First grade teacher: Mrs. Brown.
Pretty. Big brown eyes and a beehive of rich brown hair. Wore pretty clothes. A lot younger than Mrs. Erwin, who'd taught kindergarten.
She was my first crush--oh, wait, that was Davy Jones.
Very little of that school year remains in the memory vault, but anyone who has had the demon anxiety stabbing its little fork into one's psyche as I so regularly did (until Effexor saved me--but that's another episode) will relate to the horror of this memory and the damage it must have inflicted on my already neurotic little six-year-old soul.
Mrs. Brown sat with the class during lunch, and each day a different student would be selected for the honor of sitting right beside her! She always sat on the end, and I'm sure this was to relieve her of the duty of sitting between two students--but we didn't think like that then. We were certain she was as happy to sit with us through lunch as we were with her.
On that day, I had been selected--at last, and to my immense joy--as the Chosen One. All morning I envisioned sitting next to Mrs. Brown and having the most wonderful conversation with her--or whatever six-year-olds want when sitting next to a beloved teacher. My memory isn't quite that good, but I have to think I'd be trying to come up with stuff to say.
Of course, I could think of nothing to say. Yes, even six-year-olds can be shy, and this memory tells me I'd already acquired that trait in spades by then. But I was holding my own until . . . I took a big bite of my apple and . . . . Can you guess?
Pretty. Big brown eyes and a beehive of rich brown hair. Wore pretty clothes. A lot younger than Mrs. Erwin, who'd taught kindergarten.
She was my first crush--oh, wait, that was Davy Jones.
Very little of that school year remains in the memory vault, but anyone who has had the demon anxiety stabbing its little fork into one's psyche as I so regularly did (until Effexor saved me--but that's another episode) will relate to the horror of this memory and the damage it must have inflicted on my already neurotic little six-year-old soul.
Mrs. Brown sat with the class during lunch, and each day a different student would be selected for the honor of sitting right beside her! She always sat on the end, and I'm sure this was to relieve her of the duty of sitting between two students--but we didn't think like that then. We were certain she was as happy to sit with us through lunch as we were with her.
On that day, I had been selected--at last, and to my immense joy--as the Chosen One. All morning I envisioned sitting next to Mrs. Brown and having the most wonderful conversation with her--or whatever six-year-olds want when sitting next to a beloved teacher. My memory isn't quite that good, but I have to think I'd be trying to come up with stuff to say.
Of course, I could think of nothing to say. Yes, even six-year-olds can be shy, and this memory tells me I'd already acquired that trait in spades by then. But I was holding my own until . . . I took a big bite of my apple and . . . . Can you guess?
