Page 64 - Firehouse Pond
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I and my siblings took a bath every Saturday afternoon, even when we

             thought we didn’t need one.  Grandma made sure there was plenty of hot
             water on the stove and a big tub in the living room.


             I clearly recall several of the so-called “upper class” families in my little
             town.  They were property owners and farm landowners.  If being upper class
             means you routinely mistreat the hardworking of the town – then I’m happy
             to have been included in the lower end of that spectrum.


             I do remember that school was much different back then.  All school supplies
             were provided; pencils, crayons, paper (we wrote on the old green and

             scratched chalkboard most of the time), and all the other needs were right
             there in the classroom.  Can you imagine?


             The three Rs comprised our core classes:  How, I ask you, how did they get
             the three Rs from reading, writing, and arithmetic?  I can only find one R in
             all that.  Unless you use some critical thinking:  Reading, Riting, Rithmetic.

             See, I’m not so dumb after all.  But then there is the issue of spelling and the
             use of “unwording” as one of my teachers called it.

             Seriously, we all knew our multiplication tables, our sentences used correctly

             spelled words and complete thoughts.  Do they do that in today’s schools?
             Why not?


             I remember teachers were teachers and none of them had a teacher’s assistant.
             They had rulers – not exclusively for measuring - and chairs that faced the
             corner when need be.  Discipline was never an issue.  They worked alone and
             were called by their first name:  Ms. Teacher or Mr. Teacher.  But, now that I

             think about it, I never had a male teacher until high school.

             I have fond memories of that old chalkboard.  “I will not pull little Missy’s

             blonde ponytail again ... I will not pull little Missy’s blonde ponytail again”.
             I’ll tell you this; write things like that one hundred times and get the back of
             your hand smacked with the teacher’s ruler – you learn a lot.  Your hand hurts

             after writing so much, and the ruler smack stings!  But, honestly, I submit, it
             was not all that effective as an educational aid.
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