All you have to do is go into your photo albums, box of pictures and old VCR tapes to do so. What we took for granted becomes history. History becomes a memory, and memories seem to fade.
But without the benefit of pictures or cameras of any kind, I can remember my first day of school. My older sister took me by the hand, and that first September morning, before going into the Kindergarten Classroom. Under the Broadway Junction El, that overshadowed Our Lady Of Lourdes schoolyard, purchased for me a small container of chocolate milk and a small package of Oreo cookies.
That first day in the class room, I recall the large Mr. Sun on the wall, smiling down at me, the cow jumping over the moon, and the introduction of musical instruments I had never seen before.
I recall the first day of using puzzles, large pieces that fit easily into one another, and coloring with the big, thick crayons that Sister gave out.
I recall the afternoon naps, and waiting in my seat for my Mom and Aunt to come get me from my first day, and just about every day there after. I particularly recall them waiting in the classroom, with strollers and my being very excited to see them. The Sister with life and death authority over both children and parents, as both waited for the: “OK”.
It was all a new world to me, going out beyond my third floor walkup apartment and seeing new people, places and things.
But then came that second year. First Grade, and old Miss Langon, the scourge of first graders. And she had it out for me. Suddenly there were no puzzles, or crayons or musical instruments! She must have been in her nineties, unmarried, and hated anything male. She yelled, threatened and smacked us on the hand with a 12” ruler, because we were: “bold, brazen chatterboxes!”
She died the next year when I was in Second Grade, and live with the guilt that maybe I wished she would have.
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