First Grade

   I am writing a book of stories from my life.  It is called "Grandma's Stories."  Following is one of the stories from that book.

First Grade

First grade was kind of a traumatic year for me.  I will tell you two stories that happened to me that year.

 

Cynthia

Behind Lincoln elementary school, where I attended first grade, was a little, white building.  It was a school room that housed the special needs children.  Among those children was a little girl that had Down syndrome.  Her name was Cynthia and she loved to hug children.  The older children liked to scare the younger children.  They told us that Cynthia would chase us, catch us, then hug the breath out of us.  I was so frightened of Cynthia.  I did not want to have my breath hugged out of me.  So, when I saw Cynthia on the playground, I would scream and run from her.

I now realize that it was just a lack of education.  The teachers should have taught us about special needs children, but I believed what the older children told me.  It makes me so sad that I treated Cynthia that way.  I wish I could see her now and give her a big hug!

Chased by an Old Man

This story still makes me scared to think about.  I hesitate to share it, but it is part of my history, so I will. 

My parents went out of town together at least once a year.  My dad attended physician heart association meetings and my mom would go with him.  They would always hire a woman to stay with us.  I hated it.  I never liked the women they hired.  It was a miserable time for me.

When I was in first grade, they went away and hired an older woman to stay with us.  Each day I walked home from school at lunchtime to eat, then walked the three blocks or so back to Lincoln elementary.

One day, I was just about a block from my home, when an old man came out of his house across the street and came running toward me.  His house was up on a hill and he was coming quickly down the steps, and across the street, right for me.  I screamed and started running.  On my side of the street was a horse pasture across the street from his house. That pasture seemed so big that day.  I ran and ran.  Next was Blacker’s house, then ours.  I ran into my house, only to be greeted by the babysitter lady that I didn’t trust or like.  This is many years ago, but I remember each detail so well.  I sat on the fireplace hearth in the family room and panted.  I was so traumatized.  The lady kept encouraging me to come and eat.  I just kept shaking my head “no.”  I couldn’t eat.  I was so upset and so scared.  She was frustrated with me.  After a long time, she said I had to go back to school.  I was just a little girl.  I knew there was a way to the school that didn’t involve going by the old man’s house.  I could turn right out of my house instead of left, then go around the block.  But I was so little and doing that seemed too overwhelming.  I didn’t know what to do.  I knew I couldn’t go back by his house.  So, when she made me leave, I did go right, but instead of going around the block, I continued down our road and went to play with a little boy I often played with that lived about a half block down our Idaho street.  After a while, they had to go somewhere, so I left.  I continued down that road until I came to a big field- about a block from my house.  I went into the middle of the field and just sat there for what seemed like a very long time.  I was so scared and didn’t know what to do.

On the other side of the field lived the Christensens in our ward.  Linda Christensen was a year younger than me, and I often played with her.  So, I went to the Christensen’s house and asked to play with Linda.  Mrs. Christensen- Marie- quizzed me about why I wasn’t in school.  I lied and told her it was a vacation day.  While Linda and I played, she got suspicious and called my babysitter.  The babysitter evidently told her that I was supposed to be in school.  Marie volunteered to drive me to school, which she did.  Evidently my teacher had been informed of my shenanigans.  When I walked in the classroom- and I remember this so well- she asked me where I had been.  I started to tell a lie.  She, with the whole class watching and listening, called me a liar and told me I was very bad.  I went to my seat, trembling and humiliated.

 I felt safer walking home from school because there were many children walking.  When I got home, the mean babysitter lady yelled at me.  She said I had to stay in my room until I was willing to tell why I did what I did.  That was a long afternoon in my room all by myself.  I cried and cried.

Later, when my sister Pam got home, she came in and talked to me.  She was so gentle and kind.  I cried and cried and then finally told her the whole story.  She hugged me and promised to help me.

She told the story to the mean babysitter lady and they came up with a plan.  They may have talked with my parents, too.  I’m not sure.  But Pam took me to the old man’s house.  I remember it so very well.  I was so scared.  I was trembling. She and I and the man and his wife sat in their living room.  Pam confronted him with what had happened.  I remember his words so clearly, “I would never hurt a little girl.”  Whatever.  I didn’t believe him then and I don’t believe him now.  I KNOW his intent was to hurt me.

After that, the mean babysitter lady came to the school each day to walk me home.  That was part of the master plan.  I hated it.  I was so embarrassed she was there.  I would run ahead of her.  That made her mad and she would get after me.  It was a long two weeks.

I never had any more problem with the old man.  I think confronting him directly was wise.  I hope he didn’t hurt any other children.  I walked by his house many, many times after that as that house was on the way to Lincoln, then Washington elementary.  I also had friends I played with frequently that lived in the block behind his house.  As the years went by, I didn’t feel afraid going by that house any more. 

As I look back on this now, I feel that I was blessed and protected.  I was able to run fast enough to get away and I think the spirit must have warned me of the danger I was in.  I am grateful for that protection.  Partly because of this incident, I pray every day for protection for my grandchildren.

Those are my traumatic first grade stories.