Xanga Entry - Wednesday, March 16, 2005 - 6:45 PM
Third grade was different. I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Scott, who would take a class of third graders and teach them for two years....third and fourth grade. We left Virginia after I finished fourth grade and mom gave her a lot of her teaching materials (she also taught fourth grade in another school) and they kept in touch over the years. She came to my grandmother's funeral about 11 years ago. It is unusual for a teacher to keep up with one of her students for over 30 years. She was an excellent teacher.
I told my first big in school lie in third grade. One Friday, we were in the class towards the end of the day, and Mrs. Scott was called out into the hall. We had already picked up our chairs and put them upside down with the seat on the desks. She told us to stand quietly by our desks until she got back. The chairs had legs with metal tips covered in felt on the ends of each leg; they swiveled a little and when they swiveled, they squeaked....loudly. Several of us started working at them and we had quite a sound going when Mrs. Scott walked in. Immediate quiet. She said that everyone who had made the noise had to stay after school and then asked who had been squeaking the chairs. Some of the kids who had been doing the deed raised their hands but I didn't. I had never had to stay after school. She didn't say anything else and when the bell rang, she let the rest of us go...me included. That weekend, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat.....I felt miserable, like everyone knew what I had done. I finally broke down and told my dad, sobbing. He said that I knew the right thing to do, so on Monday I went to Mrs. Scott and confessed what I had done and offered to stay after school or whatever punishment she thought best. She very quietly sat me on her lap and told me that she was proud of me for telling her the truth. She had stood at the door of the classroom for a few seconds before coming in and had seen all the culprits. She saw that I had been involved but didn't say anything, probably knowing that I would have an awful weekend. I don't think she even made me stay after school. Guess she thought three days of guilty anguish was punishment enough.
I had my first crush in third grade. My third cousin (on my mother's side) Ricky Meador, was in my class. His older brother was in fifth grade. They lived on the street that I took to walk home. Mom made arrangements for me to stay at their house after school until she got there from her school to take me home. Ricky was ok, but Mike was much more grown up and really, really cute. If Ricky picked on me, Mike would come to my defense like a knight on a white horse and I was absolutely, hang-your-mouth-open in awe of him. This continued into fourth grade as well, he was a sixth grader, almost going to junior high. Unfortunately, towards the end of fourth grade he lost interest in anyone who was not a sixth grader.
In fourth grade we read a story about rabbits. I don't remember what it was or the plot but somehow the story stuck. I decided to make it into a play, so I did. Mrs. Scott liked it and said we could put it on for the other classes. The school had costumes.....remember the 2nd grade rabbit.....so we used them. I wrote the play (adapted from a written work), cast the play, directed the play and played the piano for the play (at the beginning)....."Country Gardens". We put it on for all the fourth grade classes and under and even had the parents come. Weird how I cannot remember the actual name of the story.
Other than these events I don't remember much about school in Virginia. Easters in Virginia, Best Friend in Virginia, and Brothers Born in Virginia....I remember those.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
The Joys Of 3rd & 4th Grade
This is the last of my old Xanga entries. I closed the site down and pulled myself back into my turtle shell for a couple of weeks before finding Blogger.com. It's appropriate that the entry reflects the last two years I lived in Roanoke. When you get older, it is not so much the detailed events of childhood you remember; it's a sound, a smell, a physical sensation such as wind in your face as you pedal your bike down a hill, or just a vague picture in your mind's eye. Parents remember the specifics and it seems as if you do too, having heard the stories over and over. Are they even relevant? I think so. I hope they are. They are all we have really, our history. We should know our history and our children should know our history; what other way do we have to hold precious the good times or to learn from the bad times? So here are my memories from 3rd and 4th grade.