Blog Fodder

We've been negligent.  Really, really, REALLY negligent.  But, things are going to turn around, I swear.

And, in the spirit of second chances or New Year's resolutions, I'm going to start again by stealing... from Bret.

What you don't know about Bret is that he's been writing his memoirs.  I don't know, in the end, who will want to read them, but they're darling--if a wife can say that--and funny and sweet.  I love Bret's stories; it's part of what made me marry the guy, so it's no shock that I adore these stories.  And, I hope you do too.

So, when things get tired around here (like NOW), I'm going to reach into his storybook and steal...

He doesn't even know I'm doing this... so don't say a word: he never blogs anymore, so maybe he won't even notice.  These stories are unedited, which means that in places they might be rough, but hey, a blog entry a month is a bit rough too!

The first little section is on Bret's experiences in Kindergarten.  I'll break it into several days, for the sake of time and space.  It's a good place to start, don't you think?


Am I Allowed to Eat at Mass?, Part I

I went to a Catholic Kindergarten when I was five years old.  I was always one of the youngest kids in my class, only bested by kids who lied about their age on their paperwork or had parents on the school board.  I'm not really sure that there are any advantages to being the youngest kid in your class, other than the excuse it provides when you do dumb things like eat paste or pee on yourself.  For my parents, I suspect that I was sent to school young because they thought (hoped and prayed are probably better terms) that I was intelligent enough to carry my own with the other kids.  I spent the next 17 years trying to prove otherwise.

The Catholic school was on my dad's way to work.  We weren't Catholic.  We weren't considering being Catholic.  In fact, I went to a church that spent a lot of time explaining to me why I shouldn't be Catholic, so my presence at the Catholic Kindergarten was sort of an infiltration behind enemy lines.  In reality, it was a matter of convenience, a choice I fully understand now that I have children of my own.  My dad was able to drop me off on the way to work and pick me up on the way home. 

When I started at the Catholic school, I had a lovely, young teacher who I very much liked.  She let us choose our own carpet squares, and she didn't complain when I ate paste or peed on myself.  My mother had done a wonderful job teaching me to read prior to sending me off to school, so I don't remember really having any trouble with the learning portion of Kindergarten.  My problems were always rooted in the social, a trend which continues today.

One of my best friends in Kindergarten was a fellow named Jonathon.  Jonathon was the son of a guy my dad knew from the real estate business, so he was already sort of an acquaintance.  Jonathon used to frequently drag me kicking and screaming into situations which would get us both into trouble, often involving sharp objects.  He was also keen on the Jeopardy category, "Eating Things Which Weren't Meant To Be Eaten."  In the end, I think Jonathon got the short end of the stick.  He was paddled at least once in Kindergarten, while I escaped such a fate altogether. 

The Paddle at the Catholic school was ensconced in great myth.  Some said it contained holes, which sharpened its blows.  Some said it was leather at one end with hooks in the middle.  Others had heard that kids had died from its use, and a small monument to Those Who Never Returned hung from the walls of the Vice Principal’s office.  Whether the tales were to be believed or not, you didn't want to mess around with being introduced to The Paddle.

I recall the day when Jonathon took his licks.  We all stood around the door, waiting to see if our teacher returned with the body.  We were amazed when Jonathon came around the corner, face red from what were obviously tears.  (Nobody teased him about the tears.  In our eyes, he was a warrior who had survived a bloody battle.  No shame in that.)  When asked about the experience as we returned to our carpet squares, all Jonathon said was "I got splinters in my butt."  If nothing else, Jonathon was a poet.

The story continues tomorrow...