Memories of Grade One

We moved from Uruguay to Brazil when I was six. My mom had barely unpacked when the school year began. I remember, on the first day of school, my dad coming by on his bicycle during recess . . . looking over the fence, just checking. I don't think I fully understood this gesture until I was a parent, driving by the school, hoping my child had someone to play with.

There were about thirty kids in the class. At the start of the day and at recess, every class had to line up, shortest to tallest, on the playground, before following their teacher into their classroom. We sat at normal old-fashioned school desks. In grade one we began the school year by learning to write - not print - the alphabet. I think the very first letter I learned was the lower case "i" in written form and I proudly took home my full page of i's. We used fountain pens - the ones with the tiny sharp tip - although it could be we did not use them until the next year. (I just looked them up on line and inwardly gasped at the price of these vintage pens now. I should have kept one.)

Teaching was pretty basic, reading, writing, arithmetic and social studies, from what I remember. Our classroom did not have any colorful displays nor charts, but that did not stop me from being motivated to do my best. Report cards were sent home every month and my parents seemed quite surprised and pleased when I brought home my first report card.

With my second report card I came home in tears because I was only in second place. To my joy and surprise my dad pulled out a bicycle from it's hiding spot in the house. We had a lot of fun practicing riding out in the field and soon this newly found freedom became my source for a lot of outdoor adventures.

The girl next door became my best friend that year. Today I dug into a drawer that I hardly ever open and found the diary I got for my ninth Birthday. Her sweet little poem . . . such a reminder of how time has gone by . . . asks me to remember . . . many years from (then) . . . the joys we shared on our little school bench. It almost feels strange to be on this end of the memory . . . I shed some tears . . . but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's all good.

Wenn du einst nach langen Jahren

dieses Buch nimmst in der Hand,

so denke still wie froh wir waren

auf der kleinen Schuelerbank.