The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

Is it Friday already? How does that happen? It's Sunday, I blink. It's Wednesday, then Friday. I think back to when I was in elementary school. Gosh the days were long. They ran into weeks and months. The school year seemed endless and summer so far away.

I remember being 5 years old. Kindergarten. My very first teacher, Mrs. Preston was old, very old. It wasn't because I was so little either. Her face was adorned with soft wrinkles and creases formed at the edges of her mouth, when she smiled. Silver strands of hair were pulled back tightly, to form a perfectly round bun. Mrs. Preston would walk up and down the rows of desks, inspecting each child's work-usually a picture or drawing. Peering up at her through thick spectacles, her eyes seemed enormous, yet gentle. I knew my teacher must be a hundred years old.

My favorite part of the day was snack time. I don't really remember a snack, but I do recall bringing a nickel every day to purchase a carton of milk to drink. We stood in two straight lines, boys in one, girls in the other. We'd wait for the school janitor to come and open the milk machine. He was a large man who wore drab brown pants and a a shirt just as plain. Attached to his belt, he had the biggest set of keys I'd ever seen. He jingled when he walked down the long concrete corridors. The coins in his pocket clinked too.

I didn't usually see him as he twisted and turned the keys, but I could hear them. I did my best to follow the rule of standing perfectly still in a straight line. Being the second to the shortest in my class, only Doug was shorter, I could only see the back of the head in front of me. It was almost always a girl with long, silky hair-unlike my own that was short and curly.

The door would clank open and out wafted the scent of wet, cardboard milk cartons. I loved that smell. After handing over my nickel, I was given a red container of whole milk and a paper straw. I carried my straw carefully. If it was bumped or bent, it stayed pinched, making it nearly impossible to suck milk through it. Mrs. Preston did not allow for wastefulness. I was afraid to ask for a second one, if the first was ruined. I only did twice, when I'd received a defective one. On the occasions where I'd been careless, I did not. Instead, I'd push my straw as far down into the milk as it would go, tip the carton and suck as hard and fast as I could. It would have been improper and too crude to pick up the carton and drink from it.

I loved nearly everything about school that first year, even the very long walk home. There was only one exception-being picked to be the sunshine. Each morning, after saying the Pledge Of Allegiance, we sang 2 songs. The first was almost always a patriotic song. Then came Good Morning Sunshine. Before singing Mrs. Preston picked a child to stand in front of the class. She'd place a bright yellow sun, cut from construction paper, around the child's face. I was very shy and never, ever wanted to be the shining star, as every child stared and sang, "Good Morning little sunshine, how are you today..."

Each day I silently pray, "please God, let her pick someone else, don't let her see me," and I'd stare at the ground until she called a child's name. Most days, my prayer was answered. A few times God must not have heard me. As soon as the ring of paper was around my face, I could feel the warmth. I knew my face must be glowing red, as it felt on fire. I tried hard not to see the faces as the singing grew louder. The song seemed to last forever and before it was over, hot tears stung my eyes.

A moment that lasted a lifetime. And now a lifetime seems but a moment ago. I have flashbacks of those moments in Kindergarten where I sweat profusely. Nobody sings the Good Morning Little Sunshine Song, and others call them hot flashes, but the burning feels the same. Next year, I'll be 5 again, followed by a big round circle. I'll pretend it's the yellow sun and wear it for all to see.