*Bluegills from Gallaher Elementary*



Sometimes you have to squint and strain your brain real hard in order to remember.  Else you'll forget.  It's like fishing.  You throw back your arm.  Whip it forward.  Let go of the little button on the reel in mid-arc.  And the see-through line sighs as it sails toward the center of the pond.  The red and white bobber goes plop, and then you wait. 

            That's how I caught these memories.  I lay in bed on a Sunday morning and waited for the red and white bobber in my brain to pop in and out of the water. 

            "Got one!" I said. 

            Actually, I got a couple.  The fish were biting.  They do that in the morning, you know.

I went to Gallaher Elementary School in Huntington, West Virginia.  Or was it Gallagher?  I'll have to ask my mom or my oldest brother, Mike.  He's the only brother who cares about the old stuff.  It's not like I can drive down to Huntington and check the sign on the school.  Mike called one day a few years back and told me they tore Gallaher Elementary down. 

            "I got some bricks," he said.  "Want one?"

My daddy walked me to school every day.  It was just five blocks.  We'd talk about everything--Alistair Cook on Masterpiece Theater, our next camping trip to Carter Caves, or Piggy Boy Twisty Tail.  He was the pig on the farm in Mill Creek where Daddy grew up.
            Dad got grumpy when I told him I was going steady with David Lively. 

            "You're only in the fourth grade, for crying out loud!" 
            David was the only guy who signed up for the Gallaher School Summertime Reading Contest and he beat me.  Me!  Of all people.  I went to the Gallaher Village Library twice a week in the summer.  Read under the covers at night with a flashlight and everything.  I was a shoo-in to win.  But the summer before fourth grade, David Lively crashed his bike.  His foot got stuck on the banana seat and he ended up with a cast from his ankle to his hip.  Wasn't like he could do anything but read that summer.  That made me think he was pretty neat.  That he read a lot.
           

David wasn't my first crush at Gallaher School.  In first grade I was gaga for a boy named Beau.  Know what beau means in French?  Beautiful.  And he was.  Had the biggest blue eyes ever.  We were all the time staring at each other with silly grins pasted on our faces.      Mrs. Collins would bang on the pull down maps with her pointer stick. 

            "Pay attention, you two."
           

Green paint's what I remember from second grade.  Mrs. Calfee handed us each a piece of off-white paper, big as our desk tops. 

            "Green starts with the letter 'g,' so we're going to paint something green." 

            Then she picked up the big container of green bean-colored tempera paint and shook it real hard.  I guess the lid wasn't on good 'cause next thing you know, we were something green.  I bet if Gallaher Elementary was still standing, you could walk into Mrs. Calfee's classroom and the green polka dots would still be on the ceiling.

In fifth and sixth grade, I got picked to be a safety patrol and a fire patrol.  When I was on safety patrol duty, I wore a white cross-my-heart-go-'round-my-waist thingy.  I carried a flag made out of a bamboo pole and a twelve-inch square of orange cloth.  I'd open it after I looked both ways 'cross Gallaher Street or Norway Avenue.  I’d close it once the kids got to the other side.  If it rained, we got to wear cool yellow coats and hats, like the guy on the box of fish sticks. 
            When the fire drill bell rang, I'd put on my orange cross-my-heart-go-'round-my-waist thingy.  I'd run to my post--the second floor stairwell on the Gallaher Street side of the building--and hold the door open.  I was ready to shout, "Stop, drop and roll!" if I saw someone a-flame.
            The cool thing 'bout being either kind of patrol was going to Camden Park at the end of the school year.  I was too chicken to ride the rickety and creaky Big Dipper roller coaster so I'd go on the Whip and the Tilt-a-Whirl over and over.  And eat cotton candy.  “Pink, please.”  Oh, and pronto pups with gobs of bloody ketchup and curlicues  of sunny yellow mustard.

Mr. Lee was our principal.  Remember that saying?  "The principal is your pal."  Mr. Lee looked like a bull dog.  Like the one on the Purina dog food commercial.  "This is Dog Chow's finest hour."  Mr. Lee made it his personal mission to make every child at Gallaher School an adventurous eater. 

            "Eat the nutritious before the delicious."  Like there was something delicious.
            The worst day of the month was Liver Day.  The school would stink to high heaven.  'Round 'bout eleven o'clock I'd start poking at my uvula with the Pepto-Bismol pink eraser of my orangey-yellow, #2 pencil.  Tried to make myself barf so I wouldn't have to taste the liver.  Mr. Lee would stand over your shoulder 'til you took, "just one bite."
            The thing was, the liver looked like a square b.m..  My mom was a registered nurse and that's what she made us call poop.  It smelled like it too.  If I'd been unsuccessful triggering my gag reflex, there was always Timmy Howard.  He was the only kid in school who liked liver.  For a quarter, he'd eat yours.  Man, that kid ate a lot of liver!  I always wondered if he died young.  Doesn't eating a lot of organ meat give you something called gout?

I think my sixth grade teacher ate something that made her sick.  Her skin was super bumply.  All the time.  She tried to cover it up with lots of face makeup and cream rouge the color of Bozo the clown's nose.  You could still see the lumps though.  Kinda looked like toad skin.
            I had to mouth breathe whenever I went up to her desk to ask a question.  Her perfume was rank.  She said it was Wind Song but us kids called it Break Wind Song.  Her lips looked like the Joker's but she didn't smile much.  I reckon I was partly to blame for that.
            See, I was ornery.  No one knew it 'cause I made good grades.  No one thinks the smart kids ever do anything wrong, but I did.  I had the world's A #1, best spit ball system ever.  First, I made my ammo.  I'd tear off little bits of notebook paper and put 'em in my mouth.  When they were good and soggy, I'd roll 'em into little balls, just a tiny bit bigger than a beebee.  Then I'd coat 'em in Elmer's glue.  The last step was covering 'em in pencil shavings. 
            When I had a dozen or so of my super awesome spitwads, I'd work on the delivery system.  I'd pry the stopper off my Bic pen with my teeth.  Couldn't use my fingernails 'cause I bit 'em way far down.  I'd grab a hold of the writing tip and pull it and the ink tube out.  Then real sneaky like, I'd load the clear plastic cylinder with a spitball.  When the teacher went to write on the blackboard, I'd . . . ready, aim, FIRE. 
            The spitwad would fly through the air and get trapped in the adhesive that held her hair together.  See, every day after lunch, she'd spray her hair real good with a blast from her big, pink can of Aqua Net.  The spitwads would dangle in the back of her hair for a little while, then one by one,  they'd fall to the floor like little woody booger balls. 
            The hardest part was trying not to bust a gut.  I had to bite my lip big time.  If I laughed, I'd get caught.  If I got caught, I'd probably have to go to the principal's office.  I'd never been in Mr. Lee's office, but I was pretty sure it'd be scary.  He'd probably get in my face and I'd keel over from the terribleness of his breath.  I was sure he had bits of liver between his teeth, decomposing at various rates.  Worse even than his halitosis was the possibility that my safety and fire patrol privileges might be yanked.  No more Camden Park?  Perish the thought!

Well, the sun's coming up now.  The fish are swimming away from me.  Toward the shadows.  I should probably get moving too.  I sure am glad I went fishing first.  Just think, if I hadn't cast way far out, into my pond of memories, the woody booger balls and the bits of liver might've been the ones that got away.



Never Say Never

“Mommy?  Why does that lady have a moustache?”

            I heard my molars clack together.  I kept 'em clenched.  Turned slowly.  Tried not to be obvious.  There she was.  Looked like she’d stepped right out of Little House on the Prairie.  Her blue calico dress L’d where it hit the ground.  A creamy apron, edged in eyelet, bathed her front.  Or is that called a pinafore?  A circle of lace hugged her storm-colored bun.  In her hands lay a hank of yarn, yellow-orange from an onion-skin dye bath.  Her blunt fingers caressed the fibers as she gazed off into the fire-colored foliage.  Whew!  I don't think she heard.

            I put my finger to my lips.  “Shhh!” I told my daughter.  “Remember the Thumper Rule?  If you can’t say anything nice—“

            “But, Mommy.  I wasn’t being--“

            I pounced my pointer finger on my lips and made mad eyes.  She shushed.  I pretended to fiddle with my younger daughter’s stroller blanket.  At the same time, I stole another glance at Gunsmoke gal from beneath my lashes.  I had to nip my lower lip to keep from gasping.  Cream-gone-to-butter strands sprouted above her pursed lips.  Honestly?  I’m not sure moustache was the right word for the thing.  It was more of a fringe.  Reminded me of the stringy edge of the off-white muffler my Nan made me years ago to match my camel-colored, Bobbi Brooks winter coat. 

            I murmured.  To me, not her.  “God bless her.  Why she doesn’t yank that thing is beyond me.” 

            I gave the stroller a shove to get it out of a mud rut.  Then I couldn’t help myself.  I did a Lot’s wife.  Glanced back one more time.  I puffed at my bangs and shook my head.     
            “Gracious!  That’s never gonna be me.”

Know where you can find us the first Saturday of every October?  The Springs Festival in Springs, Pennsylvania, but don’t go on a Sunday.  It won’t be there.  Most everyone over that way, especially the Amish, Quaker, and Mennonite folk—will be in church ‘cause  Sunday’s the Lord’s Day.

            The first thing we do when we arrive is buy a couple homemade, soft pretzels.  I love the salt polka dots, almost big as pebbles, all over the glossy brown surface.  I squirt sunny mustard all over my pretzel and open wide.  The kids gobble theirs plain or with nacho cheese.  Fight over the leftover viscous orange sauce that  paints the waxed paper.

            I smile and hand the girl who can't stop blushing two dollars.
           “Two lemonades, please.  ‘Cause it’s so good, one is never enough.”

            Next we head for the Forest Trail.  My older daughter tugs at my jean jacket sleeve.    
             “Is it time, Mom?  Or did we miss it?  I hope not.  We've never missed it before.  Not even once.”

            I peruse the printed schedule.  “In five minutes the sheep shearing gal from Morgantown will be here.  Run up and save us a seat on the front row.  Or snag us one of those boulders, one that's dry.”

            We oooh and ah over the lamb getting its first ever haircut.  My girls tear up when "she" gets nicked in her pink, fleshy armpit. Of course, my daughters assume it's a girl. 
              After they pet the shorn she, we get back on the Forest Trail and continue the loop.  We pause at the soap maker and sniff every flavor of her essential oils.  Then we use broken pretzel sticks to sample all the dips and spreads the Tasty Shoppe vendor has to offer.  We listen closely as Musket Man, who looks like a skinny Santa in buckskin instead of red velvet, does his demo.  We can almost recite his whole spiel.  I cover my ears right before he pulls the trigger.  KABOOM!  I feel the sonic force in my skeleton.  We clap and he bows low.  I grin and toss my hair behind my shoulder when he winks at me.

            “There’s a blacksmith this year,” I tell the girls as we continue on.  “Let’s go see.  And then we’ll get homemade ice cream, pet the Alpacas, and buy a broom for Gram.”

            My older girl steps in front of me and locks her brown Bambi  eyes with my blue ones. 
           “Can we take a hayride too?  Pretty please?”

            I herd her close with my arm. Bend to kiss her curls.  “Of course, sweetie.  You know how this is.  We do every thing, every year.”

My younger daughter sits criss cross applesauce on the sidewalk next to the flagpole outside her middle school.  I pull alongside the curb and push the gearshift to P.  She stands.  Opens the back door.  Drops her bookbag on the seat.

            I look over my shoulder.  “Did you tell your music teacher you’ve got a good excuse for leaving play practice early? That we’re going to the Springs Festival?”

            She nods as she opens the front door.  “Can I ride shotgun?”

            “Sure.  You’re almost twelve.  But when we get your sister, she’ll probably--”

            “I know.  I know.   I’ll sit in the back then, with the little guy.”

            I flip the visor down to check my lipgloss status in the mirror.  I feel my daughter’s gaze and turn to her. 
            “What?”

            “There’s something on your face.  On your jaw right there.  An eyelash maybe?”

            I flip the visor back down.  “Where?”

            “There,” she says.  She puts her finger on my chin.  Jerks her hand back and rubs it on her shirt.

            I huff.  “What?  Why’d you do that?”

            Her mouth pulls to one side.  “’Cause it’s icky.  Wiry,” she said.  “You touch it.”

            I release my seat belt.  Scoot forward to get closer to the mirror.  My fingers search my jaw line.  Brush toward my neck, then away from it.  Finally my fingernails find the thing.  Tug. 
            “Oh, poop!”

            My daughter’s eyes are huge.  “What?  What is it?”

            “It’s attached, that’s what it is!”

            She makes a gagging noise.  “Ew!  Are you kidding?  Gross!”

            I yank, hard.  My eyes water.  I inspect the offender.  It's a silver S.  It almost gleams in the noon day sun.  A tiny speck of skin, a flesh rootball, clings to one end.  I hold it in a pincer grip.  Offer it to my daughter.  Her glossed lips curl and twitch.

            “What do you want me to do with it?”

            “Put it somewhere safe,” I say.  “’Til we get home.”

            I watch her swallow.  Her nostrils flare. “You’re not going to do that thing, are you?”

            I grin and re-buckle my seatbelt.  “Of course I am.”

            She moans and presses her palms into her eyelids.  “I hate that urn where you keep all our personal stuff. Our belly button stumps after they fell off, our first fingernail clippings, Dad’s super long eyebrow hair, L'il Paint's toe.  Do you know how weird you are?”

            I chuckle and put the car in drive.  “I think the word is sentimental, dear.”

            She shakes her head.  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s weird.” 

            She turns the radio on, then off.  “Oh, and just for the record?” she says.  “The whisker on the chin thing?  That’ll never happen to me.”

            I snort.  “Really?” I say.  “Oh, sweet pea.  If there’s one thing having children has taught me, it’s to never say never.”

* Songs from the Wood *

Three lefts are all it took to get to Gideon Woods from my house.  I probably could've made it in fifteen minutes.  Maybe even ten. But there was so much to see and do.  It wasn't like I had A.D.H.D. or anything.  Heck, they hadn't even thought of it yet. 
            Back then, Green Oak Drive was cement, not blacktop.  If you looked real close, you could see tee tiny pebbles in it.  It was put down in big, square sections.   If no cars were coming, I liked to run my finger in the little gutter that ran curb to curb between the sections.  When the cement cracked, they patched it with black springy tar.  On hot days, I liked to press my thumbs (or my big toes if I was barefoot) into the warm, smooth, darkness.
            Half a block down, I always stopped to pet Missy, the little black dog with soft curly fur.  I called her Tripod after she lost one of her back legs chasing cars.  She still tried to run after 'em, but with only three legs, she'd get tuckered out quickly and plop down on her rounded, refurred stump.
            Four houses later, I'd wave at Mrs. Meek.  She'd either be sweeping her front porch or sitting in the Adirondack chair out in her yard, reading a library book.  I always wondered what it would be like to have a mom who looked like Barbie with short hair.  Like Cloris Leachman really.
           
After the second turn, I almost always stopped at the Biebers.'  

            "Should we play whiffleball or kickball this afternoon?" I'd ask Lisa, as we sat on her front porch steps.  Her mom taught fourth grade at our school.
            "Or, we could have a horseshow," she'd say.
            We put on horseshows, on our Schwinn bikes, in the parking lot of Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church.  I didn't always win the blue ribbon for Best in Show, but I always looked the realest 'cause I'd wear one of my brothers' batting helmets.
            I'd say bye to Lisa and walk up the road that ran between her house and the Swisher place.  I liked the Swishers’ house 'cause it had chubby, super tall, white columns in the front.  They had a big, ole RV parked in their extra wide driveway.  I bet they went cool places on the weekends.  

            I'd stare at each of their windows, hoping Jeff Swisher would look out.  When he was younger, people mistook him for a pretty little girl.  Not anymore.  What would it be like if he was your brother?  Or . . . your boyfriend?  I'd swipe the sudden mist of sweat off my upper lip and continue up the hill.

After I made the third left, I'd see Miss Lorna's house.  Miss Lorna was best friends with our next door neighbor, Mrs. McCallister.  Miss Lorna's daughter was a real live Rockette in New York City.  I got to meet her once when she visited.  Her teeth were super white and her lips the color of maraschino cherries.  A couple times, her false eyelashes got stuck in her eyebrows.  I turned my head so she wouldn't see me smile.
            On the corner past Miss Lorna’s, I had a choice.  Make the sharp left down to Gideon Woods, or veer slightly right and walk across the street to the property of the rich people who had two horses.  I only stopped to pet the horses if I'd remembered to bring them a treat.  No carrots, apples, or homemade sugar cubes?  Then it's down the big hill.  I usually ran this part.  You can run faster and longer when it's downhill.
           

At the bottom of Forest Drive, Gideon Woods was on the right.  There's a trodden and driven down half-circle bald patch by the side of the road.  This was where parents picked up kids who'd scamped around in the woods all day.  This was the spot where teens turned off their headlights and turned toward each other.  This was the place where people dropped twist-tied garbage bags of trash, puppies, or kittens, when they were too lazy to do the right thing.  I always ripped an air hole in the bags.  You know.  Just in case. 

             This spot always made me think of the time John Edwards' giant, super soft, all white sled dog put my whole face in her mouth.  Guess I got a tad too close.  Thankfully, the dents on my forehead and chin went away by bedtime.  Unlike the time when Peaches, our next door neighbors' Peek-a-Poo, gave me puncture wounds on my ankle when I got within nipping range of her.  Had to get a tetanus shot for that.
            Man, I hate shots.  I remember the time Mom tricked me.  Told me we were going downtown to shop at Stone and Thomas.  We were really going to get me a Mump's vaccine.  I flinched so hard I broke the needle and they had to shoot me again.  Mom kept apologizing and she did take me to Shoney's afterwards for a hot fudge cake, extra whipped cream, so it wasn’t all that bad.

There's a slight rise to get into Gideon Woods.  Then, at the top, there are ruts like someone drove a pickup in there awhile back.  And then maybe they changed their mind or thought they'd get stuck, so they backed out.
            Weeds and high grass were everywhere.  Trash too.  I don't think the ad campaign with the Indian guy crying over pollution worked. There were pop and beer cans.  Crushed cigarette packs.  Wadded up, snack-sized chip bags.  Unless the Scouts had been there recently.  Couple times a year, they came and cleaned up that front part.  So it looked nice when the rich people drove by. 

I went to Gideon Woods for lots of reasons.  Sometimes I collected shotgun shells.  The aqua ones were my favorites, but I was always on the lookout for new colors.  If you searched real hard, you could find .22 shells.  I think they're pretty--almost the color of a new penny, or an old one you’ve shined up with lemon juice and salt.  They're dainty looking.  To me anyway.
            I always went to the woods when the warm days started to outnumber the cool.  That's tadpole time.  I'd take a Skippy peanut butter jar with me but first, I'd use one of Dad's Phillips-head screwdrivers and a hammer to jab airholes in the metal lid.
            There were no ponds or creeks in Gideon.  Just really big puddles or places where the ground couldn't hold any more water so it climbed up the rough, sawgrass blades an inch or two.
            I listened.  That's how I knew where to look.  The grown up frogs would make a ton of noise 'til they heard the shush-shush of something coming.  Or, maybe they felt the vibration in the water.  Their peeping would stop.  Everything would get real quiet.  Even the birds hushed.  It's like the danger signal of animals is silence and people's is noise.  "Wheee-oohhh!  Wheee-oohhh!"  or "An! An!  An!  This is a test.  This is just a test, of the emergency broadcast system . . . " or "Clanga!  Clang!  Clang!"  That was the bell on our front porch that Mom or Dad rang when they wanted us in the house.  “Right now.  I mean it!”
            So after I listened, I'd look.  For snot.  I mean really.  That is what frog eggs look like, you know.  Like someone hawked a lugy.  All gelatinous.  Egg whitey.  If you happened to have a magnifying glass with you, you could see the individual transparent spheres with black spots.  They looked just like the googly eyes you get in the craft department of Hill's. 

            At least once every spring I’d get a scoop of muddy water--wiggly egg whites, googly eyes, and all--into my Skippy jar.  Sometimes the eggs had already turned into tadpoles.  I’d speak into the jar.  “Hi, little guys.”  Then I’d screw the lid on.  And grin.  Mission accomplished.

If I didn’t plan on harvesting frog eggs or tadpoles, I’d bring our dog to Gideon Woods.  She was a liver and white Beagle-Spitz mix.  We named her Holly 'cause we got her in December.  Plus, my mom said the mark on her head resembled a holly leaf.
            One day when Holly and I were in the woods, I found this little white container.  It looked like a plastic lip gloss tub.  I picked it up and read the label:  "Contains 3 prophylactics.  Not intended for the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases."  I wrinkled my nose.  Do what?  I unscrewed the top.  Out rolled three slippery, cloudy discs.  I squinted at ‘em.  They look like rolled up balloons.
            I unrolled one.  Thought it looked like a test tube or a sock.  That gave me an idea. 
           "Hey, Holly!  Come here!" 

            I stuck one of the slippery white things on her tail.  Then I let go of her leash and she knew it. She trotted into high grass.  All I could see was her tail.  It stuck straight up with its little see-through rain coat on.  I giggled.  A few minutes later, her tail disappeared.  I heard the crush-schmush of grass and the pleased grunting of dog happiness.  I scowled and ran toward the noise.  Just as I suspected.  She was anointing her back with eau du dead critter.
            I clapped several times.  "Here!  Stop that!" 

            I grabbed her leash and yanked.  She stood and did a get-every-hair-back-in-place shimmy.  The tail decoration was gone.
            I glanced at my Timex and squeaked.  “Criminy!  I’m late for supper.”
            When we stepped out of the woods and onto the trodden down half circle, I frowned at my feet.  Picked up a stick and dug mud out of the treads of my purple Chuck Taylor's.   A car horn honked.  I jumped and straightened.  It was a green Buick Skylark.  My oldest brother rolled down the window. 

            "Mom's been ringing the bell like crazy.  Didn't you hear?"
            I huffed.  "All the way down here?  No."
            "Get in."
            Holly and I climbed in the backseat.  I cranked the window down just enough so her ears and tongue could flap in the wind.  Her wagging tail 'bout put my eye out so I sat back and turned my head away from her.  Shut my eyes.  Listened to my tummy growl.  Won't be long now 'cause there's just three right turns and we'll be home.