While parking for church this morning I got a glimpse into my old school yard where I spent Kindergarten through fifth grade. The school was small, Catholic and cute, but very run down. It is no longer in use, but I remember so many nooks and crannies of that old place. Like the reading corner in first grade that was filled with pillows and had fish netting above us, where we could go with a friend to look at books. I remember in second grade practicing my cursive handwriting under the watchful eye of Sister Emerencia. In third grade I remembered starting the year with a very kind Ms. Tolme, and finishing the year with a still very kind Mrs. Depwag. (Same Teacher, just married.) (She was my favorite.) In fourth I remember we were the only classroom upstairs, and if chosed for the task, we could bring the erasers outside to clap off all the chalk, or wash the blackboard with the big soggy sponge. Fifth grade was my favorite year. I had my first crush on a boy named Eric, and I giggled endlessly. Memories of the darker hallways, without windows, that led to the upper grades, still spook me now. The dark back stairwell behind the stage, which led to the Speech Teacher, was where I would practice pronouncing my R’s. The school yard claims the most favored memories though. Having races with my best friend, Marlene, getting to ring the big brass bell when it was time to come in, if chosen by Sister Virginia, and snickering at the older eigth grade boys that were winning all the basketball games. Such fond happy memories of childhood. A safe place where it seemed all families knew eachother. Down the hill I walked, thinking back, as I walked forward to the church.
Published by kflockhart
I've enjoyed writing since the first grade, since my aunt gave me a journal so long ago to write in. Now I write to enjoy the moments. I write to stretch and share my thoughts. I write to connect and find calm. Raising three kids, three rabbits and two cats, with a school social work career, I need the daily refuge writing offers. The simple reflections allow for an abundance of memories to the hurried pace of life. View more posts