The Extra Little Girl

The Extra Little Girl

I moved in the middle of 1st grade. I remember standing in the doorway of my new classroom, Gram’s hand clenched in mine. The desks formed a perfect square – the same number across as down. The teacher’s name was Mrs. Baker. I soon would no longer have a name.

We stood there, me, Gram and the principal, looking at Mrs. Baker. She said, “I have no place to put this child. My desks are full.” Mr. Goetz, the principal, informed her that the janitor was bringing a desk. Almost instantly Mr. Harmon came through the door and delivered that very item. Mrs. Baker said, “There is no place for it.” Mr. Goetz told her he was certain she could find a place, then he and Gram left the room.

Mrs. Baker surveyed her symmetrical classroom. She asked the students, “Well, what shall we do with the extra little girl?” And from that moment on, that was my name and I sat in the very back of the room between two bookcases. “Debra, don’t forget to give a paper to The-Extra-Little-Girl.” Or, “Roy, The-Extra-Little-Girl needs milk, too.” She never called on me. And she never called me by name. I was just The-Extra-Little-Girl who ruined the symmetry of her perfect classroom.

Several weeks passed. Everyday Gram had a harder and harder time getting me to go to school. One morning I flatly refused altogether. I wouldn’t dress myself. Gram was trying to wrestle and reason me into my clothes. She rarely ever spanked me, probably because my life had already held more than enough of that.

Gram was finding getting me into my tights about as easy as getting a cat into a bucket of water. She told me I had to go to school or my friends would miss me. I told her I didn’t have any friends. She told me I had to go to school to learn to read and write. I told her I had already learned that. She told me I had to go to school or the teacher would miss me.

“No she won’t!” I answered. “She doesn’t even know my name.”

“She what?” Gram stopped fighting me so abruptly I fell butt first onto the living room floor.

“She doesn’t even know my name!” I repeated, wadding my tights into a ball. “She calls me The-Extra-Little-Girl. Besides, she doesn’t talk to me and she never calls on me when I raise my hand!”

That quick, Gram decided I could stay home for the day. She sent me in the bedroom to put on my play clothes, while she called the school and told them I wouldn’t be in. She also made a couple of appointments I didn’t know about, so I was none too thrilled that, as the school was emptying at the end of the day, Gram and I were going in.

Gram left me sitting in a huge chair outside Mr. Goetz’s office while she went in to talk with him. Gram always called Mr. Goetz, Henry, because that’s who he was when she was his teacher. It tickled my funny bone to think that Mr. Goetz had ever been young – or a student.

Soon Gram and Mr. Goetz emerged from his office and collected me. We all walked down the hall together to my first grade classroom, and just like the first day we all walked in together, me gripping Gram’s hand.

Gram explained to Mrs. Baker why I hadn’t been in school that day. She then asked why I would think Mrs. Baker didn’t know my name. As Mrs. Baker’s, “I don’t know …” was hanging in the air, Marlene and Debbie came into the room. “Look,” Debbie said. “It’s The-Extra-Little-Girl. Why didn’t you come to school today?” Marlene asked me if I was okay.

After that day I was okay. Each student took a turn sitting in the extra desk so no one was set apart for long, I had two brand new friends, and – best of all — my very own name (although I never did learn to like that teacher).

One White Christmas

The whitest Christmas of my life was the winter of ‘68-69. I was in the 3rd grade. It started to snow in October, and stopped about mid-May. Gram parked her car that winter. Mr. Lahay, from the store down the hill, delivered groceries to our door on his snowmobile. School was closed for weeks!

The snow fell nine feet deep. That was the winter I went sledding on the roof (I got in trouble for that, but what a memory). Snow walls towered high along the passage that lead from the street to our house, and we had to dig holes to see out the living room windows. Mr. Anderson, from next door, came every day and shoveled our walk. Gram paid him in coffee and cookies.

None of the grownups ever wanted to go outside. None of the kids ever wanted to come in. My best-friend was a twelve year-old boy named, Pat. Pat was special because he got to be in third grade, too. He was the coolest friend to have because he was tall and strong and could do things I couldn’t.

One day Pat and I climbed one of the twelve foot snow drifts. We walked the length of the block on the ice crusted top, marveling at how solid the snow was. We’d reached my yard when I suddenly broke through the surface and plunged out of sight. I tried climbing out of the hole, but that just pulled more snow in around me.

I am not a fan of small, confined places. I pretty much panicked, screaming, flailing, jumping – until the sides of the hole caved in, totally burying me in snow. I remember thinking I was going to die and they would find me in the Spring, a little pink snow-suited frozen Popsicle, dead in my own front yard.

Then I felt a tug on my hood. My hood was attached to my jacket and secured beneath my chin with a double-knotted bow firmly tied by my loving Gram. I felt another tug on my hood – a tug hard enough to lift me off the ground a bit. It was followed by yet another tug.

At this point, I was no longer concerned about being left to freeze to death beneath a mountain of snow. I was much more worried over my imminent strangulation. I grabbed for the string at my throat. My hands were incased in knitted, soft cotton gloves, which were incased in pink nylon mittens. I could get no purchase on that cord.

I felt yet another mighty tug upon my hat, and the darkness behind my eyes blazed brightly with fireworks. At this point my hands shot up. I jammed my thumbs under the fake fur trim of my hood, closed my fingers over it, and tugged back. The cord loosed it’s grip from my throat and I inhaled a mouthful of snow.

I mighty jerk wrenched the hood from my hands and forced the snow from my mouth. Before I had time to recover or take stock, there came another violent tug and I flew from the hole.

I belly-flopped onto the snow bank, choking, crying, gasping for air. I would have stayed there clinging to Pat’s big, black snow boots, except he pulled me to my feet. “Quit goofing off!” He demanded. “Let’s go play inside before you hurt yourself!”

Yeah. Inside. With hot chocolate and melty marshmallows.

I don’t remember if I ever said thank you, but on this side of strangulation, Pat’s rescue is one of my favorite winter time memories.

May your Christmas be bright, merry and filled with friends ready and willing to pull you out of the snow banks of life.

Hash Jeans

A collection of short stories:

I was a clumsy teenager. In fact, I’ve pretty much been clumsy all my life, but there was a short period in my teens (late 1970’s) when I was truly a walking disaster. My sister, Caryl, will attest to this.

When I went to live with Caryl’s family, I took with me a suitcase full of clothes that she immediately pitched. All of them had come from the second hand-store, and none of them were in style. She promptly dressed me in her clothes, then took me out shopping for my own. She dressed me the way a teenager should dress – in shirts and jeans one size too small. Although it occasionally took me 20 minutes of gasping and wiggling on the floor to get my jeans zipped, I certainly loved the way I looked once they were on.

When we were in Yakima she bought me a pair of HASH jeans. I was 17 years old and had never owned a pair of blue jeans, and even in my wildest dreams would never have thought I might own a designer pair. She also bought me this cute little striped t-shirt that clung like skin, a pair of chunky platform high-heels, and then she gave me the “Farrah Fawcett” hair-cut. It was like being transformed into a movie star. I looked good and I knew it.

I left the house Monday morning with a spring in my step and my head held high. I paused at the light before crossing the street and a car full of the “cool” boys pulled up. They were checking me out. I pretended not to notice, stuck my nose in the air — and fell off the curb flat on my face.

—–

Several weeks later I was wearing the same pair of jeans. My friend Alene, her sister Helen and I were in Alene’s bedroom one evening. We were trying to do a Cheerleading routine. Alene and I had no interest in being cheerleaders, but Helene was trying out for the squad, so we were practicing with her.

Alene’s parent’s had given the house’s master bedroom to their four daughters. The room was furnished with two sets of bunk beds, two large dressers, and a whole lot of hardwood floor space for dancing and playing. We were using that space to stand shoulder to shoulder, arms linked, and practice our high kicks.

Alene’s mother came into the room. “Girls, you’re making to much noise. We can’t hear the TV. If you must do that, turn down the music and please take off your shoes.”

Okay. No problem. We turned the music down, took off our shoes, and tossed them under one of the bunks. Once again, arm-in-arm, we went back to our clicks. Wearing only socks made the floor a bit slippery under our feet. We quickly adjusted to the new balance. Twist to the left, kick the right foot high; twist to the right, kick the left foot high – only my foot wasn’t going very high. I wasn’t too happy with that. Earlier in the day when we’d been practicing kicks in the backyard, my kick had been highest.

Alene looked at my legs. “It’s the jeans,” she said. “This morning you were wearing shorts. Your pants are too tight.”

“Ha!” I said. “I’m just tired. I can do this.” So I kicked my right leg as hard and as high as I could. As it reached it’s apex my left leg shot from the floor. Like a character from a Warner Bros. cartoon, I hovered horizontally for a few seconds before crashing to the floor. I writhed on my back, gasping for air, while my two best-friends fell across one of the beds laughing.

Alene’s mother marched into the room, unplugged our tape player, and snapped, “You will all stop, now!”

Okay. No problem.

—–

Same jeans: Kellie, Kenny and Lenny begged me to take them to the park. At first I said no, then Kellie asked me why. When I realized the answer was because I was too flipping lazy to get up, hold their hands and walk them across the street. I changed my mind. We went to the park.

I pushed them on the swings. I caught them as they slid down the slide. I held them up while they “crossed” the monkey bars. Then they asked me to push them on the merry-go-round. I love merry-go-rounds; one was a major part of my childhood and some of the marks it left on me linger on my knees today.

I sat them down on the bars, made certain they were hanging on properly, then climbed into the middle of the metal beast and started to run. Unfortunately, the squirrel cage was built for a much shorter person and I kept banging my knees on the bar as I ran. Although I knew I couldn’t make the ride spin as fast, I decided to push from the outside.

In truth, that position wasn’t much better. I couldn’t get a good grip, and my pants were just too tight to facilitate running. I felt a tug, a pop and then the whole seam gave – from waistband to crotch, my pants split wide open down the back.

I immediately backed up to a tree. I tried to get the kids to go home and get my jacket, or a towel. They didn’t want to leave me. “Come with us,” they said. Not on your life. I wasn’t budging from that tree.

Finally I convinced them they needed to go. I watched them run across the grass to the sidewalk. They stopped at the edge of the street, started waving their arms, jumping up, and down and hollering. With a sinking feeling I remembered they were forbidden to crioss that street alone. Obviously they weren’t about to break the rule. Their shouts and gestures effectively drew the attention of most everyone in the park, but my brother-in-law, across the street mowing our lawn, took a little longer to hear them. When he did notice, he only waved.

The kids stepped up their screaming and wiggling. Finally it dawned on Ken to turn the lawn mower off. The engine died to an unnatural stillness. Nobody in the park was talking. No cars were revving down the streets. No jake brakes sounded from the boulevard. All was still. And into the sudden stillness pipes Kellie’s clear soprano squeal, “Daddy, Auntie Charlene ripped her pants and her butt’s naked! Bring a towel!”

Yes, bring a towel – to cover my face – so nobody knows who I am. Embarrassment isn’t terminal. We only wish it so.

The Resistance Leader

Seventh grade – all grown up. That was the year I got my ears pierced, wore nylons for the first time and was allowed make up. Elementary school was behind me and my future looked bright ahead. And then it snowed.

In elementary school I walked across the street to get to class. In Junior High I rode the bus. That was back before parents became personal chauffeurs. Back when riding the bus meant walking three blocks, then standing at the bus stop – in the winter, in the snow – in a dress.

Why a dress? Because girls were forbidden to wear slacks or pants of any kind to school. Skirts or dresses only.

We complained. We wrote letters. We walked around blue-kneed and frozen. It mattered not. The powers that be were male and they had never stood outside in 20 degree weather while the wind blew up their skirts. What did they care how cold we were?

I don’t remember who birthed the original idea, Nancy, Cheryl or I. What I do know is we decided we were going to break the rules and wear slacks to school, and we were going to keep breaking the rule until they either threw us out permanently or changed their minds. Except – we couldn’t even get out of our own homes while wearing said slacks.

That’s when I suggested we wear our skirts to school, then change into our slacks when we got there. That morning the three of us walked into Ms. Alexander’s homeroom class and became the instant center of attention. We could hear the whisper ricocheting around the room:

“Slacks!”

“Slacks!”

“Slacks!”

Ms. Alexander turned away from the blackboard and looked at us. “Ladies,” she said, “you know better.” Then she handed us office referrals and dryly wished us luck.

We walked out into the hall. Nancy started crying. “My mom is going to kill me. I know she is.” Now that it was time to face the consequences, her courage evaporated. To tell the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to that car ride home with Gram, either.

“Let’s get our skirts back on quick,” I said. So we changed our clothes and shuffled into the office. The secretary demanded to know why we were there. I handed her the referral.

“Dress Code?” She looked at us contemptuously and leaned over the counter. There were our blue knees, right above our socks and below the hems of our skirts. She looked at the note, then back at our knees, then back at the note. “Stay here!” She snapped before disappearing into the principal’s office.

We stayed. Huddled shoulder to shoulder shivering. It wasn’t cold that made us tremble. It was the thought of facing Mr. D’Arcy. He stomped out of his office, looked us up and down and snorted, “Huh! Send’em back to class!”

As we walked toward the classroom Nancy said, “That wasn’t so bad. It almost worked.”

“It did work!” I said. “We have to put the slacks back on.”

Cheryl agreed. Nancy was of the opinion that we should leave well enough alone. Of course, two against one, we bullied her. Five minutes later all three of us walked into Ms Alexander’s class in our slacks. She was very surprised to see us. “Did you go to the office?” She demanded. I handed her the signed pass.

Her mouth fell open. She looked up at us and said, “I don’t believe it! Have a seat.”

We repeated the scene in our next class. This time Mr. D’Arcy stared at us a lot longer. He walked around us slowly and gave each of us the evil eye. I really thought Nancy would break, but she didn’t. Finally he shouted, “Get back to class!”

We went. This time we did not change back into our slacks. We had pushed our luck far enough for one day.

At lunch time most of the 7th grade girls crowded around us wanting to know how we’d gotten away with wearing pants first period, and why we hadn’t been sent home. We explained – then I got a truly inspired idea ….

The next day a good portion of the 7th grade girls arrived in their homeroom classes wearing slacks – only to appear in the office moments later appropriately clad in skirts. We played musical clothes throughout the day, taking turns and pretty much keeping the office in an uproar.

My D’Arcy made an intercom announcement at the end of the school day informing the teachers that any girls who arrived in their classrooms in slacks the next day were to be escorted to the office. Cheryl, Nancy and I decided it was over.

The third day when we arrived in school our attire appropriately met the dress code – but we were noticeably in the minority. Almost every 7th and 8th grade girl filing into the building wore slacks. Whole groups of clad-legged young ladies were paraded toward the office. Very few of them actually made it. The halls were simply too crowded and they had to be rerouted to the gym.

Mr. D’Arcy called the parents of every single child and filled out the paperwork to have each one expelled for three days. The next day the few remaining girls, including Nancy, Cheryl and I, arrived at school in slacks. Better yet, a half-dozen boys arrived at school wearing skirts. We were all ushered into the office together. Mr. D took one look at us and turned an interesting shade of purple. His daughter, was standing next to me. She had on a lime green pant suit.  His son was there, too — wearing a dress.

The paperwork was filed. Our parents were called.

In the car on the ride home I waited for my grandmother’s lecture. She said, “This whole thing was very effective, you know. The school board is meeting tonight. I think you’ll all be back in school tomorrow.”

The dress code was officially amended that evening at the board meeting. The girls returned to school clad in slacks – as did the boys. The next day as Nancy, Cheryl and I tried to leave Ms. Alexander’s class, she stopped us. “You have learned a very important lesson here, ” she said. “I hope you never forget it.”