An Elementary Retrospective - First Grade

First Grade

Teacher: Mrs. Floyd.

I can still remember going home for lunch the first day, over the top excited because I’d learned to read the word “Oh.”

And getting kept after school that afternoon for talking.

Mrs. Floyd was also big on punctuality. I always got to school on time, Mom saw to that, but when winter came, I had problems getting out of my snow pants. Since we wore dresses to school regardless of the season, to keep our spindly legs from turning into scrawny icicles, we also donned thick wool coats with matching hats and pants.

Beside each classroom was a cloakroom, a narrow hallway lined with rows of hooks. I remember Mrs. Floyd sitting in that cloakroom, drilling me on how to unsnap my hat, unbutton my coat and shimmy out of those pants (which meant removing my saddle shoes and then retying them) in what she considered to be a reasonable amount of time.

We saw a lot of the janitor that year, because Peter Nunn kept peeing his pants. Also, when Vicki Williams barfed. Before mopping it up, the janitor would sprinkle on deodorizer, flakes that looked just like the peppers in the jars on the table at Pizza Hut restaurants.

I’ve never been able to bring myself to put those things on my food.

We learned to read about Dick, Sally and Jane from this giant book that sat on the floor and, according to my recollection, was shoulder-height to a first-grader. Mrs. Floyd would hand each of us the pointer, and we’d take turns tracing it along the words beneath the pictures of the Terrible Trio doing such things as rescuing Puff, their cat, from a tree, or dissuading Spot, their dog, from chasing Puff. Never a dull moment at that house. (Notice how Jane, even though she's second oldest, gets third billing? Shades of Jan Brady.)

I’ve heard a lot of criticism of DS&J over the years, but my main memory is just being thrilled to learn to read. My sister, Rita, is 16-months older than I am, and it killed me when she started school. I pleaded to go with her. When Mom said I was too young, they wouldn’t let me attend, I begged for a chance to plead my case to the powers-that-were.

“Just let me talk to them,” I said. “I know I can convince them.”

Apparently, my belief in my powers of persuasion is a life-long delusion.