No Thimble For Me

My small town near the San Jacinto River didn't have much in the way of commerce. A few restaurants, a Weiner's, Michael's, and...um...

Well, I can't really remember anything else. Oh! There was a hardware store called "Handy Dan's". I can't remember if the movie theater was already here. We sure didn't have a mall. And we really only had one grocery store.

But, I have a VERY vivid memory of one place. It's called Cloth World. And you can probably tell by its name what it was.

In case you can't, let me paint you a picture...

Fabric. Everywhere. Lace everywhere. RIBBONS everywhere.

Drawers and drawers and drawers of patterns. Books upon books upon books of different styles of dresses, rompers, pants, vests...

Good gosh, the list goes on. And on. Forever. Neverending.

It took sooooo long to find the style, then she had to find the pattern, and then the material, and then the notions.

Do you know what notions are? Hmmm? I do!

Notions are the buttons and the zippers and the ribbons and the trim.

And do you think it stops there?

No, it doesn't, because guess what? We still have to buy the right thread!

We spent hours and hours and hours there. Life whittled away. Daylight turned to dusk. It was agony. Like nails being driven into my forehead. Or math drills.

And let me tell you something else...

My little town is kind of big now. We have a mall and multiple movie theaters and lots of restaurants -- we actually have the most Mexican restaurants in the state of Texas -- and two Walmarts and two Targets and, well, you get the picture. Businesses have come and gone. They've moved to bigger buildings. They've gone belly-up.

But NOT Cloth World. It's still there. In the SAME PLACE. It's called Joann's now, but it's STILL there.

Thankfully, the "Big Idea" girls can't drag me in there anymore. I have my own car. And I DON'T sew. I refuse. They can have their Crochet Club, their Wine and Knitting Club, their Stitch and B@#$! Club.

Me...I'm good. I sit on my couch...NOT sewing.

God Bless America

After the almost tragedy of being held back a grade, I spent Memorial weekend at my aunt Evaline's house. We had food and swimming and card-playing and dominoes and ice cream and volleyball and all sorts of other good things worthy of my time.

My cousins and I were everywhere. Upstairs. Downstairs. Outside. In the pool.

There was kid stuff everywhere. (Now that I am a parent, I can imagine the nightmare that all was.)

The ladies took care of the food. And the cleaning.

The men took care of the dominoes and the cards and the sitting and the eating.

You can imagine this made my mother feel just peachy.

I'm running around and having a good time. My dad is sitting and having a good time. Until...

It was time to leave. Well, that was a joy-killer if there ever was one. I start to huff and puff, but I go off to gather my things and my siblings.

But my dad just keeps taking care of the sitting.

So, my mom says, "Are you gonna help me?"

And my dad says, "Well, you look like you got it under control."

And my mother says, "Well, God bless America $#*!"

And without missing a beat, my dad sings, "God bless America, land that I love..."

My mother stomps up the stairs while my dad keeps singing. (He did get up and help, though.)


This is me and my dad. He's a cutie. And a keeper. I love him! And my mom does, too!

My Hero?

I wasn't present for what I'm about to relate. Everything you read is from my imagination, so...I added a little drama...just for your enjoyment. (Or is it mine?)

When: Spring 1984
Where: A conference room at an elementary school
Who: A principal, a note-taker, my mother, and Mrs. Marshall (my teacher)

"We have the results of all the testing we did for your daughter," the note-taker announces. "While she is a smart young lady, she struggles to pay attention and complete tasks. She is more concerned with social things and has difficulty disciplining herself to learn."

"And what does this mean?" my mother asks.

The principal leans forward and links her hands as she sets them on the long, narrow table, "It means she is going to need more support in order to learn. She has a disability that is keeping her from rising to her full potential."

Mrs. Marshall refrains from sighing and instead smooths her bouffant. Her wrinkled face is carefully powdered, her eyebrows artfully brushed and plucked to create the perfect arch. Her turquoise silk blouse is neatly tucked into her beige slacks, and a gold necklace is clasped around her neck. She counts to ten in her head and waits.

"Disability?" my mother prods. "And that is?"

"All the testing shows your daughter has ADHD, Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder." The note-taker busily scribbles all that is said as she continues. "It can be controlled with medicine, and you'll need to speak to your pediatrician. Learning is possible for her, but it will always be difficult for her to sustain the necessary attention required. There are supports we can put into place that will help her during class, but medicine will really provide the foundation."

My mother's brow furrows, and Mrs. Marshall takes note.

"What are the side affects of medicine?" The uncertainty in my mother's tone is simple to detect.

"Oh," the principal makes a dismissive gesture, "that depends on the type, but usually they are minimal and the help the drug can provide outweighs the cost."

My mother taps a thoughtful finger on the table. "I'm not sure I-"

"There is another issue to consider," the note-taker interjects. "Kara hasn't achieved the progress and growth necessary to move on to fourth grade."

My mother rears back. "She has passed all her subjects so far." She turns questioning eyes onto Mrs. Marshall.

Mrs. Marshall prepares herself for battle, squaring her shoulders. "Yes, she has demonstrated appropriate understanding of all academic areas. It's true she has difficulty attending, but somehow she manages to learn what is needed. Eventually."

My mother looks back at the note-taker whose gapes at Mrs. Marshall.

"I think what we're actually referring to is her social and emotional growth," the principal adds. "School is not Kara's forte. What usually hurts her are the demands learning puts on her. When you couple that with the complexities of forming friendships with her peers, all of it causes her emotional distress. You can see her sadness and confusion."

"Humph," Mrs. Marshall breaks in. "And forcing her repeat third grade will make her happier?"

"It will give her the opportunity to mature, and perhaps she'll find friends more her style." The note-taker has paused in her scribbling.

Mrs. Marshall leans forward, raising her brow at the woman who has spent only a few days with the student. "Kara struggles with her peers because she doesn't tolerate meanness. She has an astounding imagination and creates perfectly beautiful stories. Math isn't her love, but she manages. She is a singer and a lover. She believes in flying and jumping in mud puddles." Mrs. Marshall turns to my mother. "If you agree to make Kara repeat third grade, you will crush her spirit. She won't understand and will take it too much to heart. She is a sensitive girl. It's true she needs to mature, but that will come. She will be fine. She's her own person and will get all her ducks in a row when she's good and ready."

My mother is staring at Mrs. Marshall. The principal and note-taker have gone quiet.

Pride swells inside Mrs. Marshall as she can still hear the air ringing with her passionate speech. After twenty-five years of teaching, she knew how to analyze a child. She wasn't wrong.

After a few tense and silent moments, my mother turns to the other ladies. "Thank you for your hard work, but I'll not agree to retention, nor will I agree to the results of the testing. I prefer to wait, to see how she does."



And that was that.

Mrs. Marshall, my third grade teacher, saved me from repeating a grade and spending an extra year in school. She was the hero I never knew I always wanted.

I can't believe it. A teacher. A hero.

Appalling!

But, it really did happen. Not quite that way, of course, but she did say that retention would crush my spirit. Even if everyone else had agreed with her -- and they must have -- that's drama I never expected from someone like Mrs. Marshall. She was so concerned with Math. Yuck.

But I'll let her like it since she literally saved me.

I wish I'd gotten to thank her.

Patterns and Pictures

An odd thing happened one day at school. This lady with a Dorothy Hamil haircut came to get me from class. I had never seen her before.

She apparently wasn't a stranger because Mrs. Marshall knew her, so I didn't put up a fuss or ask her to tell me the password.

(Due to my sharp fear of one of my siblings being kidnapped, we'd developed a password in case a stranger tried to pick us up from school. I used to narrow my eyes at passing cars and silently dare them to try to take one of us.)

Anyway, I went with this Dorothy lady willingly. She took me to a square room where she showed me all these flashcards of patterns and pictures. I had to answer a bunch of questions and recreate some of the patterns.

She had her own paper and was marking stuff on it. Her mouth moved a lot. When she would write, her lips would press into each other, then purse, then press into each other, then purse. It was weird.

But she was nice. When I finished, she told me I would have to come back for more, and I didn't mind. The work she gave me was fun. I had to put blocks together, complete sentences, add up simple problems. It was no big deal.

Or so I thought....

Multiplication

So my friends left. They moved to farthest reaches of the world. I'm devastated.

There's a knife in my heart and it's twisting and twisting and twisting, and so guess what else?

My teacher decides we need to learn multiplication.

Oh. My. God.

It's torture. It's mind-numbing. And everyone gets it but me.

I have to memorize numbers. Numbers.

What is the point? Why must she make us go through this agony of patterns that hold no meaning?

I sit at my desk, staring daggers at a succession of multiplication problems, while everyone's pencils are scraping busily on their papers.

Well, I choose not to do them, and instead I pretend to work and draw pictures along the side. Mrs. Marshall stands at the board, writing out the plans for the next subject, and she never notices. She trusts we're all obediently multiplying.

See how sneaky I am? See how smart? I managed to avoid Math. I think I'll try it again tomorrow!

A Great Tragedy

As a third grader, there were things that frightened me.

Teachers.
School.
Grades.
A lost ball.
Brussel sprouts.
Stewed tomatoes.
Pink.
Sharks.
Kidnappings.

But the absolute worst, the one that kept me up nights and made me all kinds of sad was a $5 dollar word of which most third graders had never heard.

Transfer.

Yep, that's the word. The awful, horrific, life-altering terror that ruined everything.

It was a plague that accosted me, wrapped its cold fingers around my heart, ripped it out and crushed it into a powder.

My friends -- Liam, Grace, Georgie, Phillip, and Andrew -- were MOVING.

Because of a "transfer". Liam's job was making him move to Seattle. Half-way across the world where they didn't have Blue Bell or anything else good.

We lost our friends, our confidantes, our partners.

We took them to the airport. There were tears and hugs and I had hope that someone would come running at the last second to say they didn't have to go.

But that didn't happen. They boarded and left, and it was one of the saddest moments of my life.

My fellow redhead, Miss Grace, was gone. And her boys were gone. I cannot tell you how it hurt.

When we got home, my mom started a campaign. She stuck an envelope on the avocado green refrigerator door with the words "Seattle Fund" on the front.

I raced to my room and took every last cent out of my electric blue E.T. vinyl wallet and put it in the envelope.

I prayed and prayed and prayed we'd visit.

But...we never got there.

A life lesson that sometimes God says no.

The Flip Heard 'Round The Third Grade

So....

I had started living up to the phrase " a piece of my mind". I had no fear practicing it and standing up for what I thought was right.

And one day, I had had enough...


We were in class, working at those desks that had the spots for tote trays. I sat on the end of a row that faced the desks in the center of the classroom. The "bully" sat in the row opposite me also facing the center.

I can't remember what he did to cause the upcoming event, and neither does my mother. But I'm sure he'd made fun of somebody. Or threatened someone. He liked to do that a lot. He liked to make people feel inferior to him, and my heart could not stand for that.

So, I yelled at him. Across the classroom.

Apparently, he'd had enough of my reprimands and, before the teacher could stop him, raced toward me. I was still telling him off, unafraid of his menacing face and figure.

He didn't holler back. He just flipped me and my desk over.

Now, my school had those collapsible walls, and they were all pushed back. So 4 third grade classrooms ceased working when I went flying.

No one moved. Everyone thought I was dead.

But then, out of the wreckage, I shot to my feet, my roar greater than he could handle. I shook my finger at him. I told him he was mean. I demanded he do better. And I showed him that no matter what he did to me, I would NOT back down.

We were both carted to the principal's office. He got a spanking. I got a talking to.

My mother was shocked, but not too much. She asked why I only got a lecture. My teacher said, "Because we teachers were silently cheering her on."

And that was that.