Let the Stories Begin

Today while I was talking to my brother, he suggested that since the title of my blog is "the stories of my life..." I should tell stories from my life on days when I don't really have much else to say. I am quite certain this suggestion did not come from a lack of appreciation for the craziness of my last post, and since I think it was suggested with great love and out of a spirit of helpfulness, I have decided it's a good idea.

So here goes...

Kindergarten. Oh, kindergarten, how I would love to go back to you and days of simplicity where all I cared about was being loved by my teacher and a blonde headed boy with glasses named Adam Randolph.

Kindergarten at Ott Elementary, those were the good days. I honestly can not tell you what we did in kindergarten on a day to day basis, but I can tell you the things that were important.

We all carried our backpacks, coats, and whatever other school necessities in a big laundry-type bag. They said this was to help cut down on the risk of lice and other germies. Anyway, mine was kind of rusty brown with long stripes. It doesn't sound very pretty, but it was soft, like flannel, and I loved it.

My teacher Mrs. Robinson was so kind and loving, except when it came to a boy named Stefan Bell, who was the class troublemaker. Mrs. Robinson drove a yellow Pontiac Firebird, which she parked at the top of the hill, so we could see it from our classroom window.

Adam Randolph had a crush on me and even kissed me on the playground one day. We were buddies, to say the least. Sometimes our teacher would ask one of us to run an errand for her, but we weren't allowed to go by ourselves, we had to choose a buddy. I always chose Adam and he always chose me.

Everyday, at the end of the school day, the kindergartners were released a few minutes before the other students, probably so we didn't get trampled. I would walk down the hall and wait outside my brother's second grade classroom so that we could walk home, to grandma's house, together. Our grandma lived less than a block from the school so most days we walked there. Although most days my heart belonged to Adam, I also always hoped that a 2nd grade boy named Benji McDonald would be at the front of the line at my brother's classroom door. Benji was always nice to me, and I thought he was funny.

One day Mrs. Robinson brought all these strange fruits for us to try. Pomegranates, kiwis, star fruit, and other things, most of which I had never tried before. To this day, every time I eat a pomegranate I think of her.

Kindergarten, while sweet at Ott Elementary, became a scary place for me when we moved to Kansas in the Spring of that year. We transferred to Auburn Elementary in Kansas (somewhere outside of Topeka) and I hated kindergarten there. My teacher was nice enough, but I missed Mrs. Robinson, and everything was so very different. Our classroom was in a portable building, there was no need for my flannel laundry bag anymore, there was no Adam Randolph, no grandma right across the street, no brother right down hall, a long bus ride, and worst of all, everyone could read except me. Apparently standards vary from state to state and in Kansas they had been learning to read since the beginning of the year, whereas in Missouri you didn't learn to read until first grade.

Oh, kindergarten, it had gone from my favorite place to be, to a morning of torture. My tummy hurt almost everyday. The only highlights were carrying a thermos of Hi-C in my circus backpack for snack everyday, and coming home to have lunch and watch Days of Our Lives with my mom, who was now a stay-at-home mom, which was also pretty neat. Thankfully I have the best mom in the world, and she taught me how to read over the summer so that I started first grade in one of the top reading groups.

But for the record...I missed Adam Randolph, who wrote me letters (I think his mom actually wrote them for him). I missed Ms. Robinson a lot. And I missed my grandma even more.