Residue

When I was a kid, I would have this ritual I would go through before I left a place. I think it started in sixth grade, and I think it started by accident.  Mr. Bitoy, my sixth grade teacher, sent me on an errand; probably it was to get something from the office.  Since I’d been at Longfellow Elementary since Kindergarten (Go Lightening Bolts! Go Bears!), I knew the school well and decided that, while I knew the fastest route to get to the office, I’d take the long way instead.

I didn’t do it to waste time. I was doing it because I was remembering.  There’s the sixth grade teacher’s work room, where Mrs. Schultze would let me eat lunch with her on the days I said I was stuck with my writing. She ate sandwiches filled with vegetables and drank Diet Rite, and I would tell her that I wanted to write stories, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. There’s the 5th grade girls’ bathroom where Ms Savage came and found me crying because we were cleaning and organizing our desks and I didn’t know what to throw away and what to keep. She gave me a big hug which was a big deal because Ms Savage was no nonsense. She didn’t have time for hugs and that sort of froo-froo business, she told us. She showed us the beauty of an onion peel under a microscope; her red nails clinked on the knobs as she adjusted them for us so we could really see what we paid no attention to. Ms Savage would move on to teach high school, and we’d see each other occasionally in the hallways. She’d give me a nod and I’d nod back.

There’s Mrs. Carey’s room. Mrs. Carey, my 4th grade teacher, had to be the classiest teacher I knew. She was eloquent. She talked to us about standing up straight when we spoke. Mrs. Carey is probably the reason I wear high heels when I teach.

In second and third grade, we were in “pods;” huge warehouse type rooms that were divided into four classrooms. I’m not sure what the point of the pods were.  Maybe the classes were supposed to integrate in some way. Or maybe it was to show students that look, you’re friends are out in the open doing the same stuff you are. I don’t know, but I didn’t like 3rd grade and I can’t remember why.  I think it had something to do with long division.  And in 2nd grade I got the word “special” wrong on a spelling test. I was supposed to write the correct spelling three times. Maybe it was five.  I don’t know but I erased what I wrote, put the “i” and the “a” in their correct spots, then brought my paper back to Ms Hartmann and told her she’d made a mistake. I wrote special correctly.  She apologized and changed my score and I went back to my desk and sat down, triumphant. Ever since, every time I sat in a Sunday School or Youth Group devotion and heard about how bad cheating is (there were three sins to stay away from growing up: cheating, drinking, and you know the third), and how sad it makes God I wondered how I had the guts to lie and get away with it. It felt like an inside joke between me and God. Anyway, I never forgot how to spell special and I still feel eight every time I write it.

There’s the 1rst grade room where we had our own bathroom that I never used but loved when somebody else would because I could hear everything, and sometimes somebody would be in there and start to sing and I would squeeze my legs with my hands to keep from laughing. There’s the Kindergarten room, where Mrs. O’Brien told us about the Letter People, and during snack somebody broke their celery with peanut butter and raisins and started to cry and Mrs. O’Brien said, “Oh, wonderful! Now you have two!” We were all in awe of her brilliance and beauty. The day we learned we were going on to 1rst grade and she couldn’t be our teacher anymore we cried and cried.

That’s what I’d do when the snow and ice started to melt, and we began walking to school without mittens and hats; our jackets unzipped because there was no wind chill and 35 degrees felt like a heat wave. I knew spring was on its way and soon it’d be summer, and next year I wouldn’t be at Longfellow.  So as I walked to  school, I would contemplate ways to walk around the building during the day so I could remember.

I did this in 8th grade. I did it my Senior year of high school. And once I learned to drive, I would do it at every summer’s end the night before school started.  I’d put in the driving mixtape I made for that summer, and drive around to the places I’d been, collecting memories.

Tomorrow I go back to work and so here is my metaphorical walk and car ride through summer. I’m sad that I haven’t written a story about each picture, and I’m worried that if I don’t, I will forget. But then I remember how I cheated special, and I wonder if when I did that, I made a deal with God. I would get a perfect record, but the residue would remain; like the lead that imprinted on my eraser when I rubbed away my mistake. When the time is right I’ll look at what remains I have and see if I can craft something with them. Until then, the memory is held by the hand that holds me; no matter what it is I’ve done. Maybe that’s what a gift feels like.

This girl jumped off the diving board into deep water.  She said she’d never do that.

And this one is learning how to dive.

We went to OBX.

I love this one of Chase and Hadley. They’re discussing skim boarding.

It reminds me of this picture:

If you’re in OBX the best coffee around is Treehouse Coffee. Here’s a picture along with my very rough draft of my “Stealing Grace” essay that I didn’t think I would finish.  I never believe I’ll finish any of them.

We drew pictures over lunch at the Portrait Gallery.

And went to the zoo.

I learned to eat crab this summer. First lesson, put that mallet down. Geez, you’d think I was from Chicago or something. Never use a mallet to eat crab. You pull it apart with your paws like an animal.

Don’t get in the middle of the fight.  Just smile, and write about it later. 

I’m telling that entire table what a bunch of trouble makers they all are.

We saw Mount Rushmore.

We drove through an eye of a needle.

Harper lost her first tooth in a bookstore. (If you’re ever in Estes Park, Colorado, please do yourself a favor and stop by Inkwell and Brew. The coffee is so good I want to cry and the bookstore is well stocked.)

We visited Notre Dame, one of my favorite places in the world.

We were in Michigan, and Hadley and I took our first WERQ class together with one of the best instructors around (Mallory Feyen, baker and dance extraordinaire).

We went to an Orioles Game.

There were alleyway hangouts all summer long.

We took bike rides around the new Town Center. Maybe it’s a Town Square. I can’t remember.

And we spent time with old friends.  These kids have known each other since they were babies.

It was a fine summer. I’ll hang on to the dregs as I put my big girl shoes on and turn the page for the next story; hoping remnants of these days show up when I’m looking around for something special.