Think of a place and time that has deeply affected who you are today.
Mine was Kindergarten...
"Okay boys and girls, it’s just about time to go home for the day. Find your cubby, gather your things and line up," Mrs. Eddington chirped.
My classmates scampered for the cubbies; shiny birch shelves, labeled with their names written in black magic-marker, on autumn leaves cut from construction paper. The shine of the freshly-polished linoleum tiles, quickly scuffed as tiny little feet, shod in brand-new “Buster-Brown’s” shuffled over its surface.
The chattering like a banditry of chickadees, was generally brought under control with the kindergarten teacher’s admonishment, “Shh, shh, shhhh, quiet please or you will scare the angels.”
I lingered and took my time, noticing the tap-tip, tap-tip, my foot falls made in the hand-me-down, black, patent-leather shoes. I gathered the papers from my cubby, the ruffles of my dress swished as I turned on my heel to follow my classmates to the heavy blue door.
We lined up and fell silent after the teacher raised her hand.
“Where’s my firecracker?”
I slowly made my way to the front of the line; tap-tip, tap-tip, lost in my 5-year-old thoughts.
“Boys and girls, Andrea’s birthday was the Fourth of July so we are going to let her be the head of the line today. Come here Annie,”
I flinched after hearing the dreaded nickname she had given me when I was three and knew the comments from my classmates would soon follow.
“Little Orphan Annie, Annie Bananie, and Bananie Head” were whispered as I walked past.
“Ladies first today Mr. Albrecht.”
I looked up and Scott Albrecht gave me stink eye, then crossed his arms because he had been first all day.
“We are going to pretend today is your special day,” Mrs. Eddington cooed, then placed a pink construction paper crown on my head.
I dreaded leaving that happy little bubble. Colors and shapes, laughter and joy, filled the sky-blue room. Construction paper clouds dangled from multi-colored strands of yarn across the ceiling. The smell of mimeograph ink wafted from the sheaf of papers I clutched in my chubby little hand.
The bell halted my classmates teasing for the day, but anxiety soon took over. I knew what waited for me at home; anger, chaos, violence.
The door to the ugly world outside, slowly creaked open to reveal exuberant parents waiting on the sidewalk below. I slowly descended the weather worn, concrete steps. Gingerly grasping the metal railing, the texture felt oddly calming; peaks and valleys, like a topographical map from decades of chipping paint, repeatedly glossed over, coat after coat. The air was crisp, but the warm, bright sun lessened the chill with that perfect temperature only an Indian Summer in early September could provide.
I remember thinking that no one was going to be waiting at the bottom of the stairs to walk me home, much less, be that happy to see me. When my little foot touched the sidewalk and I looked up, there he was, standing with his hands clasped behind his back apart from the other adults. Tall and stoic with his round, gold, wire-framed glasses, white ball cap, and ever-present flannel shirt, he always smelled of Old Spice and Wintergreen Copenhagen and was the one person that made me feel safe and happy and- loved.
"Grandpa," I squealed, running as fast as my five-year-old, little, legs could carry me up the sidewalk.
He smiled, gave me a gentle hug, then took my pink school bag, which looked Lilliputian in his strong weathered 84-year-old hands.
Slowly, we made our way home in silence; the leaves crunching under our shoes was the only conversation we needed.
#LoveAndie
