Seven Up and Sandwiches

There weren’t any desks in my grade 1 classroom, just tables.

There were four or five to a table and we were grouped by reading ability.  At my table, the enriched reading table, there were five of us.  Me, my best friend Melanie, my other best friend Heather, my other best friend Verna, and Tony … who was most definitely not my best friend.  I had a lot of best friends then … I still do, but none of them is Melanie, Heather or Verna.

I was stuck beside Tony.

Tony told me about his fish and fish books every day.

He had a lot of fish.

He also had a lot of fish books … or maybe he just had a lot of stories about that one fish book.

I wore skirts with prints of flowers and soft cotton t-shirts.  White cotton undies that rode up my butt, long blonde pig tails that tickled my back, and velcro sneakers.  My hard plastic lunchpail had a thermos inside that most days held sugary tang, but some days it had ravioli - and ravioli days were the good days.

I loved craft days and gym days and library days with read-aloud time.  Losing myself in a book or in my rendition of the voice of the character in a book was not losing myself at all - it was like finding a home where everything smelled of fresh-baked cookies and every surface was covered in cozy just like my blankie.  

I especially loved game days.  Game days were a lot of fun.  Seven-up was my absolute favourite.  I loved the anticipation - would somebody tap me, would I be able to guess who, would I get to do the tapping, would I steal a quick snooze or snatch a momentary daydream?  We’d sit there at our tables … our heads nuzzled into our elbows to block out the light.  Except for Melanie … she told me on the playground that she always let just enough light in to see the passing shadows.  She did not like to lose.  

Melanie sat on the other side of me at our enriched reading table.  “Do it”, I heard her whisper through the crack under her arm.  

Sure our heads were down on our desks poised and ready to be tapped, but there would be no seven-up that day.

“Say it was yours”, she coaxed, “and hurry up - I really have to pee”.

“GIRLS!” Ms. Appleby said harshly.  “There’s no need to be whispering.  Now class, we are going to sit here as long as it takes for whoever threw out this whole sandwich from their lunch to come forward.”

Melanie nudged.  I could see her eyebrows egging me on.  I felt my hand go up.  I didn’t want it to go up.  I didn’t want it to be my hand that went up.  It was not my sandwich.  But there I was, hand up.

My shoulders, my everything stiffened up in anticipation … in fear of what was to come next for me from Ms. Appleby.  The room buzzed with relief and whispers and energy.  

“Everybody but Norma Jean can head outside for recess.”

“QUICKLY!”

Thank-God she said quickly.  I know I had to pee.  I know I wanted it to be over with.  

She set the sandwich in my lunchbox next to my pink thermos.  She told me I would have to take it home - I was not to eat it, and I had better not throw it out again.  Her knowing disappointed look stayed with me throughout the day and during the long bus-ride home.

************

“What’s this sandwich?” my Dad yelled from the kitchen.  

I told him the whole story.  The heads on desks … Melanie … Ms. Appleby … the pee … the lie.  The lie, the lie, the LIE my best friend made me tell.  

“Uh-huh,” Dad would say periodically as I went through my long sordid tale.  I am sure I shed tears, because I always shed tears.  I still do, but not over sandwiches.

When I had finished, he leaned over and lifted me up and set me on the counter.  He got up really close and pressed his nose against mine, so close that our eyelashes kissed like butterfly wings.  Then he said,

“Looks tasty.  Want half?” 

**************

If you liked my story, return to http://www.thegirlwho.net and vote for me by typing “I vote for Norma” (or words to that effect) in the comment block of the post that contains the links to “The Great Experiment - Childhood Memory”.

Update on Monday, November 2, 2009 at 08:41PM by Norma Jean Barrett

YIPPEE!  I won thegirlwho’s great experiment contest for October, which asked us to share a childhood memory.  Thanks to all who visited and read my submission AND a big thanks to all those who voted AND to all those great teachers like Ms. Appleby (not her real name) who toil away in the classroom and encourage students to find, do, and be their best.  Finally a big shout out to my Noonie, who didn’t always have the right thing to say, but struck gold when he did.

The Elastic Marriage

A law school assignment required students to consider rules for marriage.  This was my answer.

Delightful delightfulness

It was a nearly perfect day.  Together time that felt really together, like the wide bow must feel all looped up and snug on a present just waiting to delight its recipient … that is, if a bow could feel.  The air, in tight partnership with the falling leaves, was there to remind us of the approaching end of winter’s rest.  For the price of a couple of steamy latte’s we raced the corn maze, rode with hay, and collected a bag of apples too big for Z to carry.  The last of the apples found their way into last night’s apple pie.  

Mmmm.  
Salty buttery crunchy pie hearts.
Cinnamon-y lemon apple goodness.
It was a very nearly perfect day.

Update on Monday, October 26, 2009 at 09:57PM by Norma Jean Barrett

Email me if you would like the recipe for the oh so yummy apple pie.

Homework Unhelper

The ladybugs kept her quite busy, and me … not so busy in the right places or doing the right things.
You can read about Toronto’s recent ladybug infestation in here.

Reach

When do strangers become more than mere acquaintances?
Is it when their eyes meet?
Is it when they sparkle in the reflection of another?
When a hand reaches out to greet and finds warmth and welcome.
Is it when hey you’s and hiya’s replace hello,
and cheers and take care’s become miss you and xo?

When do friends become more than well-acquainted strangers?
Is it when their hearts touch?
Is it when they feel joy and ache in the reflection of each other?
When they stop reaching for explanations of themselves instead choosing to just be.
When hiya’s and hey you’s turn to hon’s and sweets,
and goodbye hugs are followed by ‘til next we meet.

When do lovers become more than just friends?
Is it when their fingers braid?
Is it when they calmly rest despite the nervous flutter?
When reaching for words is abandoned for the comfort of shared silence.
When me too and I know turn to really? … there’s no way
and what’s happening? is replaced by we will be okay.

When do well-acquainted strangers become less than friends?
Is it when their hearts harden?
Is it when they feel solace and relief in the absence of each other?
When they reach for tissues and remotes and booze to numb the white noise.
When words volley on target, then into thin air
and pacified by apathy, they give up to I don’t care?

When do mere acquaintances estrange to strangers?
Is it when their eyes meet
blankly, no longer searching for sorrow in the reflection of the other?
When a hand reaches out and awkwardly retreats to the safety of alone.
When hello’s are followed by the shallow how’ve you been,
and memory’s distant pulse encourages you to reach again.