First Grade in Laurel, Md

School

I wasn't ready. I didn't want to go to school. I wanted to stay home with Mommy. I wasn't old enough, anyway. I was only five. I wouldn't be six until November. But everyone said that I could start at five years old so start I did.
The first day was a little fun. I had new clothes and shoes. I even had a book-bag! It was red plaid! Dressed in splendor, Mommy and Rachael walked with me for the three blocks that lead to the big brick building. It was September and the leaves on the trees were dressed in yellows and reds. They danced in the early morning breeze and fallen leaves of gold and brown rustled across the school yard and down the street. so far so good.

my classroom was decorated by pleasant bulletin boards with pictures. The blackboard sported a row of perfect alphabet letters at the top. the teacher smiled pleasantly and showed me to a desk amongst the other girls and boys. There was laughter and crying. Laughter from the children who already had friends in the class and they played happily waiting for the mommies to leave. And the crying from children who, clinging to their mommies legs, begged to go home and not be left here at school. I sat politely at my desk by the window and watched through the chaos as my mommy walked down the sidewalk towards home. Abandoned. I too began to cry.

I really don't remember much about the morning classes. I didn't learn much more than what Rachael had taught me at home when we played school. I did learn that if you raised your hand, the teacher would call your name so you could speak. I raised my hand and the pretty lady called my name.
"May I go to the bathroom, please?", I asked softly.
"of course, my dear" she answered.
I walked to the door and down the hall. Spying the door my mommy had walked out of earlier, I opened it and walked home.
" Mommy!" I called out happily. I came home to use the bathroom!"
"Barbara Elaine Kitzmiller", Mommy spoke harshly. " You can't come home until school is out! Now march and I'll take you back." I began to cry as she took my hand and walked me back to the classroom at the red brick school three blocks away.
I was resourceful. Three days later, I asked to go to the bathroom again and walked home again. But I didn't go into the house. I played in the side yard in the little grove of trees. I heard the telephone ring and heard Mommy answer it. Then she began to call out for me. Of course! She wanted me to come in for lunch! But she didn't want me to come in . She wanted me to explain why the principal had called to say I was missing. Phooey...here we go back. I was practically running because Mommy was holding my hand up so high that my toes barely touched the ground. Here we went through the pretty leaves and up to the horrid red brick school.
This time, I waited for a whole week before I made my escape. I climbed out the bathroom window, avoiding the door they were now watching carefully. I went to the park. It was just a little way further down the street from the school. I liked the park and knew my way from trips there last summer with Mommy and my sister, Rachael. I was swinging on the swings, pumping my legs hard so that I could touch the sky with my toes when she found me. Holy Toledo! She was mad. She spanked me every step back to the red brick prison that was "school".
I finally made peace with my sentence and stopped trying to escape. At the end of October, Daddy got orders from the Army where he worked that we were moving to Paris, France. I got to stay home from school and help to pack up our whole house. No school! We were going to ride on a big ship called the Queen Mary and go to live in France. I sure hoped there was no school across the ocean.

I Don't Like Milk

Milk

I don't like milk. I use it sometimes on my cereal but just enough to dampen it. Certainly not enough to have leftover to drink. I like chocolate milk and even strawberry milk. I like milk shakes and ice cream sundaes. I like pudding and cream pies. I even like eggnog. But I don't like milk.

I ask myself why since the taste is the same in all my favorites but I do not like it plain in a glass. And then I see it.

There sits the glass in front of me. I am five years old. I have finished my dinner and all that remains is the half full glass of cold white milk. Mommy says to drink it and then I may be excused. Only, I am full and I tell her that I don't want it. But then, Daddy says that I can't get down until I drink the milk.
So there I sit on my chair on my two telephone books with the glass of lukewarm milk in front of me on the table. Mommy washes all the dishes and stops only to encourage me to drink the now warm, stale milk. Daddy orders me to drink it and warns that I will sit there until I finish it. It is now yucky . One tiny sip confirms my suspicion that room temperature milk is not good at all.
Mommy finished the dishes and goes to sit with Daddy to watch TV. I cry. I try another tiny sip and gag a little. Daddy says that if I haven't drunk the milk by bedtime, he will spank me and then put me to bed. The clock ticks ominously:
Bedtime, tick, bedtime, tock, bedtime, tick, bedtime, tock.

My bedtime passes and Daddy is really mad at me. I can't drink the milk. Mommy says to let me sit until they are ready for bed and then deal with me if the milk still remains. I can tell that she wants me to drink it to save myself a spanking. but I just can't.Finally it is their bedtime and I am given one more chance. but it is no use. I can't. I won't. I'd rather have a spanking. I get my way. I get the spanking and the milk is poured down the sink. While Daddy puts me in my bed, crying and distressed, Mommy washes the glass, dries it and puts it in the cabinet. Mommy is crying too just like me.

the next night, I climb up onto my telephone books to take my place at the table. I look at my glass. Koolaid!!! I check out my sister, Rachael's, glass. Milk! Never again will I see milk in my glass- only Rachael's. Mommy saved me after all. Sometimes Koolaid and sometimes water graces my place setting in the years that follow. But never the dreaded milk except when Mommy adds some of the wonderful powder that makes my milk chocolate!
So, now I am 56 years old. All my adult life I have only kept enough milk in the house for cooking and dampening cereal. When my sister visited, I'd buy a gallon for her to have since it is her favorite drink. I pour whatever is left when she goes home down the sink, smiling quietly to myself.
I don't like milk. I like chocolate milk and even strawberry milk. I like milk shakes and ice cream sundaes. I like pudding and cream pies. I even like eggnog. But I don't like milk.


Barb Curtis
October 29, 2010

Oh Where Oh Where has My Little Dog Gone?

Oh Where Oh Where has My Little Dog Gone?
-Barb Kitzmiller Curtis

I was a little girl, just 5 years old. Mommy taught me how to care for myself and my toys and how to be a good girl. Daddy taught me how to recognize the bad girl in me and what consequences were. I loved them both . I loved my big sister, Rachael. I loved my stuffed dog.
I was playing in the side yard of the townhouse that was our home in Laurel, Md.. The sun shone brightly onto the table where I had placed a big metal tub . The trees cast dancing shadows across the green garden hose which wound carelessly through the yard and over to the table. I stood ready to bathe my beloved black and white spotted stuffed dog.
Washday clothes fluttered in the spring breeze, the line waiting for my doggy to hang there with them to dry once its bath was over. I sang and scrubbed and enjoyed the feel of my light brown hair caressing my freckled face in the same breeze that caused the clothes to dance with happy abandon.
Suddenly all around me grew still. The birds who had been singing a cheerful harmony became eerily quiet. The sun withdrew behind an ominous cloud. A large mix breed collie appeared as if summoned by the surreal atmosphere. But I am not afraid of the dog. I like dogs. They are much like me. They love -- just because. They are just waiting for a moment when someone will shower them with attention and be kind to them. In which case, they will cover you with sloppy kisses and unconditional love.
This dog ran to my table. He snatched my soggy stuffed dog from the washtub. "No, oh no!" I cried out as he ran toward the woods behind the house. I yelled louder, racing after the felonious canine. But it was too late, happening in an instant. As the two dogs, one stuffed and dripping, one very alive and trotting, evaporated into the spring green stand of trees I stood horrified. With tears of shock, I saw that the sun had returned from behind the cloud and shone brightly as the birds once again began to chirp.
Mommy and Rachael rushed out to me in response to my desperate cries now muffled into sobs that shook my little shoulders. Mommy assigned Rachael, 6 years my senior and then 11 years old, to help search the woods for my toy: my stuffed, tangible, confidence -sharing toy companion. I begged. I prayed. I hoped with all my little heart that the big dog had dropped my doggy.
Rachael sang as we searched, " Oh Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?". I cried and stumbled along with her. Sadly, we didn't find anything. I always cry when I hear that little song. Over the years, teasing me like all siblings will do from time to time, Rachael would sing that song just to make me cry. It always worked. Even now when I hear it , I still cry.
The loss that day was not just the loss of a toy. That day, joy was torn from my very hands and I lost a piece of innocence. I had experienced and would remember this first journey through the valley of grief.‎



Occurred in Laurel, Md. I was 5 years old.
Recorded: Wednesday, ‎October ‎27, ‎2010