Huron St. First Grade

Getting Noticed

I loved being in the first grade. I was brushing my teeth and washing my face well before mom came down the hallway to make sure I was up. On this day I was allowed to wear my favorite dress, the plaid one with the little black ribbon tied at my throat between the white collar. I pulled up my white ankle socks and slipped into shiny black patent leather shoes with the sling back straps I had begged my mom to get me. After polishing off my bowl of cornflakes and milk, I sat patiently waiting for the knock on the door. It wasn't long before my 11 year old neighbor Marla picked me up to take me to school.  She would walk ahead with her girlfriends so I had to trot to keep up but no complaints. The faster I got into the class the better.

It was 1957 and there were two buildings for Huron St. Public school. That year they completed the modern school for the upper grades, so for now I went to the older building, built in 1889 and destined to be demolished the following year. It currently housed students from Kindergarten through grade one and had the familiar musty smell of the old neighborhood churches found in nearly every neighborhood throughout Toronto. Although Queen Elizabeth was our new queen, they hadn't replaced the classroom picture of the King with hers, so I wondered why we started the day singing God Save the Queen. 

Mrs. Fenton was ready for us as we poured into the classroom and found our seats. She always started her class with a task to get us to focus quickly. The routine had to be followed faithfully or you were given extra homework. Lift up the top of the desk, pull out our blotter, bottle of ink, notebook, pen stem and insert the nib.  Lined up above the chalkboard were green cards each containing a white number from one to ten followed by the letters of the alphabet, a capital paired with its small equivalent. I was fascinated with the shapes as they came alive with personalities of their own. The capitals had grown up authority while the small letters seemed friendlier and more approachable.  Today we had to copy the numbers. Number one stood at the front like the butler in the old movies announcing the arrival of guests. Two was silly and goofy. Four kept trying to keep everyone organized. Seven seemed serious and nine was wise.  Carefully observing each shape, I tried my best to render them exactly. 

I often finished before the allotted time and happened to sit in the row by the windows, next to the shelves for the class library. I didn’t hesitate. I wiped off the extra ink from my pen nib on my blotter, shut my notebook, carefully closed the top of the ink bottle, lifted up the desktop and placed them all back inside the desk. Then I did my most favorite thing ever. I reached over, grabbed a book and began to read.

This particular day a curious thing happened to me. When time was up for the assignment and the other children were putting their pen and ink bottles away, Mrs. Fenton asked for everyone's attention. The room became silent and she said “I want everyone to notice that when Dianne was finished with her work, without being told to, she reached over and took a book from our library and began to read it. It would be nice if you all followed her example.” 

I was caught off guard. This was the first time at home and or at school that I had ever been praised. It felt awkward. As Mrs. Fenton asked us to prepare to start our math problems, my best friend turned and smiled at me.  I shyly smiled back.

Eleven years later, at the age of 17, after flunking grade 10, I would leave school and my home never to return.

If you have gotten this far and enjoyed the story please hit the heart. It helps my algorhythm.