next to nature’s daffodil!

 

     Oh dear! This is something I found in my notes from the 2008/2009 story-a-day files! Well, it is the second day of spring, and Poetry Day, so I might as well share it here. And the poem reminds me of another poem and ninth grade English class.

     I'll be writing about this class again in other posts. But today's is about an assignment we were given one day to pick a poem and illustrate it. I was excited – not because I was much of an artist, I was not – but because there was a particular poem we had talked about, and there was only one image that came to mind when I read it. And I could illustrate it.

     The poem is by William Wordsworth and it begins I wandered lonely as a cloud and then the fourth line is A host of lovely daffodils! And the picture that came to my mind when I read the lines is of a person walking along with a cloud covering his head – that is, a cloud where the head should be. And then daffodils at his feet and in the background. And that is what I drew!

     When it was my turn to present my assignment to the class, Mrs. Dye, my teacher, was a tad dumbstruck with the picture. “What is that where the head should be?” She did not get it. And the rest of the class did not get it. What's to get? The poet felt like a lonely cloud as he walked along!

     Oh well, Mrs. Dye would be glad to know that the imagery stuck – and on Poetry Day one year, I wrote about nature's daffodil!

80 20150321 Second day of Spring

Chaucer's Spring

   Thoughts of spring! There are almost no memories of the English class I took freshman year of college. Except, now that I write this, some scenes do suddenly come flowing back. I remember that I was too unconventional then to wear a wristwatch, so most days I had a pendant watch on a necklace to help me get to classes and the bus stop on time; and I had gotten glasses after high school graduation, but I was always taking them off – so there is a memory of me being very gawky walking to and from English class trying to keep track of my glasses and watching the time while carrying my books and paper and more than one pen because I took so many notes I used up a pen a week! Such a goof!

     In English, we moved our desks into a circle, and class was mostly discussion about the books we were reading. I never participated – just like in high school – I was afraid to speak up in fear of interrupting someone else – and I was terrified that I had nothing of value to add to the conversation anyway and I might make everyone aware of how literal and vacuous I was. So my head was always bent over my notes and my hand was constantly writing – hoping my silence would not be noticed.

      Instead of thinking independently about what I was reading and what the class was discussing, all my efforts went toward trying to figure out what the teacher wanted on exams so I could give him just that and get a good grade. Total goof!

     So it is not the teacher's fault I came away from the class with almost nothing – the blame is totally mine.

     But there was one nugget I did retain from class. Ever since that semester, when someone mentions spring, I immediately think of that English class in Old Main. We were doing Chaucer and the Canterbury Tales. The professor began with the prologue – it was about spring – imagery about romance, well more than romance, out and out lust – and the line I always remember is the one about the birds lying in their nests at night with their eyes wide open – anticipating, eager, each ready for a mate to come along. I still get a bit of a thrill inside when someone mentions spring, and my thoughts go straightaway to those birds with their eyes wide open – perhaps they remind me of a silly, gawky, giddily excited freshman girl I used to know.

80 20150321 Chaucer's Spring

Blue Eyes and Bitterness

   The night that Mike and I sat at Biba's talking about the song “Behind Blue Eyes” - I realized that the song not only takes me to freshman year of college and the desk with the words of the title carved into the desktop, but that it then takes me to another memory. A more uncomfortable memory.

     It was a few years after college. I was working at a lab on Main Street in Buffalo, almost downtown. And I was living in an apartment in Buffalo, near the border of Cheektowaga. I took public transportation to and from work every day. The Number 12 bus. The Number 12 route began on Main Street and wound its way through east Buffalo to the edge of the city and then to the suburb of Cheektowaga. One day I was on the bus heading for home when an elderly man got on the Number 12. He paid his fare, so I guess he was lucid enough to some extent, but he was talking to himself, and at times he was even raving. The bus was crowded, but we gave him some space, as best we could. After a while, the crowd thinned out, and people moved further and further away from the old man who continued to talk to himself. And finally he was sitting all alone in the front of the bus in one of those seats that faces the aisle. I was then the closest one to him, in a seat a few rows away that faces the front of the bus. The bus was empty enough at this point for me to make out the words that the man was saying.

     He stared out the window across from him to the people on the city sidewalk outside, and he said, “All the white people gonna die!”

     And a chill when through my body.

     A mother and her child got on the bus. The old man's eyes followed the little boy as the two walked past him in the aisle. They took seats far behind me, and the man said, “All the blue-eyed babies gonna die!”

     And then his eyes locked onto mine, and he said, “All the blue-eyed white folk gonna die.”

     He was crazy. What he was saying was crazy. There is nothing more to make of the incident than that.

     But after sharing the memory something was still digging at me.

     Something I did not want to surface, but here it is.

     This goes all the way back to junior high and high school. There were several kids who shared many of the same classes that I did for the six years combined of junior and high school. Of course we didn't know in seventh grade that we would be in so many classes together for all those years. And in that very first year, seventh grade, some of those kids let me know real quick that I did not belong. They were a clique – every bit identical to the cliques depicted even in movies about high school today – every bit as ugly and uppity. They made me feel that I had the wrong looks, the wrong clothes, the wrong economic status, even the wrong address – and it was futile to act like a peer – I would never belong, and they laughed behind my back.

     So I decided, right there in seventh grade, that I did not need them. I would not waste my energy trying to get them to like me or include me or acknowledge that I existed. I shunned them, stuck my nose up at them, would not give any of them the time of day should they maybe have even asked. I hated them for six years.

     There was one boy in particular I singled out to funnel all my silent rage onto – he epitomized all that I despised in their high and mighty snootery. He was the one laughing behind my back that day in seventh grade when he did not know I saw him. I enjoyed hating him and I loved blaming him for my miserable high school experience.

    Then on Senior Day at the end of our senior year, that very boy actually came up to me and asked if I would sign his yearbook....he asked very nicely. He passed me his yearbook, and I gave him mine.

     What did he write in mine? He wrote, “don't ever turn in your homework early or people might think you are a brown-nose”.

     This was in reference to a joke I had made in chemistry class a couple of months earlier. He had heard my joke? He had acknowledged a joke that was made by me? He would have had to acknowledge my existence if he heard my joke. And he must have liked it – enough to want to share it with me permanently in my yearbook! Why couldn't we have been friends? Well, it was his own fault that we weren't.

…. Of course I was writing in his yearbook while he was signing mine – so I did not see what he wrote until later.

     What did I write to him? Well, I wanted to pen something that would reflect our entire six years together – something that would encompass the mood. Yes, I could still seethe with seventh grade bitterness after all that time. I wrote.....”you have pretty blue eyes; but I can't think of anything else nice to say about you.”

     It actually took until several years after high school to realize that I was the one who had been an ass all that time!

     It is amazing that anyone ever sat next to me on the number 12 bus! The mirror finally showed me who is the raging lunatic – the idiot behind hazel eyes!

78 20150319 blue eyes and bitterness

Behind Blue Eyes

     One night a few months ago, Mike and I were eating dinner at Biba's, the Italian restaurant near our house. There was a sound system playing overhead, and a song came on that made me wistful, and I said to Mike, “I've always liked this song.” Mike, who knows my rock history is weak, immediately said, “And the artist is?” it took a moment, but then I realized I was sure of the answer, “The Who” then Mike said, “Why do you like it?”

     I told him, the song always takes me immediately back to first semester freshman year of college (1971) – I was sitting at a desk in class and looking at the graffiti covered wooden desktop – ink or carvings, just like all the desks, but on that particular day, three words that had been etched in jumped out at me - “Behind Blue Eyes” - It was the name of a song on the top 40 on AM radio at that time – a fairly new song. Seeing the words on the desk sent a chill through me – someone had so recently identified with that song – so strongly that he, and I presumed it was a guy with a knife, felt compelled one day in class, out of boredom, or depression, or that stereotypically college word – out of angst – he carved “Behind Blue Eyes” into the desk. I pictured the guy as someone with blue eyes who felt misunderstood.

     And then Mike said, “what does the song mean?” I had to confess then that when the song comes on the radio, I usually only hear the first couple of lines. The words take me back to that desk and the boy with blue eyes and then I go to other places, thinking about guys with blue eyes and they are attractive, and life is mostly easy for them because they are good looking and so they don't have to learn to be nice to get what they want, and then people realize they aren't nice and the blue eyed boys become mistrusted and shunned and they become lonely with empty lives and no one knows what it's like!

     After that, Mike and I did what we do more and more often these days – we whipped out our respective cell phones and googled. We were eager to read what Wikipedia had to say about the song “Behind Blue Eyes”. And my modest understanding of what was written is that Pete Townshend, a member of the Who, was standing outside after a concert one night when a female fan approached him and offered to spend the rest of the evening with him. He was tempted, but resisted the temptation and went back to his room alone and wrote the song.

     Now admit it, when you read just now that a rock star knew about temptation, you were surprised weren't you? And then when you read that not only did he know temptation, but he resisted it, you were even more surprised! Because is not the very definition of rock star equivalent to sleeping with a different groupie after every concert?

     We make assumptions based on reputation – we don't know what it is like behind blue eyes!

     It was a very satisfying dinner that night in Biba's – the sharing of an old memory led to a conversation that took us in many directions, and the conversation led us to do a bit of modest research that opened up new perspecives. I still say, “I've always liked this song”, but now the saying of that has so many more dimensions to it!

     And there is even more to the story – to be continued

77 20150318 Behind Blue Eyes