Here you can read submissions from writers just like you!  And, below, you have an opportunity to submit something you’ve written!

 

From an anonymous contributor:

Returning to Seattle via plane, I was delighted by a comment from the woman sitting next to me. Peering out the window as we descended, she said, “It’s like sinking into a bubble bath.”

This reminded me of another simile about Seattle. Reporter Paul Doherty described downtown Seattle as viewed from Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill: “Below, downtown Seattle seemed to levitate in a foggy shroud, its buildings like bumps in a linen tablecloth.”

I’ve recently been reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. This was originally published in 1943. It is a book that my mother mentioned loving, yet I’m just discovering it for the first time. It’s a bit like Angela’s Ashes, in that is describes some of the hardships and indignities suffered by Irish immigrants in America. The protagonist, Francie, describes her struggle for an education at a time when the education of girls was not considered important.

As described, on New Year’s Eve 1917, Francie and her brother Neeley, now young adults, climb a ladder to the roof of the tenement where they reside with their widowed mother and baby sister. On the roof, they are giddy with a sense of possibility for their futures. Francie looks out over Brooklyn:

The starlight half revealed, half concealed. She looked out over the flat roofs
uneven in height, broken once in a while by a slanting roof from a house left over
from older times. The chimney pots on the roofs…and on some, the shadowing
looming of pigeon cotes…sometimes, faintly heard, the sleepy cooing of
pigeons…the twin spire of the Church, remotely brooding over the dark
tenement…And at the end of their street, the great Bridge that threw itself like
a sigh across the East River and was lost…lost…on the other shore. The dark East
River beneath the Bridge, and far away, the misty-gray skyline of New York,
looking like a city cut from cardboard. (p. 306, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,
Harper & Row, Publishers, 1947)

A great simile from War Dances by Sherman Alexie:

“That night my sons climbed into bed with me. We all slept curled around one another like sled dogs in a snowstorm.” — p. 45, Grove Press, 2009

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Awaiting your entries for the April Challenge!

What do YOU think about the motto, “Progress, Not Perfection”? I might add another motto: “Writing as Fun, Not Work.”

How have YOU overcome writer’s block? Do you find it useful to think of writing as “talking on paper”? Please share with us your process or your results. We’re always happy to hear from you!

 

 

 

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Awaiting your entries for the March Challenge!

I invite you to submit excerpts from your writing that relate in some way to the writer, Michael Perry. This may be something you’ve written that captures a memory evoked by a current-day event. Or, it could be writing in which you describe the size of something without using standard measurements — but rather convey size by comparison, as Perry did in the excerpt about his poster being used in a hamster cage! Or, surprise me! Perhaps you’ll wish to share a poignant memory of a remembered experience with a family member when you were a child. We look forward to hearing from you!

Okay, I can’t help myself! Here’s one more excerpt from Michael Perry’s Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting —

“The days have cycled through. The maple buds have unbundled. The hills are a green divan buttoned with clusters of bloom that foam apple-tree pink and chokecherry white. After lunch I am trying to allow Anneliese a nap. She is upstairs, and I am downstairs with Jane across my lap. The deadlines have stacked up, so I am also trying to write, the computer balanced on my knees. But of course I can do little more than study the baby. Her sleepy tics, her bursts of rapid eye movement, her bow-perfect lips, her candy-floss hair glinting auburn in the sun. Her nose is resting on her knuckles, and her head rocks slightly with each breath drawn.

I am playing music on the laptop: Innocence Mission. The volume is way down. The song sounds tinny and faint. I am studying Jane’s impossible ear — this perfect miniature conch, a leaf just partially unfurled — when the final chorus repeats, barely audible: ‘this is the brotherhood of man … this is the brotherhood of man … this is the brotherhood of man …’ When I turn my eyes to the valley below the big window, it is beautiful for a moment and then all the blooms and green dissolve in a watercolor wash.

After a suitable interval, the guinea pig whistles and flips his purple plastic igloo.” (p. 181, hardback version)

Website readers: Do you see what has happened when the view “dissolves”? Genius!!

Below is an example of a humbling anecdote, taken from a memoir by Mark Sullivan, explaining how he got his given name, Mark. It seems that shortly before Mark was born, his father was helping neighbors with a log-raising for a new barn. The expectant father suddenly told the others he had to leave for a half hour —

“ … he must make a trip to the village to get a bar of castile soap. The unusual errand — obviously not related to barn-raising — excited curiosity, and my father explained that in the house a child, his tenth, was about to be born. One of the neighbors — his name was Mark Hughes — said to my father, ‘If it’s a boy name him after me.’ My father replied, ‘That I will, Mark.’ Doubtless my father was glad of a suggestion, for he had already exhausted the more familiar of the saints’ names that were practically a requirement in Irish Catholic families — he had used u Cornelius, Mary, John, Thomas, William, Joseph, Benjamin, Francis and Edward. Of the nine children, three had died in infancy. His tenth and last child, the youngest of the severn sons who grew up, he named Mark Sullivan.” [From Mark Sullivan, The Education of An American, Doubleday, 1938]

[Note: The reason I have the above book, by Mark Sullivan, is that my grandfather recommended it to my mother when she was in college the year it came out. Curious about what my grandfather enjoyed reading in his 40s, I found the book and discovered that it is still a great read!]

Interesting and humbling name-origin story!

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Awaiting your entries for the February Challenge!

“To make it better, to make it last.”
Those are the last eight words of Edie Clark’s final essay in the collection, As Simple as That.

Do these words evoke motivations in your own life? What have you tried to make better? What have you tried to make last? In what ways have you made things better, made things last?

We invite your thoughts and associations around this evocative theme. Please don’t be shy: Click on the dog below and email us your thoughts! Nothing fancy required. Even a sentence or two will be welcomed and appreciated! Thank you!

Michael Yanega, of Federal Way, Washington, writes:

Edie Clark’s enjoyable essays made me feel as if she were a friend telling me about an episode that happened in her life — a friend who writes very well, at that. I was particularly touched by the essay “Waking up the Truck” in which she lovingly describes resurrecting her late husband’s Ford truck each spring. I could not help but feel that she was bringing a trace of her husband back each time that engine coughed back to life.
Her story of “The Winter Breakers” gives us a sense of the feeling of community and how it lifted the isolation of the long New England winters. Even when individual politics were not shared, the importance of the social gathering imposed a respectfulness that could serve as a model for us now. The importance of the continuity of life and of objects resonated with me in “Stillpoint in the Whirling World” and in the final essay “Answering Back,” where our past homes connect us to earlier times.
I also share Edie’s love of dogs. “Loving Harriet,” with its reminder of loving difficult dogs, and “Something Big Passed By,” with its echoes of Toto and the tornado, were both stories I enjoyed, with good touches of suspense and humor.
Edie also focuses on the complexity of seemingly simple things, and what simplicity really means. Her title story sets that background, and “Down Under,” about putting away food in her cellar, and “The Green of Green Tomatoes,” about the wonder of tomatoes ripening wrapped in darkness, help develop this theme. These stories are examples of how she shares the wondrous ‘miracles of the earth,’ as she calls them.
Edie’s notion of a place, like her farm, where one can just be surrounded by nature, the elements, and some friends and have all that is necessary for a full and satisfying life is a challenge to those of us who have trouble separating from things and status. I recommend her stories as a way to re-ground yourself, whether or not you think you have any affinity for New England and its customs.

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Awaiting your entries for the January Challenge!

 

 

 

 

 

 

How does the light of candles, Christmas lights, or other kinds of light enhance your winter nights? We’d love to hear your paragraphs or essays on this topic!

WINTER LIGHT

By Debra Steckler Valpey, Normandy Park, Washington

tiny bright lamps twirl
and twinkle within my holiday tree
and I am comforted

electric icicles on my mantle
illuminate expectant stockings
hung with hope on Christmas Eve

a candle at dinner or at breakfast
reminds me that I have vision
to face the chill of day or night

after dark when I must venture forth
for a quart of milk or loaf of bread
neon lights in grocery stores my welcome mat

my neighbors shine light in their doorways
and lace lights along their roof tops
a signal to me that I am not alone

street lamps guide my path
as I walk my little dog
along her accustomed path

and when the sun does rise I greet her
with outstretched arms and a thanks
for her daily visit to little old me

Candlelight on the Christmas Tree
Mieke Tazelaar, Seattle

Christmas in our Netherlands home and community had its own spiritual quality, quite apart from the magic of St. Nicholas on December 6. By this time, we had already experienced the excitement of the Good Saint on our rooftop and in our home. Even in the midst of our 1943 war-torn country, our parents made this a festive occasion, as we gathered the candy tossed to us by the hand of Sinterklaas’ helper. We opened the gifts he had given to us as we approached the stately figure in a living room chair, now transformed into a throne. It had been a time for fun, but also of awe.

Christmas was all about the story of a baby born in a shelter, to people far from their own home, and of the light that streamed from afar, surrounding the family. Our fragrant tree represented that light. Candles had been placed carefully in their holders, in such a way that they would not touch any branches or needles. We watched each candle transform to a flickering light by touch of a match held by my father, as the tree became brighter and brighter. Below the tree stood a bucket of water and a washcloth, just in case. Now and then, a candle would sputter and go dark, as the odor of extinguished candle filled the room with its pleasant fragrance.

But it was the Christmas Eve church service that I remember with the greatest fondness and wonder. A tall tree that nearly reached the ceiling dominated the right side of the sanctuary, aglow with hundreds of illuminated candles. We found seats far enough away so we could see the entire tree, and my brothers and I nudged each other and pointed, when one of us noticed a candle beginning to flicker, sometimes sending sparks into the air.

As we sang Christmas carols, our eyes focused on two men standing at the edge of the balcony, close to the top half of the tree, and on two more standing on the ground floor. Each held a long pole, and when a candle sputtered, one man would touch the failing wick with a wet sponge at the end of his pole. We would sniff the air as the aroma of the spent candle wafted through the sanctuary.
My brothers and I sat in awe, watching the illumined tree, knowing that the four custodians kept us all safe. And yet, we wished secretly that just a small, but satisfying, fire would start somewhere on that tree.

The conflagration never happened, and the feeling of peace from the light soon captured our souls with joy and hope for our troubled world. The darkness of winter and war had been vanquished, at least for a few magical hours.

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Awaiting your entries for the December Challenge!

We would love to hear YOUR holiday memories. Please submit them, using the link below. Here is an entry from Phyllis Mitchell in SeaTac, Washington:

Turkey-less Thanksgiving in the ‘30s
Phyllis Mitchell

At our one-room rural school in mid-November, our Halloween wiener roast was a fading memory, and the window decorations of black cats and pumpkins had been removed. “It will be a long time before Christmas,” I thought.
The doldrums between holidays soon ended though when Miss Cecil announced, “This week we will study about the first Thanksgiving feast. But first, let’s sing ‘Over the River and Through the Woods.’ It’s in your songbook.”
Our voices soon chimed in all the way through the final verse: “Over the river and through the woods, Now Grandmother’s cap I spy, Hooray for the fun, is the pudding done, Hooray for the pumpkin pie!”
I could hardly wait until Friday afternoon when the last period was devoted to an art project. I loved coloring turkeys and Indians and cutting out shapes of Pilgrim men with top hats, and women with big white collars over dark gray dresses. One of the fathers had sent in ears of corn with red and purple kernels. We pulled back their shucks and braided them to hang up for decorations.
Each day, the holiday mood continued. We talked about how the Pilgrims, near starvation, had learned from the Indians how to plant corn. We also learned that Governor Bradford had declared a three-day feast the following year for prayer and thanksgiving. And we talked about the wild turkeys the Pilgrims and Indians had eaten in their feast. “So that is why we always celebrate Thanksgiving with roast turkey,” our teacher concluded. “How many of you have turkey for Thanksgiving dinner?”
Her question drew a blank. No one raised a hand. In fact, I had never seen an actual turkey. One by one, each of us answered that we always had roast chicken or freshly butchered pork. I felt a little cheated that we had no turkeys. Our teacher lived on a cattle ranch two counties away and perhaps did not know about turkeys either. She asked, “Why don’t your parents raise turkeys the same as chickens?”
An older pupil said, “Turkeys are too hard to raise.”
“And why is that when you can raise chickens?” asked Miss Cecil.
“They are just too dumb,” Herschel volunteered. “Mamma told us they won’t let you shoo them back to the coop when it starts to rain, and when they get wet they drown easier.” Mamma had told us about a neighbor who had lost 50 turkeys in a rain and hail storm. She said they need special attention, and most farmers don’t have the time or space. “Anyway,” she concluded, “Chickens are just as good!”
At Sunday school, we knew we would be listing three things we were thankful for. And, at home, Daddy said, “This year we will buy cranberries and a stock of celery from the store. And, Mamma will roast a couple roosters and bake her special pies!”
All day Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, Mamma and Daddy worked together. Daddy brought in a big crookneck squash which he peeled, cut, and steamed for Mamma’s famous squash pie. He churned fresh butter while Mamma baked three pies, a batch of bread, and two pans of rolls for the special dinner.
Daddy caught two of the Capon roosters, and with one swift chop of his ax, he severed their heads as they lay motionless on his chopping block. (Mamma preferred cutting off their heads while their feet were fastened to the clothesline. She said it was cleaner and more humane than letting them flop on the ground and bruise their flesh.)
Next, Mamma dipped the birds, neck first, into a bucket of scalding water, then picked the feathers. In the house, she twisted one end of some newspapers to form a handle. It looked like she was holding a bouquet of paper when she removed the stove lid, allowed the paper to catch fire, then swiftly held it under each bird to singe the hair left on the skin after the feathers had been removed. Burning hair smelled just like burning hair! Not good! While washing the birds thoroughly, she removed any remaining pin feathers. I think she liked pressing at the end to see them pop out.
Mamma made quick work of cutting off the long necks, and drawing the innards. After cutting a hole below the breastbone near the tail, she pushed three fingers inside to reach the furthest part and gently pull. Everything came out clean. She carefully cut the green gall bladder away from the liver, making sure not to cut the bitter bile sack. She held the gizzard in her hand and cut about half way around the circle, being careful to cut only as far as the inner lining, and peel out the tough crinkly sack inside so the sand and grit did not spill out – like taking the stone from the center of a fresh peach.
Daddy snuggled close while Mamma sliced the liver, dredged it in flour, and fried it in the egg skillet. He knew we kids didn’t like liver, but he did! The necks, gizzard and hearts were then cooked slowly with a quartered onion to make delicious stock for next day’s dressing.
Mamma let me measure three cups of dried corn, and add two cups of water to soak and slowly warm on the back of the range, to reconstitute for the next day’s creamed corn. The unusual flavor of dried corn was my favorite vegetable.
When Mamma cooked the cranberries with water and sugar, we all watched until every berry popped. She poured it into her special cut glass pedestal bowl. Next morning, after the usual morning chores and breakfast for eight people, the whole family pitched in to complete the dinner.
Mamma put the chickens in the roaster to brown while she mixed the dressing. She had saved a big bowl of dry bread chunks to which she added the stock, cut-up giblets, onions, chopped celery tops, and sage seasoning. Her dressing was extra moist, actually a bit soupy, which she spooned inside the already heated bird cavities – over and around the sides, nearly filling the roasting pan. Every half hour, she basted the bird by scooping up the hot dressing to cover the birds again, her way of keeping the meat moist, as well as permeating it with the seasoning.
One of my jobs was to bring from the cellar a big jar of green beans, a jar of pickled beets, a jar of bread and butter pickles, and a jar of dill pickles. (Daddy wanted the pickles served unsliced so he got a good squirt of juice when he bit into one!) I also was the potato peeler this day and every day!
Herschel carried in water, filled the wood box, and helped Daddy stretch out the kitchen table by adding more leaves. Camilla spread the freshly ironed white linen tablecloth and set the cranberry bowl in the middle, creating a sparkling centerpiece. Around this she placed the dishes of pickles and a ‘celery boat’ full of long celery sticks. Camilla was also trusted with the salt cellars – two-inch cubes of glass, each with a small hole in the middle to be filled with a teaspoon of salt. She placed one by each plate for dipping the celery. (We used them in summer for green onions and radishes.)
Grandma Warren had given Mamma a serving bowl and a set of glass plates made of pinkish-orange “depression glass” which Mamma used for special occasions. Otherwise, our odds and ends of chipped plates and serving dishes did not match.
Harold took charge of shredding a head of cabbage for coleslaw. He didn’t use Mamma’s method of making paper thin slices with a sharp knife on a cutting board. Instead, because he liked mechanics, he went to the storeroom and got out the wooden frame embedded with a sharp blade used to shred cabbage when we made sauerkraut.
Meanwhile, I helped make the dressing for the slaw, mixing heavy sour cream with vinegar, sugar, and salt. I had become a ‘pro’ at this and remember to this day to stir the sauce with the cabbage until it gets light and frothy. We served that in the one pretty bowl that matched the plates.
We heard Uncle Ed’s car drive in with our cousins, Maxine and Margret, and Mamma hurriedly changed her apron. “Sure smells good in here!” Uncle Ed said as he peeked in the oven and lifted lids on the pans. “I could tell I had come to the right place as soon as I turned in off the road!” He snatched a bite of chicken wing and gave each of us a hug.
Harold drained the potatoes, saving the water for Mamma to use in the gravy. After he mashed the potatoes, she added pure cream which she also added to the dried corn.
Then, Mamma carved the roasted chickens, filling two platters. She quickly made the gravy right in the roaster pan with all the drippings, and put the finishing touches on everything. She knew how to manage, by lining up the three crockery bowls on the back of the stove. The largest was heaped with mashed potatoes, and the other two held the dressing and gravy. All the side dishes were kept warm either on the stove or in the warming ovens.
We all gathered around the table, with baby Glenda in the high chair. Mamma barely had time to sit down long enough to say the blessing. As we ate, we listened to Daddy and his brother reminisce about their younger days. Uncle Ed recalled how their brother John was the best shot and always brought in prairie chickens or grouse. “Ma would gladly cook them!” he recalled.
“Yes, but remember the time we shot a bunch of squirrels?” asked Daddy. “We skinned them and cut off the hind quarters for her to cook, but she would have none of it! Blanche [their sister] finally fried up a mess, and we sat there and ate them like popcorn!” They both laughed.
When it was time for dessert, Harold whipped a bowl of heavy cream for topping. This was delicious when scooped onto Mamma’s squash pies!
Thanksgiving was indeed a time to celebrate all that we had. Our stomachs were full, and our house was filled with wonderful aromas. But, most of all, we enjoyed being together!

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Awaiting your entries for the October Challenge!

NOTE: Submissions do not necessarily focus on first grade, but on the overall school experience. It’s great when writers take the ball and run with it wherever they like!

Finding Comfort Amid the Confusion of First Grade
(Name withheld)

I was a shy and often bewildered child in elementary school. Surrounded by a swarm of activity and sound, there was one very strong comfort: My desk. My desk was my haven, my port in the storm. At our school, we had freestanding desks with lids that opened on hinges. I think part of the appeal of my desk was that when I opened the lid, I could block out the confusion around me and hide behind the lid. Not only that, I could order my little nest of supplies – my crayons, my pencils, my erasers, my pencil sharpener, my protractor, compass, and ruler. And, all my little treasures … “cootie catchers” I had made out of folded paper, four leaf clovers I had found and pressed, pretty rocks, and even a few prizes from cracker jacks. This little area was my domain and, unlike the rest of the world, I had control over it. It was predictable and comfortable. My desk was probably what I liked best about school.
And then there was the elegance and beauty of tools. I remember a pencil given to me by a friend who had visited Japan. It was swathed in patterned paper and had a little red tassel fastened right below the eraser. What magic. Retractable ballpoint pens were a marvel. And erasers were a delight. The act of erasing was so rewarding. Now you see it, now you don’t! And with a sweep of the hand, all the eraser debris could be swept away. Art gum erasers were my favorite, but I also loved the functional orange erasers, and the malleable white artist erasers.
Compasses enabled me to make perfect sweeping circles on my paper, overlapping them and coloring them with different colored crayons. What a perfect tool!
When it came time to write, I would open the lid to my desk and take out my pencil. Not a pencil, but my pencil. I have heard writers say that the pen or pencil they use often feels like an extension of their own body. I suppose I’ve always had a bit of that feeling when I hold a pen or pencil. I’m not obsessive about my writing tools, but I definitely have my preferences, and they are like trusted friends. This all began in first grade!

Sharing a Desk in a Small Town School
By Rob Greeves

I started school in a very small town called Inkom, Idaho. The classes from first grade through senior high were in one building. My first grade class was in a small room where both first and second grades were held. We sat on benches that seated two students, so we shared a desk that had a shelf under the table for our pencils and paper. Books were handed out each day and collected at the end of class. Two students per book!

We had only one teacher and she taught both grades. We first graders read whenever the teacher was working with the second graders. Even in the third and fourth grade room the same situation existed for students. All this sharing wasn’t too bad if another boy was assigned to sit with you, but having to share your desk with a girl wasn’t any fun at all! That is just the way a guy felt when he was only six years old.

Something of My Own
By Mieke Tazelaar

I loved my pencil box. It wasn’t the classical shape, but square, not as long, but large enough to place my pencils diagonally. It also contained a green eraser that never got hard and dry. I kept a couple of keys in my box. They didn’t unlock anything – well, one was for the box, but I couldn’t lock it and keep the key inside now, could I? I had several round pieces of bubble gum from the penny vending machine. I saved those for a chance to do some long, serious chewing and bubble-blowing. The box contained a miniature plastic camel from that same machine. I kept a Crayola box with eight crayons and a tiny spiral notebook. Several items from Cracker Jack boxes found their way into my special box.
My square treasure went back and forth to school with me. It resided in my school desk and on the nightstand next to my bed.
In junior high, we had no individual desks, since we migrated from room to room throughout the day, but getting a locker was magical, and frustrating. I bought my own lock and practiced at home, but when I first fastened it to my locker, I panicked and couldn’t remember the combination or the process. To the rescue came Basil Halkedes, who could open any lock, even if he did not know the combination. He had at least six locks strung together and made a game out of unlatching each one before he opened his locker and getting to his next class on time. This skill got him in trouble, because a half dozen students reported missing locks. He was clever, but not clever enough to hide the evidence.
I decorated the inside of my locker with pictures of friends and a rock star or two. I didn’t particularly like rock music, but this was a peer thing – keeping up appearances. Since I was not naturally tidy, I had to clean my locker from time to time when I couldn’t slam it closed anymore. I tossed out papers, took home extra sweaters, books, and shoes, and wiped it down with damp paper towels. Then, I would feel good about my locker again.
At home I had my own room, since I did not have a sister. My parents left it alone, until it became too bad. Then, I would find the things I had left on the floor, in the alley, next to my open window. I would go on a cleaning frenzy and put things back in place. I realize now how fortunate I was to have had the luxury of my own space, and a mostly wise and patient mother.
And no one at home ever opened my pencil box. It was my sacred domain that my parents and brothers honored. How lucky I was!
* * *
Note from Joan: The piece below, by Debra, is a great example of how a piece can begin with a topic like “school supplies” and lead the writer into other areas of memory. In this case, the writer began by talking about pencils and ended by talking about issues around self-concept and friendship. Writing can do this, which is one reason I encourage everyone to write! It is a voyage of reflection and discovery!
School Memories from l962

By Debra S. Valpey (September, 2013)

Freshly sharpened yellow pencils with virginal erasers (years later I read a romance novel in which pencil erasers reminded a “wounded wife” of her husband’s mistress’s “charm tips.” Maybe the author came up with that one in middle school. Hah!) Sharp-cornered 3-ring binders that open and close just right. Two ball point pens, one blue and one black. That year I secreted an extraordinary pen from my summer travels to the World’s Fair in Seattle. It was a space needle pen and I loved it. The “elevator” flowed up, then slid back down as I tilted the pen to and fro.
Packets of shrink wrapped wide-ruled notebook paper to be allocated, equitably of course, into five color codes dividers: pink for English because I like pink and I like English class, blue for geography because earth is a blue planet, orange for history because orange is a dumb color and history is a dumb class (side note: I eventually became a history teacher…go figure), yellow for math because I am a (yellow) coward in math class, and purple for science because purple is a color that comes from magically combining two other colors and science was magic (another reason I never understand science). All set now!
Unzip my pencil bag to reveal a fresh pink trapezoidal eraser with its name easily visible. I do not know why the eraser had a name. Then admire my protractor (even though it is for MATH class) and one of those nifty things that holds a pencil to make a perfect circle for (yucky) math class. At least I can use those for my elective art class, second semester, for making cool colored designs for when I become a famous fashion designer. A wooden ruler with that foreign mysterious way of measuring along one side. Metrix they call it, I think. It is very European. And a small packet of Elmer’s Glue which I had no practical use for, but glue sticks had not yet been invented. So….sigh….we use what we have.
I wore tight undershirts to squash (and hopefully hide) my kiwi sized breasts that I perceived to be the size of cantaloupes. (Side note: they are still the size of kiwis…oh, well.) Fresh, still pure white ankle socks and new shoes with cross straps and nice flat heels. I tended to wear out the outer edge first so, at least for awhile, my feet didn’t look funny from behind as I slunk down the halls. And a couple of new dresses that made me look like a 15 year old trying to pass for 12. I was so tall that my clothes needed to be purchased in the big girl department. (Side note: I am till the same height, even losing a bit each year. Sigh…)
I liked school enough. I had a couple of friends at a time. I was convinced that my acne (acquired years before my classmates due to my hormonal growth spurts) was the cause of my relative unpopularity. But I so wished to fast forward a few years in order to know for sure that I WOULD stop growing, and I WOULD start looking more like my classmates. By eighth grade, it all began to turn around. My friends got pimples, my height leveled out, and I got another friend or two. I still didn’t like math, though.

Note from Joan: The piece below, by Dennis, is a good example of applying the wisdom of age to the experiences of childhood. Dennis is able to view long-ago events with the perspective of a lifetime of experience, including conversations and insights of others. This is another benefit of writing, both for the writer and the reader. Pieces like this have many layers and can be both healing and thought-provoking.
My Early School Years
By Dennis 09/08/2013

I had undiagnosed Asperger’s syndrome when I was a child. When there was first talk of going to school, my parents could not explain it to me well. However, I have powers of introspection because I have a photographic memory.
It was a late summer day in 1948, when my parents took me to an aged two-story building in Renton, Washington. It was on 3rd street, when it was still a two-way street. Upstairs, two elderly ladies wanted to talk to me, but I did not want to talk to them. I cried, and I didn’t understand what they wanted. It was an interview that I failed. There was a discussion with my parents, but I did not comprehend any of it. Though I was already six years old, I wasn’t going to the first grade; I was to be set back one year and go to junior primary instead. The building was located across the campus from the Renton Highlands Elementary School.
World War II had ended, so civilians were moving into a Renton Highlands housing project built for soldiers and their families. The influx of new people was swamping all services. Most school grades operated in two shifts, but not junior primary. I had a full school day.
There seemed to be an equal number of boys and girls in our large wooden structure that must have been built for some other purpose. I remember staring at the girls, wondering how dresses and skirts made them different from me. It was a real puzzle.
We young students were the first to occupy the building. I knew this, since restrooms and other parts of the facility were being setup for the first time. The teacher was quite crabby. I did not realize it at the time, but changes brought about during the war now allowed married women to teach elementary school. This teacher did not like me, and had apparently assigned me the status of least interesting student. I found this out when we had an exciting class project, where we made paper clowns with accordion-like legs. I thought mine was a masterpiece, much better than yucky decorated clay dishes. I never got to take my clown home. Earlier, a younger boy had wandered by the school. The teacher took pity on him, so she gave him a clown. As a result, when the clowns were passed out to the class, we were one short. I was the one with no clown. This was the first of many times I would get shafted, merely for being different.
I may be the only person who remembers all this. Later, when I got married, my wife’s father happened to be a retired teacher from the Renton School District. He said that Junior primary had been a failed experiment. In those days, teachers could openly wear all their prejudices in public, and they did not hesitate to do so. My father-in-law shared many stories about how so many childhood egos could get crushed, and how many of the teachers that I disliked, were also hated by most of the staff.
I can look back to those early days with enhanced knowledge. Why were so many of the students in junior primary girls? It seems unlikely that so many could be behind in their ability to start school. What biases were in place? I think we were actually being screened as to who were most likely to become social misfits, or not have the skills to adapt to the prevailing culture. I wonder if the girls assigned to that school were those who were considered too ambitious, and not the docile creatures society preferred. Clearly, in junior primary, I remember that all the boys and girls seemed to be on equal footing. Oh, the girls learned things faster, and they could even run faster, but that was normal. We boys eventually caught up.
As I pondered this question, I recently remembered an incident that might explain what happened to the girls. Nancy S. had been one of my classmates during the primary years. She seemed like a brilliant, gifted girl who was quite intelligent. One day, in the fifth grade, she came to class crying. Apparently, she had ambitions in life that were not appropriate for a young girl at that time. I guess she had been lectured to conform, or else. We did not defy school authorities in those days.
I wonder if the girls sent to junior primary had professed lofty dreams, different from just settling down to become wives and mothers. Maybe their mothers told them they were going to live in a world that would be more equal for women. Maybe the male establishment thought they had tempted women too much by allowing them to do men’s jobs during the war, so it was time to throttle that down.
Is it possible that a whole generation of women had been discriminated against over fears of a ‘hostile’ take-over?

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