Memory Snapshot

I am participating in the UCI Writing Project Summer Institute for teachers. In addition to learning about the best methods for teaching writing, the summer fellows also work on their personal writing. Over the next couple of weeks, I plan on posting here some of the writing I am doing. Some of it will look familiar as I have reworked a couple of posts from years past.

A Family Meal

I felt different—special—dressed in my cousin’s red and white sun-suit. Just an hour earlier, I was in my own mismatched hand-me-downs playing with my sister and cousins before my aunt started shooing us to the bath.

“Bathe. . . here, wear this. . . hurry-hurry-hurry--we have to be on our way.”

This wasn’t the usual course of events—this interruption of a routine summer day. We usually kept busy pumping the pedals of the player piano, swimming in Mr. Harvey’s pool next door, finger painting, and watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Full of activity as they were, those days seemed to last forever as we waited for our mom to pick us up at my aunt’s three-bedroom home on Starbuck Street in Whittier. Efficient as always, Aunt Margaret had us ready, herding us into the station wagon. Soon, we were at the parsonage of the Huntington Park Free Will Baptist church for dinner with Grandma, Grandpa, and the rest of the family. Get-togethers like these were common enough for weekends and holidays. This was definitely not the norm, but for a chance to see my other aunts and uncles and play with my cousins? To get a patented Grandpa Hug that squeezed the breath out of you in the best possible way? To have Uncle L.T. swing us around and joke with us? I wasn’t about to question the why. I was going to seize the day!

At this usual-but-not gathering, the wooden picnic table, made smooth by years of people dining at it, was covered with our traditional dishes: fried chicken, crunchy, greasy and salty; corn-on-the-cob, crispy and buttery; and brown-n-serve rolls. I am sure there were other dishes there like macaroni salad and fried okra. However, my unsophisticated palette only watered for the corn, chicken, and rolls. The hand-crank ice cream maker sat out on the grass waiting for the grandkids to take turns sitting on it, freezing our little behinds off, while Grandpa or one of the bigger kids cranked it, so the ice, cold and salty, could fulfill its purpose of turning milk and sugar into vanilla ice cream.

My cousins and I ran around and played, laughing and talking. The adults split their time between setting or cleaning up the table, keeping an eye on the kids, and laughing and joking in that way adult siblings do as they relive the antics of yesteryear. An opportunity presented itself. Quick! I said to myself. No one is on the swing! Hurry before someone else gets to it. The tire swing was hung by a thick rope that rasped as the swing moved. My little arms reached over the top of the tire, gripping to hold on. My legs were just long enough to push myself without help. The black rubber tire was cool and smooth to the touch, except for the patterned crevices that had allowed it to grip the road once upon a time. Eventually, it’s time to go home, this time in my mom’s 1972 Ford Maverick, featuring three-on-a-tree manual transmission, pale blue paint, and no air-conditioning. We are tired and quiet as my mom drives the Maverick home. We get out of the car and get ready for bed. The next day, we would go back to the regular summer routine.

Years and years later, going through my mom’s picture box, I find a picture taken that day of my mom, her siblings and my grandparents. All of them dressed in shades of red, white and blue and me on that tire swing in the background in what might now be called a photobomb. We were—and are--a laughing, smiling family, and their faces reflect that as the Kodak Instamatic 20 clicked. Memories of that day come flooding back of an unexpected and joyful time with family. Someone, I don’t remember who, told why we had that mid-week gathering. My Uncle L.T., 18 years old, was leaving for Vietnam. We were having one last family meal together before he went. We were saying goodbye.

Anytime I look at this picture now, I see more than my six-year-old self’s memory of that day. There is a then-future-now-past filter laid over the photo. My grandmother’s anxiety for her baby boy. The concern of my aunts and uncle for their baby brother. I understand now why we gathered on a weekday and didn’t wait for a weekend. I understand now that we wouldn’t see Uncle L.T. again for over a year. I understand now how fortunate we were to see him again. So many families didn’t get that.

I am glad I didn’t understand that then.

To Sir, with Love: A Hump Day Hmm-er

I started school two months before my fifth birtday. In California in 1969, the cut off date for school entry was the first week of December. I cleared it by two weeks. I loved kindergarten. I was excited to learn how to read. For some time it had been the joy of my family to hear this constant refrain while driving:

What does that say?

What does that say?

What does that say?

I remember coming home from school one day and telling my mom that I knew how to spell our last name! I proceeded to tell her M - U - R - P - H - Y. I was embarassed to find that my teacher hadn't taught me the correct spelling. (Can you imagine a kindergartener in this day and age not being taught how to spell her own name? It is a different time with different expectations, both at school and at home, isn't it?) My mother corrected me: M - U - R - P - H - E - Y. The name spelling would be an issue almost everywhere I went until I got married and took my husband's equally Irish but more straightforwardly spelled last name. I don't have a lot of clear memories of kindergarten, but other than that minor disappointment, I think it was pretty smooth sailing.

Somewhere along the line, things began to change.

I don't remember when it started exactly but sometime I began to realize that I wasn't well liked by my fellow students. I was awkward. I usually wore hand me down clothes that had very little in common with the current fashion trends. I became aware that how things were at home for me wasn't the same as the other kids. I was raised in a single parent household when that wasn't quite as common as it is today. We often had spare relatives living with us. I learned to brush my teeth when the school did a section on dental hygiene. (I cringe when I write that but it is the truth.)

I never had "my group" of friends. I didn't necessarily hang out alone but I didn't belong anywhere. On a good day, I hung out on the fringes of the "regular" kids. On a bad day, I stood mute in answer to the question, "Do you like wearing that dress?"

I write all this so that you can understand my perception of my self and my life in elementary school. I write all this so that you can understand the impact of the teachers in my life during fourth and fifth grade.

The best--B-E-S-T--teacher in the school was Mr. F. This designation was transmitted subconsciously through the children's hive mind. We just knew. Imagine my delight when I walked up to the school, alone (Again, how times have changed.) and saw my name on Mr. F's class list.

I can tell you that I was not disappointed.

Mr. F team taught with Mrs. V. They had a huge double classroom with a folding dividing door that was very rarely closed. I really had two teachers that year. Two wonderful teachers who were positive and who helped me get excited about learning and who were very patient and gracious to me when they had to point out or correct my deficiencies. My penmanship was atrocious and I was sent that year to the learning center. (Atrocious writing skills are apparently genetically transmitted and both my children are afflicted.)

Mr. F walked over to my desk one day. He crouched down next to me and started talking to me about my writing. While I obviously don't recall the exact words, they went something like this:

Mary, I want you to go to the learning center to work on your writing.
Everyone needs help sometimes and I think this will help you so that it is easier to read what you write.

What didn't get said but what I understood:

I know this is hard for you. There is nothing wrong with you. You're
a special girl and getting sent to the learning center doesn't mean you are bad.

The year came to a close and I spent the summer of 1970 doing whatever latch-key kids do: watching TV, reading, roaming the streets, walking to the liquor store to buy candy and soda.

The summer ended and I walked up to the school to see whose class I would be spending my time in for fifth grade. There it was. I had Mr. F again! He was teaching a fourth/fifth combo and I was one of twelve fifth graders who would be in his class. Ecstatic is probably not too strong a word for my nine year old feelings.

As fifth graders in a class and a half of fourth graders, if you included Mrs. V's class, we had the chance to lead small groups and learn more independence. For math we were shipped out to the other fifth grade teachers according to ability level. All through the year, we also had the distinction of being Mr. F's fifth graders. This honor was all the more wonderful when he told us that he had picked each of us to be in his class. Wow! To a kid who felt less than special, this had a huge impact on me. More so because I didn't have a dad in the house growing up. Positive male attention? Well, I lapped that up.**

Somewhere in that two years in Mr. F's class, I also had the joy of two student teachers--identical twins. H and R were so much fun. They were bright, enthusiastic, pretty and young. We were all in awe of them. While I can't say that I had any special connection to them as a student, just having student teachers, and such unique ones, made that time in school seem more special.

As others today join Julie in pondering school for this week's Hump Day Hmm-er, I reminisce about those two most special years of elementary school. I also think about Colin and his special year of elementary school, third grade. His teacher, Miss B., was a hybrid of Mr. Rogers and Mother Theresa and I am not exaggerating. I think about Marley and her experience so far. She has had the same two wonderful teachers since kindergarten. This year, a third has been added to share a part-time contract with one of the others. A graduate of this same multiage program, Miss J. is thrilled to be teaching in the class she grew up in. I know Marley is going to love her, too.

What an impact a teacher can make in the life of a child. For some, like me, the impact came in the positive attention and in the communicating that I was smart and likeable. For Colin, it came with a teacher who saw past his impulsive behaviour and never lost her patience with him. Never. He still looks back, at 15, and remembers that. The impact of Marley's teachers is yet to be fully known but I suspect being known and understood and challenged in a safe environment by three superb women is going to have a long-term affect on how she sees school and learning.

Education today is not all that we would want it to be. Challenges face administrators, teachers, parents and children. Everyone has an opinion and it seems like there is no consensus. But...

BUT...

We should never underestimate how large the impact of a warm and loving demeanor, loving boundaries and even a consistent smile in the classroom can have our kids. I know the affect it had on me. Thanks Mr. F, Mrs. V., H & R. You made a difference.





**My experience with a male elementary school teacher was such that I a saddened by the lack of them today. They were more common in the late 60s and early 70s. I think there are more kids like me who could use that influence.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

I've been frantically looking through boxes hoping to find my marriage certificate or my social security card. Arghh!!! I know they're somewhere. It's a long story but I went looking for both of them today in the place they should've been and they weren't there.

As is the usual case when I am poking around the pictures, I am hit with wave after wave of nostalgia. Since I've been struck with it, I thought I'd share it with you all.

Whoa baby! I think I was near to bursting in this shot.
This picture was taken by the massage therapist who kept
me going during my pregnancy. Unfortunately, I can't remember
how far along I was. Far enough by the looks of that belly.

Would you look at my perfect days-old baby girl?
How much better could it get?

You might think this is pureed peas all over Marley's face.
You'd be half right. This is pureed peas after she'd thrown them up...
all over the place. At least she's happy!

Here I am around 8 months old, I think.
Um... more chubby than cute.
Cool hood ornament.

A Walk Down Memory Lane, Part 2

Also found in my mad scramble for my marriage certificate and Social Security card...

the best Mother's Day card I ever received... EVER!

Front of the card:



Back of the card:



Pretty funny, eh?