The Story Begins

See the three windows on the bottom right? In 1952 I sat behind those windows. I was in first grade, and this was my first experience with schooling. The four room school was built in 1900 and served for 27 years as the first Alverton high school before it became an elementary school. I remember the bell tower and listening with awe when my older brother in Mrs. Green's fourth grade room recounted kids pulling the bell rope to signal the start of the school day.

The most thrilling feature of the school was the little door in the fourth grade room that opened in the back to the round, metal tube fire escape. At least once I remember having the rare opportunity to go hurtling down the tube, spilling out onto the dirt playing area below. The dirt playground was a great place to slide in the winter. The older boys would pour water over the snow to make long icy paths and kids would line up, take a run, and go sliding down to arrive breathless in a pile of bodies at the bottom. Today in Virginia, kids are rarely out in the snow for recess, and are usually prohibited from going out if the temperature gets below forty.

Looking back, I have a good feeling about my first grade teacher, Mrs. Felgar. She is the only elementary teacher I can recall reading stories to the class and I distinctly recall her stories about the Big Bad Wolf. She also had some interesting behaviors, like going from desk to desk smelling every butt, trying to find the culprit who crapped in his pants. And no wonder. We students would go to any lengths to avoid going to the the outside privies. I remember the old wooden structures with four or five seats and a smell that tensed the sphincters of many a young boy.

I have a vague memory that the class was big. There were five rows of desks, fastened solidly to the floor, and they were full, so there may have been forty kids in the classroom. I found an old picture of Mrs. Green's fourth grade class from 1946 and there were an impossible 49 students standing for their picture in front of the school steps.

First grade was my one and only wholly good school year as an elementary school student. For second grade I moved across to Mrs. Weitzel's second grade room, and that began a long and dreary story to be repeated in five more chapters the following years. The only thing I remember of second grade was Mrs. Weitzel digging her fingernail into my thumb as I tried ineptly to do the Round, Round, Ready Write, the mantra for making ovals courtesy of the Peterson method of handwriting. The only good that came of that episode was Mom feeling sorry for me and allowing me to stay home with my infected thumb the following day. It was with profound relief that I looked forward to third grade at the brand new school up the road.