This Just In — I really must avoid Walmart at this time of year. It’s muscle memory, reflex, whatever you want to call it, but I cannot pass up a sale on pencils and pens and notebooks of every variety. Come to think of it, do I have enough graph paper?
Returning to school every Fall meant new shoes and some clothes and an array of school supplies. I don’t remember bringing a box of tissues to elementary school, but it’s likely that in those days the school was well stocked with crayons and paper and chalk for the board. The schools’ budget probably provided for tissues, too. Good times.
For my first many years of school, I walked to school (starting with my older siblings) so this meant navigating across Manchester’s Hackmatack Street, with the help of a crossing guard. Otherwise it was a child-driven adventure.
Although we did have fire drills to practice evacuating the building in an orderly manner, my time in elementary school was after the years of the absurd “duck and cover” where kids got under their desks for protection from nuclear fallout.
Kids today endure the trauma of anticipating a live shooter wandering the halls in their school. During my time in K-12 education, I certainly saw the effects of bullying, of kids whose return to school meant finally getting a good meal at midday and the warm embrace of the most important thing that school provided to us — adults other than our parents who were devoted to us, kept us safe and warm and empowered us with our basics skills of reading and writing.
Teachers. Oh my God. TEACHERS.
I was the luckiest of all the kids in my circle. Three of my four grandparents were teachers. My maternal grandmother taught in a one room school house in upstate New York. Her classroom sometimes included her younger siblings, of which she had many.
My paternal grandparents taught in an elementary boarding school for boys in Massachusetts. It is not possible to overstate what a joy it was to have elementary school teachers for grandparents. They knew children. They certainly knew me.
They had that great gift of being able to teach without seeming to teach. It often came in the form of playing games (which teaches the value of fair play and not being a sourpuss when you lose). It might come in the form of reading a story aloud and voicing the characters in a most entertaining way or taking a break in the afternoon to listen to music (take a nap) because everyone needed a break.
It sometimes meant sharing the load … my grandmother and I always did the dishes together after dinner. I remember the one time that I thought I’d rather not participate. My grandmother started washing the dishes. My grandfather didn’t scold. He asked why I was not helping. I said I didn’t want to tonight. He said that the dishes needed to be done even though I might not feel like helping. He emphasized that my grandmother always appreciated my help.
Dishes first, then maybe another game of Parcheesi after the job was done. Our only TV time was watching Lawrence Welk and Julia Child. Chef Julia was my grandfather’s favorite. My grandmother was a very supportive assistant in the kitchen … and a person who made a great chicken salad, as long as she didn’t have to cook the chicken.
My father’s father and step-mother were a glorious couple, complimenting each other at any opportunity and doing the same with me as their houseguest during Spring breaks from school. “Aren’t you clever?” was my grandmother’s signature line. I can still hear her voice today (when I’m clever). This, too, taught the example of a loving partnership and the simple value of appreciation.
As I find my way as a grandparent, I aspire to their example. Playing games, asking questions. I inquired with my grandsons the other day as to why their chickens were out loose in their yard, not confined by fencing. The answer from Winter, almost nine years old, was elegant and very matter-of-fact.
“They’re happier this way. They lay more eggs. They’re just happier.”
And there you have it. Back to school indeed. I learned this week about chicken happiness. Quantum physics can wait.
Jean Bolduc is a freelance writer and is the author of “African Americans of Durham & Orange Counties: An Oral History” (History Press, 2016) and has served on Orange County’s Human Relations Commission, The Alliance of AIDS Services-Carolina, the Orange County Housing Authority Board of Commissioners, and the Orange County Schools’ Equity Task Force. She was a featured columnist and reporter for the Chapel Hill Herald and the News & Observer.
Readers can reach Jean via email – [email protected] and via Twitter @JeanBolduc
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