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.

A Piece of My Mind

I learned a phrase in third grade. Not sure who I heard it from, but it was probably my mother. Of course, my father did a decent job of acting out the saying, so it could've been him, too.

At any rate, I discovered what "a piece of my mind" meant.

But I also realized I'd practiced the phrase since my first confrontation with "the bully". And I thought to myself, "Huh, guess I'm already an adult."

Therefore, I went about my business, telling people what I thought when the situation warranted it. 'Cause I had lots of things figured out, you know.

I could take care of my brother and make macaroni and cheese. I could ride my bike to "7/11" and buy whatever item my mother forgot from the store. I knew how to send wishes to everyone in the world, and when my sisters had bad dreams, I could calm them down.

Yep, I was tearin' it up. And told people so.

Which meant I started earning my nickname and became true to the color of my hair.

"Red" knew what she was about and protected those she loved with words.

And fists if necessary.....

Busted Curfew

How old were you when you got to stay up past midnight for the first time?

Well? How old?

Me, I was 8.

Yep, you read that right. 8.

(Okay, so it was for church. And I had to wear an itchy dress with itchy tights. And there was standing. And kneeling. And a long homily.)

But I got to see what the world looked like at 12:00 a.m., and let me tell you, it was sparkly.

Another Big Idea

You think I'm kidding. I'm not. You don't understand the Big Ideas that abounded from everywhere. I was never safe.

I think that was one of the reasons why I was always outside. It was harder for her to find me when I was running around the neighborhood.

Of course, that strategy only prolonged everything. I had to go home sometime.

So, Big Idea #10 happened...

As I waited for the life-altering reveal, I shook in my shoes. My knees knocked. I broke out in a sweat.

It's an Advent Calendar. She's hung it on the wall. It has a Christmas tree on it, and underneath are these little pockets with numbers on them. 1-24. One pocket for each day in December.

Inside the pockets are rolled up messages.

Oh...no.

Wendy gets to pull it out. She plucks Day 1 from its spot and unrolls it. She reads aloud...

"Let's watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer!"

I'm stunned. I didn't hear her right. Let's do what?

While Maria and Wendy cheer, and Bill tumbles after them as they run toward the TV, I'm left staring after them, my faculties turned to mush.

But this was no trick. Mama was turning on the TV, and a most beloved Christmas special was playing. This was not a trick.

I gathered my composure and strolled into the living room. I sit.

I hadn't been scared. Nope. Not me. I knew it all along.

Big Idea Number 9

Are you scared? Trembling? Panicked?

Well, rest easy my faithful readers, Big Idea Number 9 is not at all terrible. You're going to be impressed. You're going to think, "Hmm. Why don't we do that?"

I shall pass this on to you and you must feel free to use it, because it is precious.

In early December, we get out our Christmas decorations. The boxes are filled with homemade ornaments of Popsicle sticks and dough, covered with paint and glitter. (It's a kid's tree. Not an adult one.)

We trimmed the tree while listening to music and giggling, exclaiming over our favorite ornaments and recalling when we made them.

As we worked, my mother cooked. She made a feast that outdid the one in the Grinch's world. We had all sorts of finger foods.

From boiled shrimp to broccoli dip, little smokies to queso, it was a meal that we salivated over.

Cookies, dips, hot chocolate, cheese...

It was glorious.

And when we were done making our tree beautiful with its sparkling, crafty ornaments, we ate around it, watching the lights glow and twinkle, causing the world around us to be cozy, warm and magical.

My mama did good, don't ya think?

My ABCs (I learned 'em good.)

Have I mentioned I'm a competitive person?

Or perhaps I didn't have to. Y'all are probably pretty smart and have read between my lines.

I enjoy a good competition in almost any format. My favorite opponents are boys because what is better than beating a boy?

(Ice cream is better. And bluebonnets. But only by a fraction of a percent.)

I think I get this competitive streak from my father. He'll play about any game. Spades, hearts, poker, pinochle, dominoes, baseball, basketball...it doesn't really matter. To him, it's all fun.

And we played with him. He taught us the ABC game, which is something you enjoy on a long car ride that tests your eyesight, reflexes, and alphabet knowledge. We had to find words that began with each letter and whoever got to Z first won.

We usually played while we drove to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Do you know how many car trips it took for me to beat him? Huh?

Did you guess 50? Maybe 100?

Well, you're not even close. I feel like we played that game one million times before I beat him. We started when I was in the second grade, and I was almost fourteen, fourteen, before I won.

I still remember what my Y and Z word were.

We were passing the George R. Brown Convention Center, and there was this Asian restaurant across from it called "Yit Ingho". I screamed, "Yit!" so fast because I knew, I knew, where a Z was. We'd played so many dadgum times.

Right after I yelled out my Y word, I whipped my gaze to a blue sign on top of a green freeway board. The lovely, glorious, victorious "Zoo" was there waiting for me. It cried, "Here, Kara! Here I am!"

And hallelujah, I shouted that word at the TOP of my lungs.

It was a good day.

Brownies

"Come, Kara," my mother says to me. "You're going to join Brownies."

Huh? Join brownies? What is she talking about? You eat brownies. You don't join them.

As I shake my head at my mother, I stupidly follow her to the car without an ounce of bluster or outrage. However, when I reach our destination, I discover....

It is a meeting. With girls from my class. And some lady is talking to us about how we'll have to complete various tasks in order to stay a part of the group.

I have to do work I don't want to do in order to continue with the group....

This group of girls from my class. This group of girls from my class who don't really care about outside activities. This group of girls from my class who could care less about how to drive a go cart.

I stare open-mouthed at what I'm allowing to happen. I mean, I said nothing on the drive over, and my mother managed to slip Big Idea Number 8 in without a single protest from me. What the heck? Had something taken over my mind? Were my reflexes drying out already? Had I lost my fire?

As I ponder this, the lady in charge keeps talking. And talking. And talking.

And then it is time to leave, and we do some kind of chant before we go, and all the other girls seem to love it. And I'm wondering, where are the aliens that have taken over their bodies? And when would they come for me?

But maybe they already have because I didn't voice my opinion on this Big Idea. Not once. Oh...no.

The second we get in the car, I let Mother know what I think. (Apparently, the aliens hadn't gotten me yet.) To which she replies, "You will enjoy this experience and grow from it."

I groan. I moan. I wail.

But it does nothing. I am a Brownie. Gag.

The only shining spot was one of my friends, Shellie, was there. And I liked her. She understood the beauty of outside. And being silly. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad.

November 17, 1983

A strawberry blonde, cute, smiling, bundle of joy appeared on a mid-November day to Grace and Liam. This would be the last precious little one added to our "family".

And it was a boy. Which, as I told you earlier, was fine with me. Especially since he was adorable. I cuddled him as often as someone would let me, or as often as I sat long enough.

He grew up quietly adventurous, unflinchingly calm, considerate, stubbornly independent, and unassuming. This boy smiled at you while he climbed to death-defying heights. He grinned at you while he hiked over mountains and made stuff out of bark with his bare hands.

He experiences life. Takes risks. Basks in the sun. Revels in the deep sea. The outdoors is his haven.

He is younger than me, and you might wonder how someone in his early thirties could be described as such. He has done more than most people twice his age. If you doubt, let me refer you to the night of the talent show at my high school. The year is 1994. He is 10, almost 11.

The talent show, in which Georgie played and Maria sang, is over. We are sharing conversation in the auditorium with Grace and Liam. I look to my right, and this risk-taking ten-year-old is scaling the wall. And he is already half-way up.

As Grace hurries over to get him down, none of us are surprised. Surprised at how far up he got, yes. Surprised he tried, no.

Therefore, his name shall be Andrew. English for courageous.

One on the Way

There was one good thing about the fall of 1983. Grace was pregnant. And it was almost time for him, or her, to appear.

I'm sure the mothers had a baby shower for this one, but I don't remember it. "Big Ideas" abound with this group, and if there was a chance for a party, well then, you HAD to HAVE the party.

The best part about the wait was, of course, wondering what Grace was gonna have. Boy or girl? Red hair or blonde?

November approached, and I hoped it would be a Thanksgiving baby. Then we could call it "Little Turkey".

(I don't know why I thought that would be a cute idea.)

I didn't really care what it came out to be, boy or girl. Adding girls to the group wasn't important to me. I had my girls. And, I didn't need large numbers of females to do whatever I wanted to do. I just did it.

And so would this little one. She, or he, would just do exactly what she, or he, wanted to do......

Who Is Michael Jackson?

Do you have moments in your life where you wonder if you've stepped into an alternate reality? Or maybe, even though you aren't on the verge of death, you're having an "out of body" experience?

I have had two such moments. The first came in the third grade.

Three of my friends decided they wanted to choreograph moves to a song called "Beat It". (I had never heard it. But I didn't tell them that.)

I was recruited to be a part of this. To this day, I don't remember why I agreed. I don't even remember actually agreeing. I think something must have taken over my mind and body. Maybe aliens.

I guess it doesn't matter how I became a part of this because it happened. I joined them. During recess. During recess we practiced. I practiced. Dance moves. To a song I didn't know sung by a man I'd never heard of.

We did this for a week. And someone got the big idea that we should perform for the class. Even now my gut is twisting and rolling with embarrassment and shock. I don't know what possessed me. And, seriously, I had to be possessed.

The day came. The teachers pushed back the accordion collapsible walls, we wore our dresses and jelly shoes, and performed this collection of gyrations and cartwheels.

Luckily, no one made fun of us. At least, not to our faces.

This memory is one I've tried to block for a long time. Whenever I think of it, I shudder. Still. And I'm forty.

I spent a week of recess, dancing. When it was over, I finally woke up and tried to come to terms with what I'd willingly participated in. I went through the following days as if it had been the most normal thing in the world to dance for the entire third grade. I didn't apologize for it. Or look embarrassed. And I certainly didn't ask the question that had been on my mind since the whole idea formed and became real ---

Just who the heck is Michael Jackson?

The Hits Keep On Coming

Now that school has completely ruined reading, let's continue on to Math, shall we?

Mrs. Marshall was my Math teacher. I think she was somewhere around 60 years old. I felt bad she hadn't been granted that glorious age of "39-And-Holding" as Grandmother had been. However, I think I know why that gift hadn't been bestowed upon Mrs. Marshall. I mean, why lengthen the life of someone who taught Math?

And this was the year of multiplication.

Ah, yes. It was time to memorize numbers. Not the rules for Four Square or Chicken. Isn't that fantabulous?

I didn't understand the concept. How did 7 x 7 equal 49? I had no idea, which only served to prove there was nothing logical about Math. It seemed people just tossed numbers around and thought, "Hmmm.....why don't we make 4 x 8 equal 32?"

It was a nightmare. And I was awake for it. And Mrs. Marshall loved it. And the kids around me understood it. But I didn't.

Once, I actually raised my hand and told Mrs. Marshall I didn't understand. She huffed and puffed at me, but explained. I didn't have the guts to tell her I still didn't get it.

Oh, well. Thankfully, I had a good memory. It took some time, but I memorized my times tables. I filed them away in the part of my brain that is titled, "Just Learn It So I Can Get On With The Good Stuff".

As an adult, I use that section a lot more than I should.

Save The Tamales!

Bill, my brother, was an observant kid. He was quiet and paid strict attention, especially to those things he found most interesting. Like driving.

Remember when cars had bench seats in front? Well, Bill sat up there in between Mom and Dad. The three girls sat in back. (Usually talking and singing and trying to beat Dad at the ABC game.)

Little did we know while we were horsing around, Bill was soaking up all the steps for driving a car. We didn't think he'd been watching. Or could even pick it up. He was two.

So....here we go. Buckle your seat belt.

We would go to the meat market on Saturday morning. Holy heck, I hated the way that place smelled. It did help Maria determine her future job. She wanted to be a butcher. (She likes bacon.)

But, if you stayed outside, in the car, with the windows down, the smell was quite delightful. There was a gentleman, Rudy, who had a tamale cart in front of the meat market. And boy howdy were they good. He was a good cooker. I would lean my head out the window and breathe in the tamales. Mom always bought some from him, and we would go home and have lunch.

One particular Saturday, Mom took pity on our noses and let us stay in the car while she went in to get meat. The three girls sat in the back. Bill sat in front in the middle seat. Mom came out to buy our tamales. And while I'm praying she buys each one he's got, Bill puts the car in drive. Our big, white, 1980s Buick shoots forward over the guard and slams right into Rudy's tamale cart.

My mom and Rudy, of course, are shocked and going crazy over human injury. (There weren't any. Rudy's cart stopped the Buick. And we were quite safe in that boat of a car.)

Meanwhile, I'm devastated. The tamales! Their foiled bodies are everywhere. On the hood. The gritty pavement. The dirty sidewalk. I jump out and start picking them up, but the adults aren't helping and Rudy's cart is crushed and there's no place to put the food, except in the car and that might be stealing. And you know we aren't buying any today because Mom doesn't believe in the 5 Second Rule.

As I mourn the loss of spicy goodness, my brother has become famous. And my Mom has become flustered.

Of course, we paid to fix Rudy's cart, and all was back to normal by the following Saturday.

Cheater?

By now, you should know I love to read. I bet you also understand reading was the second activity I enjoyed after playing outside. One of my favorite places to go was a bookstore that had a hide-away nook for children inside a wooden tree trunk. It was like a fairy land. I adored the area.

And it got me to thinking.....

If I ended up not playing second base for the Astros, opening a bookstore seemed like a perfect alternative. I mean, really, being around books all day? Sublime.

However, leave it to school to completely and totally ruin my love. They took glorious sentences, and beautiful words like "wither" and "harmony" and "sun-catcher" and turned them into multiple choice questions. It was excruciating. Agonizing.

I couldn't just read the text? I had to think about it? I couldn't just bask in the glorious images and feelings the author created?

Huh. Well, I wasn't gonna do it. Nope. Not me.

I pretended to work. I pretended to read the questions and circle my answers. And when I was done, I promptly followed directions and brought my paper to my teacher while she sat at her desk so she could grade it. Right then.

Luckily, as I patiently waited my turn, I discovered where her answer key was. A little slip of paper sat on her desk in front of her with the answers written on it. So I returned to my seat, fixed what was wrong, and took my work back to her. She never guessed I'd figured it out.

Do I feel bad about cheating? Um...yes. But I'm not completely sorry and for this reason:

I found it odd that I had to interpret what I read the same way everyone else did. What good does that do anyone if we're all thinking the same way?

Third Grade -- Let The Mind Numbing Pain Begin

First day of third grade. It's here.

While I have the story of my sister saving me from a nail I never felt enter my foot, I am not in the bragging mood because....

My third grade teacher was also my first grade teacher. The excruciating agony. The torturous memories. I have to go through it all over again.

And, not only that, "the bully" is in my class.

I see him. He sees me.

His eyes narrow.

I narrow mine right back.

This year is gonna be historic.