First Day of School by Enes Berg Stringam

Standing: Bern, Eldor, Glen
Sitting: Mom

On Mom's first day of school, she spoke almost no English, only Swedish . . .

My first day of school was anticipated with the fear and anxiety which had been passed down to me from my brothers who went before me.

I recall horror stories with exaggeration about strappings, sitting on a stool at the front of the room for being late, and beatings from older boys.

Beware of the 'older boys'.

As the time came for me to make my debut, my legs became so numb that I could hardly walk.

I was so afraid.

Winnie Charleton (two years older) kindly took me by the hand and led me into the one-room schoolhouse.

Mrs. Hunter smiled as she pointed to the desk at the front of the room where I would work.

Four other girls sat behind me in the same row.

"Good Morning, boys and girls!" said Mrs. Hunter.

"Good Morning!" responded the class.

All except me.

Mrs. Hunter looked at me with a lop-sided smile.

"Can't you say, Good Morning?" she asked.

"Yah," said I, then quickly, the line I had rehearsed with Mama, "Min nom Enes. I am half past six."

Little titters rippled around the room.

"Would you say that again, please?" asked Mrs. Hunter.

Luckily, I understood.

"Min nom Enes, I am half past six."

The giggles turned into a roar as the thirty or so children rocked with laughter.

I was so humiliated that I laid my head on the desk and covered it with my arms.

What would my punishment be for this, I wondered?

Mrs. Hunter simply said, "Enes - that's a nice name."

Then she turned to the blackboard and wrote her name.

I worried all day about the punishment I would receive, but nothing happened.

We were given our first primer and we tried to copy the words DOG and CAT. We copied numbers, 1 to 10, and played 'I Spy'.

My fears finally dwindled.

School was actually fun!

Music to Soothe the Savage . . . Teacher

Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!

I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one.

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Uugghh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"
Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. One trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly.

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.

Students and Froggies - Who Learned More?

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast
Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.
                                   George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.

Because it is.

But I didn't learn it until grade twelve . . .

Biology class.

The real one.

Not the one the boys all talk about.

Moving on . . .

We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year.

The part that I found most fascinating.

But that many of the other girls . . . didn't.

We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.

Great!

Field trip!

But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned (good word, right?) poem.

We thought it was cute.

And clever.

And easily folded into paper planes.

Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.

Philistines!

Then we set out.

The walk down was enjoyable.

Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.

Cute boys.

Okay, I know what I said about biology class.

And boys.

But let's face it. We were all thinking about 'Biology'.

Right?

So . . . walking . . . and boys.

It didn't take long for us to reach the pond.

We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.

Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' (their word) little things.

Those of us who were less squeamish filled in.

So to speak.

In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.

One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket.

The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.

Then, to work.

We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.

Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.

It was an interesting morning.

And far too short.

When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.

Or so I thought.

Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention.

Closer attention, even, than I was.

There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."

Payback.

And a fitting tribute.

Under 'Dress'ed

And yes, that's me. Far right. Second row. Dressed in my best.

A Dress?!
Mom wanted me to wear a dress? To school?
I had somehow slipped into an alternate universe.

Mom and Dad were planning a trip. A long trip.
I was five. Anything more than an hour was a long trip.
I was being farmed out at my cousin Jody's place for the duration.
That was exciting.
During that time, my grade one class was to have its first, ever school pictures taken.
Even more exciting.
Then, the bad news. Mom expected me to dress up for this photo op. And I do mean 'dress'.
My life was over.
She dropped me and my little suitcase off at Uncle Jay and Aunt Jesse's and waved happily as she drove out of the yard.
A little too happily.
Sigh.
Jody grabbed my hand and dragged me to her room. From then until bedtime, we were a blur of activity.
In the morning, as per instructions, I dragged out the hated dress and laid it on the bed.
We regarded each other.
Then I glanced down at the small bag where I had stuffed my play clothes the night before. My little 'snap' shirt and jeans. So much more comfortable.
And really not that dirty.
And, best of all, my Mom would never know.
I smiled. My decision was made.
Have I mentioned that a great many of my decisions really weren't . . . thought through? And that, somehow, Mom always found out?
She was magic.
I wadded up my dress and shoved it back into my suitcase. Then I happily pulled on my shirt and jeans and snapped them up.
I was ready.
Aunt Jesse smiled at us when we presented ourselves for breakfast. Jody in her pretty little dress. And me.
"Didn't your Mom send any clothes for picture day?"
I shook my head and mutely indicated what I was wearing.
Aunt Jesse frowned at me doubtfully, then finally shrugged and put another pancake on my plate.
Soon we were on the bus and all thought of itchy, restricting dresses was driven from my mind.
Grade One, with Miss Wornoski, was always wonderful, but this day was especially exciting as we anticipated our first, ever, class photos.
Okay, I know it sounds mundane. But we were five.
Everything's exciting when you're five . . .
The time came. Miss Wornoski lined us up for the parade down the hall to the 'photo' room. She arranged us neatly on chairs. The photographer told us to smile. The flash went.
Then, one by one, each of us sat in the lone chair to one side, to have our individual pictures taken. It was more excitement than my five year old self could handle.
And then, it was over. Our little faces had been captured. Immortalized for all time.
Along with what we had chosen to wear.
Some weeks later, our teacher handed out our pictures. I pulled mine out and stared at it. Look! It's me! And there we all were! My whole class.
Pictures were definitely things of beauty!
I tossed it to my Mom as I climbed into the car. "Pictures, Mom!"
She set it aside till we reached home.
By then I had forgotten all about it.
Later, my Mom called me into the kitchen.
She was holding my small, brown envelope in one hand, and my pictures in the other.
"Diane, what happened here?"
I glanced down at the pictures and smiled. "Pictures, Mom." Okay, so quick, I wasn't.
"Yes, but what happened to the dress I sent for you to wear?"
I froze. My mind shuttling around frantically for an answer to her question. "Ummm . . ."
"Did you wear your play clothes to school on picture day?"
"Well . . ."
"Diane, I told you to wear your pretty dress!"
I stared at her, my eyes narrowed. Aunt Jesse told you, didn't she?!
Mom waved the picture. "Look at all of your friends in their nice clothes."
I glanced down. Then up at her again.
"Didn't you want to look nice?"
But I did look nice! My favorite shirt. My favorite jeans. I frowned.
What was the problem?
Mom sighed. "Never mind."
I smiled and went off happily to play.

It's over 50 years since that day. A couple of weeks ago, my husband took me to see Tosca, performed by the Metropolitan Opera.
It was an exciting evening. One we had been anticipating for a very long time.
Grant was standing at the door, dressed in his finest. He looked at me. "Ready to go?"
I nodded.
He looked down. "Maybe you will want to wear something other than jeans and a shirt?"
Oh. Right.
Some things never change . . .