A learning experience we all share

By Deborah Salomon

I’m not one to skip down memory lane unless it leads somewhere — in September, obviously, to long hallways lined with classrooms and metal lockers.

Back to school: a marketing phrase that exposes layers of emotion. Amazing, at an age when many recollections have begun to blur, school retains IMAX clarity, a permanence drawn with a stick in wet concrete.

Why? Young minds are eager, receptive, soaking up experiences like eggplant soaks up oil. I remember my fourth-grade teacher and classmates better than college professors and sorority sisters. Within these halls I also identify the roots of lifelong fears and pleasures.

The elementary school I attended bore no resemblance to Norman Rockwell’s. We wore uniforms. Teachers didn’t accept apples, and nobody got detention. My mother, a high school math teacher, had high hopes for her only child. So she chose a private girls’ school deemed “progressive” by 1945 standards. I loved it. Classes were small, about 12; French conversation was taught in Grade 1 (great idea); and faculty moved students along as they saw fit. At the end of Grade 2, the headmistress — a formidable dowager with Edwardian bosom, lace collar and a gray nape bun — decided with some tutoring during summer vacation I could take on Grade 4.

The tutoring, implemented by my mother, boiled down to multiplication tables. I resisted, resentful at having to memorize numbers while other kids played outside. She employed tactics I’d rather not mention. During that summer I envisioned, come fall, the entire fourth grade devoted to multiplication when all I wanted to do was read. To this day, flash cards give me hives. To this day, also, I’m wobbly on 12-times. Furthermore (a dark secret), I couldn’t tell time because my parents owned the world’s first digital clock, with wheel-mounted numbers that clicked into place every minute. I was terrified, absolutely terrified. Things worked out, I guess. I only remembered the clock incident when my grandson, spoiled by Velcro, had trouble tying his shoelaces.

By junior high (now called middle school) I lived in a different city on a different planet. Nobody cared about multiplication. Everybody cared about whether you wore bobby sox rolled up or down. The arbiter was the girl with the most sweater sets and the coolest boyfriend.

High school . . . much better. I was a cheerleader when our basketball team won the state championship. Latin made sense. Algebra proved way easier than 12-times; plane geometry, a snap. My English teacher meted out inspiration but took no prisoners. I finally got the sox thing right and had a few cool boyfriends. Then, senior year, my friends’ older siblings, home for Thanksgiving, bombarded us with warnings about college: impossibly difficult, tons of work, heartless instructors, killer exams.

“Just you wait,” was the message.

Again, I was terrified not only by the academics, but because for the first time in my life I would have a roommate. With eight siblings, this was the first time in my roommate’s life that she had only one. She took advantage of the quiet by studying, writing letters and praying. I admired her dedication. We hardly spoke.

Roomie and I split at end of semester. Let’s see . . . what was her name?

The dire warnings about workload guaranteed panic. Worse, I got lost changing classroom buildings on Duke’s two campuses. I misplaced a textbook. Then, after midterms, it hit me: I can do this. Not easy, but possible. I’d come this far, right?

I was an active participant during my children’s school years — mostly as provider of rides, lunches, pocket money, the right jeans. Kids hung around our house for the big, friendly dog and homemade cookies. Pushover mom could be persuaded to drop everything, pile a gang into the station wagon and head for the movies.

September brought relief tempered by envy. Ah, the thrill of flipping through a new textbook, the woody smell of freshly sharpened pencils, the joy at finding the right cartoon-character backpack.

But, unlike some old-timers, I don’t yearn to return. School has changed. Fonzie’s a senior citizen hawking reverse mortgages on TV. Police patrol the grounds. Cursive is hieroglyphics, soda fountains are extinct. Hoodies and “jeggings” replace sweater sets and bobby sox, and every phone multiplies by 12.

This September, however, my interest is rekindled. Back-to-school means law school. After graduating with honors from an accelerated pre-law college program, my grandson will commence studying for his chosen career.

The very idea terrifies me. Not him. He has times-12 down pat and reads an analog clock. He can tie his shoelaces, drive a car, keep a steady girlfriend and make a grilled cheese sandwich. Laptop loaded, apps in place, roommate selected, apartment rented — he’s good to go.

Far, I hope.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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