Tomorrow my grandson, Timothy, starts first grade. I remember when my son and daughter each started first grade. And I remember, impossible as it seems, when I started first grade. That's the thing about getting older. It doesn't matter what the year is, what the number is, the memories keep us in the moment of the age we are remembering.
My teacher was Sr. Mary Conceptor, in full Presentation Sisters regalia. She wore a black habit with white cardboard chest plate (representing a clean soul) and rosary beads on her belt. We little girls were fascinated with the rosary beads, how they all hung exactly the same from each of the nun's belts. On the left, hanging in a way that the crucifix had its own 'holder' because it was so heavy. We would touch the beads when she was not looking. They were much bigger and important than the beads we carried in our schoolbags.
Sister sat on the counter ledge above the cabinets that held our supplies, books, papers, crayons, paints and glue. She would close her eyes when we would not be quiet, pretending to go to sleep. This terrified us all, imagining our caretaker sound asleep. Who would be there for us if sister was asleep? Our fear quieted us down, and she would open her eyes with a smile.
My memories take me back to this year, my sixth year. I still feel the happiness being in that room, the fear when I thought I was alone, and the absolute awe when I realized I could read a page in a book-- "See Scott run" or "See Sally go to school"-- or understand that one plus one would equal two. Yes, I still feel the awe.
My biggest hope for Timothy is that he will feel the awe. That he will remember the joy when he is a granddad. Wow.
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