A Graduation of Sorts
By
Gerry Niskern
(One topic I suggested last fall to the participants at my creative memoir writing workshop was to write about a mean teacher in their past. As I wrote along with them the thought occurred to me that kids are really being raised differently now in many different life experiences.)
When I meandered down memory lane looking for a mean teacher I found wonderful memories instead. I was in fourth grade when my family moved during Christas break from our home in the country down into the Ohio River Valley to the little town of Glendale. My parents were planning to move to Arizona in August so our time living in Glendale was going to be short.
I woke up the first morning in my new home with the sound of someone outside calling, “Gerry, Gerry, Gerry”. Mom came to my door and said “Some kids are out on the sidewalk calling for you. Get up and go see what they want.” I dressed and went outside to find a girl about my age with long brown braids like mine and a blond headed boy . Turns out that is what the kids did in Glendale. They were not supposed to knock and bother the grownups; just stand outside and call their friend’s name. They told me their names and asked if I wanted to play.
We kicked around the neighborhood and they filled me in on the school and teachers and a little gossip too. I asked if any of the teachers were mean and they answered, “just one, the music teacher.”
The day after New Years I walked the five blocks to school and found my room. What I remember most about that combined fourth and fifth grade was how we were encouraged to put on plays and skits about the history and stories in literature we were studying. To my delight there were several trunks of costumes of all sorts sitting backstage in the auditorium. We made up our own l plays and practiced during our lunch hour. If our teacher deemed them good enough. the whole school was assembled to watch. This nine-year- old never had so much fun in school.
When the end of May rolled around we had the traditional half-day, received our report cards and were dismissed early. Outside a bunch of the kids were busy planning. “ Let’s go get some stuff and have a picnic at the swimming hole at the creek.” They told me how to get there and off I went to ask Mom if I could go over to the creek with some kids and she surprised me by saying yes. I bargained with my sister to get her bike to ride over there. I don’t remember what the deal was, but it was probably doing some of her chores in exchange for the privilege of riding her two wheeler.
I put on my bathing suit, grabbed a sandwich and was off before mom changed her mind. I crossed the highway that ran thru town, pedaled down a lane and there it was, Little Grave Creek. Everyone was splashing and jumping into the deeper holes. One was deep enough for the bigger boys to show off for the girls by doing a cannonball from a high rock. Almost our whole room was there having fun chasing, laughing, doing a little flirting and playing in the creek all afternoon.
I remember feeling so free and independent and yes, trusted.