First time on the new school's playground!
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The First Day of School
Three generations of Plum residents; Viola, 5, Elizabeth, 36, and Kathy, 62; share stories about their first days of school.
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
The First Day of School - Viola, 5
On my first day of school, I was very afraid. Because I was scared, I didn't want to do it. I wore a dress and carried my heart, my peace sign, and my shooting star on my backpack. I rode the bus. It was sort of a long time to get to school and on the way home. We have all kinds of different bus drivers.
I was very scared when I got to school. They put my name on a horse on the front door of school. My teacher was named Miss W. When I met my teacher, I was a little bit afraid then. Someone came out to the teacher, and someone was very bad at school--not following directions. The person who came up to Miss W. got hurt from the person who was not listening. There are a couple of people who get a little bit in trouble sometimes.
I was not scared any more after the first day. After that day, I dreamed about my first day of school.
I was very scared when I got to school. They put my name on a horse on the front door of school. My teacher was named Miss W. When I met my teacher, I was a little bit afraid then. Someone came out to the teacher, and someone was very bad at school--not following directions. The person who came up to Miss W. got hurt from the person who was not listening. There are a couple of people who get a little bit in trouble sometimes.
I was not scared any more after the first day. After that day, I dreamed about my first day of school.
How to Say Hello - Elizabeth, 36
Everyone knows that when you say hello for the first time, you are supposed to make a good impression, which usually includes dressing up. Dressing up, if you’re a girl, generally involves a dress. I don’t like dresses much. I much prefer pants. Don’t get me wrong. I like how dresses look. I have always loved the Barbies with long gowns, red carpet pictures, and even June Cleaver’s perfect little outfits with skirts that swayed ever so slightly as she vacuumed. Barbie and June can pull it off. I can’t.
I mean, sure, there’s a time and a place for swishiness and skirts that flare completely out. And for professional reasons, I have been known to go stretches of months with nary a pant-wearing moment. But there are days when I don’t like that all-out-in-the-open, a-strong-breeze-could-ruin-everything feeling. There were days I wanted to do cartwheels, and good-girls-in-dresses aren’t made for cartwheels. Many times now, I am simply too impatient for a dress. I mean it’s okay if your dress is long enough that it covers your knees but short enough that you don’t kill yourself walking up steps. But I can’t be bothered to lift properly when I walk, smooth properly when I sit, bend at the knees rather than the waist, or be sure never to squat. I simply don’t have the patience for it. Give me jeans any day.
My mother tried hard to convince me to at least pretend I was a prissy girl on the first day of first grade. She wanted me to sit still for curling the hair, for barrettes, for nail polish. But mostly, she wanted me to pick one of the Polly Flinders dresses that her parents had mailed my sister and I from Florida. I could have chosen any of them, the red-plaid, the tiny white floral print on a ground of navy blue, or even the pink and white with lacey trim. I would have none of it.
You see, two weeks before we had gone school shopping at Hills discount department store—the one where all “the toys are.” We had bought a plastic pencil box, a red backpack, and a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box that my mother ruined by writing my name on it in huge block letters with permanent marker. But my favorite purchase was the most beautiful pair of jeans I had ever seen: red denim with embroidery on the back pocket. I knew that they had to be designer jeans because all designer jeans had embroidery on the back pocket. I was certain that those gorgeous curlicues spelled “Jordache,” despite Mom’s claims that it really said “Super Denim.” I mean, really, what do moms know at that stage of the game? I was so proud as I laid them out with a hand-me-down red and pink Western style blouse with pearl-covered snaps and still white, never worn tennis shoes.
Dad agreed to watch my sister as Mom walked me to school that first day. Alas, the white shoes never made it past the junior high track that stood between us and the elementary school door. The gravel made such a lovely rusk-rush sound as I dragged my feet through it and its resistance added to my own. Going to school was well and good and all, but did we really have to run there? But the jeans were still lovely when, hand-in-hand with our mothers (and one father), the first graders were marshaled through the doors and into our various classrooms. After a brief speech from the teachers, the parents were dismissed, and we children were left alone with our teachers.
After briefly eying one another, our teacher announced, “Well, don’t you all look so nice! You boys look so clean and handsome. And all the girls look so pretty in their dresses, except Beth in her pants.”
Now I know that she meant, “And all the girls look so pretty in their dresses, except Beth, who looks pretty in her pants,” but that was not what I heard that day. I vowed never to wear pants to school again. I risked the wrath of the gym teacher by adamantly refusing to don appropriate attire on gym day, and I almost never turned upside down on the playground that entire fall. I may have even lasted out the year if it hadn’t snowed and Mom had not declared that she was not going to let me walk to school in boots and a skirt.
I don’t know that I made much of a first impression on my teacher, but she certainly made one on me.
I mean, sure, there’s a time and a place for swishiness and skirts that flare completely out. And for professional reasons, I have been known to go stretches of months with nary a pant-wearing moment. But there are days when I don’t like that all-out-in-the-open, a-strong-breeze-could-ruin-everything feeling. There were days I wanted to do cartwheels, and good-girls-in-dresses aren’t made for cartwheels. Many times now, I am simply too impatient for a dress. I mean it’s okay if your dress is long enough that it covers your knees but short enough that you don’t kill yourself walking up steps. But I can’t be bothered to lift properly when I walk, smooth properly when I sit, bend at the knees rather than the waist, or be sure never to squat. I simply don’t have the patience for it. Give me jeans any day.
My mother tried hard to convince me to at least pretend I was a prissy girl on the first day of first grade. She wanted me to sit still for curling the hair, for barrettes, for nail polish. But mostly, she wanted me to pick one of the Polly Flinders dresses that her parents had mailed my sister and I from Florida. I could have chosen any of them, the red-plaid, the tiny white floral print on a ground of navy blue, or even the pink and white with lacey trim. I would have none of it.
You see, two weeks before we had gone school shopping at Hills discount department store—the one where all “the toys are.” We had bought a plastic pencil box, a red backpack, and a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box that my mother ruined by writing my name on it in huge block letters with permanent marker. But my favorite purchase was the most beautiful pair of jeans I had ever seen: red denim with embroidery on the back pocket. I knew that they had to be designer jeans because all designer jeans had embroidery on the back pocket. I was certain that those gorgeous curlicues spelled “Jordache,” despite Mom’s claims that it really said “Super Denim.” I mean, really, what do moms know at that stage of the game? I was so proud as I laid them out with a hand-me-down red and pink Western style blouse with pearl-covered snaps and still white, never worn tennis shoes.
Dad agreed to watch my sister as Mom walked me to school that first day. Alas, the white shoes never made it past the junior high track that stood between us and the elementary school door. The gravel made such a lovely rusk-rush sound as I dragged my feet through it and its resistance added to my own. Going to school was well and good and all, but did we really have to run there? But the jeans were still lovely when, hand-in-hand with our mothers (and one father), the first graders were marshaled through the doors and into our various classrooms. After a brief speech from the teachers, the parents were dismissed, and we children were left alone with our teachers.
After briefly eying one another, our teacher announced, “Well, don’t you all look so nice! You boys look so clean and handsome. And all the girls look so pretty in their dresses, except Beth in her pants.”
Now I know that she meant, “And all the girls look so pretty in their dresses, except Beth, who looks pretty in her pants,” but that was not what I heard that day. I vowed never to wear pants to school again. I risked the wrath of the gym teacher by adamantly refusing to don appropriate attire on gym day, and I almost never turned upside down on the playground that entire fall. I may have even lasted out the year if it hadn’t snowed and Mom had not declared that she was not going to let me walk to school in boots and a skirt.
I don’t know that I made much of a first impression on my teacher, but she certainly made one on me.
The First Day of First Grade - Kathy, 62
When I catch the scent of a particular air freshener it transports me back to my most frightening childhood memory, which haunts me to this very day. I will never forget the sheer terror of walking into St. Joseph's Catholic Grade School on the first day of grade 1. Each step my little gray tie shoes took after getting off the bus took me one step closer to being swallowed by that vastly threatening world that I did not, and did not want to, know. I so wanted to run back to the comfortable loving arms of my mommy. The smell of the black and white copy book as it was opened for the days’ lessons is forever engrained in my mind. When we were able to go to the lavatory before lunch or recess, we had to keep our finger over our mouth, as talking was not permitted. The boys were always kept a respectable distance away from the girls. But the most terrifying memory I have of that day was my introduction to the nuns. They wore all black garments with black hoods that covered their hair and anything else that would have suggested the presence of a nurturing female inside. I never felt more relief as when that final bell rang at the end of the day and I knew it would not be long until I could return to the comfort of my home and my mom. And that was my introduction to my life-long nemesis, insecurity.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
New Glasses
Nancy, 79, and her friend's son, AJ, 6, share stories about getting their first pairs of glasses.
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
New Glasses - AJ, 6
It
was fun when I got my glasses. And it also hurt when I got the eye
drops in my eye. I wasn’t scared to go to the eye doctor’s. I liked to
play the eye glasses games where you tell the dots and what the numbers
are. I liked the lollipops too. I decided on my glasses on how they
feel and because they were cool. And the last one I chose was the one.
I like the sides and the frame because they say “X-games.” I like to
watch Ninjago (a children’s TV-series) with them now because I can see
the TV a lot better now. I like my glasses.
Through the Eyes of a Child - Nancy, 79
“How long have you worn glasses?” the new eye doctor asked me last week.
His question made me think about my childhood experiences as an extremely myopic (near-sighted) child and my feelings about what wearing glasses meant to me.
Spring of second grade—my grades in school began dropping. As an A-student I was unaccustomed to scoring poorly on exams. When questioned by my teacher I assured her I could see the blackboard fine. What I didn’t realize was what I was seeing was inaccurate. My changing vision meant I could see the blackboard; I just couldn’t see it correctly. Seven-year-olds with vision changes don’t realize that not everybody sees the same. Blurry vision was normal for me, so I thought nothing was wrong. The teacher moved my seat to the front of the room—situation resolved!
Spring and summer came to an end with nothing more said about my vision problems of the previous school year. Sometime in August Mom took me to see an eye doctor—my grandma’s eye doctor. Dr. Hayes’ wife was my Gram’s cousin. The exam was interesting. Reading letters from a lighted chart and telling Dr. Hayes what I was seeing ultimately ended with Mom choosing a pair of eyeglass frames for me. In the 1940’s there was very limited choice; the only important consideration was the fit, which was certainly not ideal. When we left the office, I was happily surprised that I left there without any glasses. Little did I know! A couple weeks later we returned to Dr. Hayes; this time I left the office wearing a pair of glasses.
As we walked out the door, my first impression was a feeling of being off-balance. At the trolley stop I was amazed at how clear everything appeared. The biggest surprise was that I was able to read the trolley number. That was an ability I did not have for the previous two to three years. It was as if a whole new world opened before my eyes. My first experience with eyeglasses was repeated yearly until I was in my early 20’s.
Although a new eyeglass prescription became an annual August “tradition” I was not really accepting the need for wearing glasses. Although I couldn’t see distant objects clearly, reading books was no problem. Wearing glasses was not necessary as far as I was concerned. In fifth grade, I was seated at the front of the classroom at the beginning of the school year. Soon I realized I could see the blackboard without my glasses. Hiding my glasses in my desk, I told my teacher I no longer needed glasses. Sometime in the spring, my grades began dropping. Guess what? I was not seeing the blackboard accurately. That was my last attempt at not wearing glasses. The condition I had—progressive myopia—meant that each year found me more near-sighted than the year before. This progression finally slows in the early 20’s.
Eyeglasses were not comfortable, especially as the glass lenses became heavier with each new prescription. This caused moderate discomfort behind my ears, necessitating frequent adjustments. I think I was 11 or 12 one winter when I decided I had had enough of heavy uncomfortable glasses. For some reason the eye doctor that year (not Dr. Hayes) had fitted me with frames too big for me. Maybe it was all he had or maybe he told my mom that I would “grow into them.” One cold winter day walking home from school, I grabbed my glasses off my face and tried bending them in half. Oops! Suddenly I was holding a piece of my glasses in each hand. I’m certain Mom didn’t really have the money for a second pair of glasses that school year, but somehow she managed. If I was punished for this behavior, I have no recollection.
In 1948 Mom and my brothers and I were again living in Wilkinsburg, so I returned to Dr. Hayes that summer for my annual eye exam. Because my vision was continuing to worsen, he prescribed glasses with bifocals. I was astounded. Bifocals were for old people, not for a 15-year-old. His explanation was that adding bifocals meant my lenses would not be as heavy. Amazingly, to me, I had no problems adjusting to the bifocal part of the lens . . . an advantage of youth! Whether or not they helped me, I really cannot recall.
Although I have experienced various eye problems associated with aging, my memories—and feeling—of wearing glasses as a child remain vivid. Maybe it’s just because—hindsight is always 20-20!
His question made me think about my childhood experiences as an extremely myopic (near-sighted) child and my feelings about what wearing glasses meant to me.
Spring of second grade—my grades in school began dropping. As an A-student I was unaccustomed to scoring poorly on exams. When questioned by my teacher I assured her I could see the blackboard fine. What I didn’t realize was what I was seeing was inaccurate. My changing vision meant I could see the blackboard; I just couldn’t see it correctly. Seven-year-olds with vision changes don’t realize that not everybody sees the same. Blurry vision was normal for me, so I thought nothing was wrong. The teacher moved my seat to the front of the room—situation resolved!
Spring and summer came to an end with nothing more said about my vision problems of the previous school year. Sometime in August Mom took me to see an eye doctor—my grandma’s eye doctor. Dr. Hayes’ wife was my Gram’s cousin. The exam was interesting. Reading letters from a lighted chart and telling Dr. Hayes what I was seeing ultimately ended with Mom choosing a pair of eyeglass frames for me. In the 1940’s there was very limited choice; the only important consideration was the fit, which was certainly not ideal. When we left the office, I was happily surprised that I left there without any glasses. Little did I know! A couple weeks later we returned to Dr. Hayes; this time I left the office wearing a pair of glasses.
As we walked out the door, my first impression was a feeling of being off-balance. At the trolley stop I was amazed at how clear everything appeared. The biggest surprise was that I was able to read the trolley number. That was an ability I did not have for the previous two to three years. It was as if a whole new world opened before my eyes. My first experience with eyeglasses was repeated yearly until I was in my early 20’s.
Although a new eyeglass prescription became an annual August “tradition” I was not really accepting the need for wearing glasses. Although I couldn’t see distant objects clearly, reading books was no problem. Wearing glasses was not necessary as far as I was concerned. In fifth grade, I was seated at the front of the classroom at the beginning of the school year. Soon I realized I could see the blackboard without my glasses. Hiding my glasses in my desk, I told my teacher I no longer needed glasses. Sometime in the spring, my grades began dropping. Guess what? I was not seeing the blackboard accurately. That was my last attempt at not wearing glasses. The condition I had—progressive myopia—meant that each year found me more near-sighted than the year before. This progression finally slows in the early 20’s.
Eyeglasses were not comfortable, especially as the glass lenses became heavier with each new prescription. This caused moderate discomfort behind my ears, necessitating frequent adjustments. I think I was 11 or 12 one winter when I decided I had had enough of heavy uncomfortable glasses. For some reason the eye doctor that year (not Dr. Hayes) had fitted me with frames too big for me. Maybe it was all he had or maybe he told my mom that I would “grow into them.” One cold winter day walking home from school, I grabbed my glasses off my face and tried bending them in half. Oops! Suddenly I was holding a piece of my glasses in each hand. I’m certain Mom didn’t really have the money for a second pair of glasses that school year, but somehow she managed. If I was punished for this behavior, I have no recollection.
In 1948 Mom and my brothers and I were again living in Wilkinsburg, so I returned to Dr. Hayes that summer for my annual eye exam. Because my vision was continuing to worsen, he prescribed glasses with bifocals. I was astounded. Bifocals were for old people, not for a 15-year-old. His explanation was that adding bifocals meant my lenses would not be as heavy. Amazingly, to me, I had no problems adjusting to the bifocal part of the lens . . . an advantage of youth! Whether or not they helped me, I really cannot recall.
Although I have experienced various eye problems associated with aging, my memories—and feeling—of wearing glasses as a child remain vivid. Maybe it’s just because—hindsight is always 20-20!
Friday, November 23, 2012
Sisterly Love
Janet, 64, and writing classmate, Barbara, 60, share stories of "sisterly" love.
Tell your story! Contact elizabethanne.kim(a)gmail(.)com if you would like to share your story here or if you'd like to bring a Share a Pair event to your neighborhood.
Going to Sleep - Barb, 60
Going to Sleep
Barb, 60
Kathy and I were 20 months apart in age. We were the logical pair to share a room. As with most children, we had the typical parental threats to “shut up and go to sleep!” And, as typical children, we didn’t! We spent many hours whispering.
One night when we were about 8 and 10, my sister came up with an excellent idea. We had to be quiet, but we would take turns coming up with ideas to scare the crap out of the other one. She went first: It was her idea. We spent several turns with the typical scary faces and creepy noises. (It didn’t take much to scare Kathy.)
I soon got bored and thought of a perfect scare! Kathy had gotten a Tommy gun for Christmas. Since Mom and Dad were awake and right below us, I had to take my time tip-toeing across the room to the closet and digging through the toy box. Every little sound made Kathy whisper in alarm, “What’s that!” I finally dug out the gun without Mom and Dad hearing. Now to get close to Kathy and cock it! I cocked it first, as far away from her as possible. Then on tiptoes I sidled over to her bed. It was an incredible feat that she kept her eyes closed! I had the gun three inches from her face! With my permission, she opened her eyes! “Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat!” Her screams pierced the night! I was howling as quietly as I could, but it really didn’t matter. There was so much noise!
My baby sister wailed from her crib. Hollering and threats came from my Mom. Dad being woken from sleep in his lazy boy, threatened to come up and ‘blister our bottoms’!
I jumped into bed without my feet touching the floor! I shook laughing so hard, the mattress continued to creak. Kathy was laughing, too, in between her gasps for breath.
It was worth all the trouble we got into! I can still hear her piercing scream!
“Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!”
Like a Sister - Janet, 64
Like a Sister
Janet, 64
I only had one sibling, a brother, who was seven years younger than me. I used to think about having a sister and how much fun that would be.
As I recall my childhood days, I realize that my cousin Linda was like my sister, filling that void I had for a close sister playmate.
We would play games outside like Hopscotch, Mother May I and Freeze. On warm July nights we would catch lightning bugs and put them in a jar with grass. There was never a dull moment when we were together.
I have years of memories, but there are two that are very special among them all. The first was our bedtime ritual when we had sleep-overs. “I’ll rub your arm fifty times, then you rub mine fifty times.” One of us always suggested this so we would get sleepy; however, Linda would fall asleep after my fifty gentle strokes on her arm. She could not, or pretended she could not, wake up to give me my turn! And rarely was I the one to be first!
The second memory I have is when we were about seven-years-old. Our parents came to a church service where we were the featured “vocalists.” Our special song was “Jesus Loves Me.” Little dresses and fancy socks with ruffles made us feel like princesses as we walked hand-in-hand to the platform. The pianist started playing—our cue to sing. Instead of breaking into song, we looked at each other and broke into uncontrollable giggling. Someone had to come and remove us off the platform from our singing debut. We laughed the whole way down the steps as we were led away!
Now, many years later, we are blessed to be neighbors living next door to each other. We still laugh a lot, only now it is mostly about our senior aches and pains and times of forgetfulness! It is still fun to be with Linda. I love you, Cuz! Like my sister.
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