I Almost Met Saint Peter
Recently, something reminded me of an experience I had when I was in the first grade. I don’t recall why I remembered it, but I recalled the experience. Some visuals forever become imprinted in one’s mind and elsewhere.
Before my kindergarten age year I remember my mom giving me a choice if I wanted to go to kindergarten. I think that was before Pre-K was even invented. I remember thinking over the question for perhaps two or maybe three seconds. My answer to mom was a definite, “NO!” I was having too much fun playing in the dirt all day and standing on the corner of our property harassing older kids and challenging them to a fight on their way home after school. About ten years ago a neighbor across the street reminded me of that. He was one of those ‘older kids’ at the time.
For first grade I went to the a SDA school across from where the ‘new’ church is now. It was a K-8 school where there was a 1–4 teacher and a 5–8 teacher. My older brother was the 5–8 teacher and a lady by the name of Mrs. Pluvoy was the 1–4 teacher. I recall that he was the bus driver too. Along with a bunch of other kids, he’d pick me up before school about 2 blocks away from our house and drop me off at the end of the day at the same place. Then, I just took it for granted and didn’t consider the time and effort of being a multi-grade teacher and the bus driver.
If I remember right there were about 15 kids or so in each classroom. There were only two classrooms with something like a library between the two rooms. I remember the wooden desks were those kind that had a lid that lifted up where your books would be stored. It had a gray bent metal frame seat that at one time actually swiveled. There was a round place where an inkwell once rested and a pencil tray with inky stains on that part of the desk.
Being a church school on a budget I’m sure they came from the public schools when they received new desks. Each of the desks were inscribed with the names and initials of the many previous occupants. By the end of the first day of school I had found an area of the desk that was calling for my name and squeezed it in between someone named Martha and some one with the initials D.M. That’s probably when It was still okay to bring pocket knives and carving tools to school. Each room had a large wooden desk in front for the teacher. In Mrs. Pluvoy’s room there was a picture of Jesus along with her family pictures behind the desk. Being a first grader, I was kind of confused at that. I wasn’t sure if Jesus was her son, father, husband, or uncle.
Also, hanging prominently next to the pictures was the scariest thing I, as a 6 year old, had ever seen. It didn’t take me too long to figure out its purpose. It was a well-crafted instrument of persuasion and reminder. I guessed it was made lovingly by Mrs. Pluvoy’s husband, perhaps as a prized wedding present, but I don’t really know. It had a deep brown glossy finish on it. It was made from a rectangular piece of hardwood about three feet long and about five inches wide. On one end it had been formed and sanded down to fit her hand. It even had individual finger grips, I’m guessing, for optimal grip and control. The handle part had not been painted with a glossy finish, it had a somewhat roughened up look to it. All other edges had been sanded down to give it a smooth finished look. It was a fine piece of wood craftsmanship if I ever saw one. To reduce weight and make it more aerodynamic it had about 15 half inch holes drilled through it. Now, I’m not sure if this was for esthetic purposes or just plain old function. It hung waiting patiently behind Mrs. Pluvoy’s desk, so all could not help but admire its beauty and know that Mr. Pluvoy was a fine craftsman.
There was a big gymnasium right in front of the school and a covered driveway between the school and gym. I remember there were a few pieces of playground equipment; a slide, monkey bars, swings, and a merry-go-round. There was also an old backstop and a baseball diamond. It was dusty in the fall and muddy in the winter and summer. After a while all this cool new playground equipment loses its luster. Probably as quick as after the first two days of school.
We couldn’t have recess in the gym except on rainy days. This led to exploring and pushing the bounds of where we were allowed to play and where we were not allowed to play. The upper grade students were the leaders and the lower grade kids were the followers. Being in 1st grade, I was a follower of the lowest rank. Out beyond the baseball diamond was the land where we were not to go. There it was an area that was kind of hilly with old roads and trails bisecting the bushes. There were no longer and trees there, only the thick bushes that had grown back after it had been cleared. Inside the bushes were even little covered tunnels probably made by animals or previous students. The bigger kids couldn’t fit in most of them, but the younger and smaller kids, such as myself, could easily squirm from bush to bush using these tunnels. You could see everything from these vantage points but yet not be seen.
Generally, on Fridays after lunch we were allowed a longer recess. Perhaps it was because the teachers realized how hard we had all worked throughout the week and chose to reward us. Or, perhaps, it was because the teachers had to get a little rest and grade a week’s worth of school work before they went home for the weekend. Maybe it was because it was the Sabbath the next day, and that was a day of rest and as everyone knows, not set aside for such things as playing. I don’t know. I do know that all the kids enjoyed it and no one complained when not being called back in after lunch recess. This was shaping up to be one of those Fridays.
The teachers probably again told us what the rules were as we were eating our lunches and we were expected to follow those rules. All the kids nodding their heads much like a bunch of bobble head dolls as they chewed and listened passively to the rules again. Well, children do as children do. As soon as the last sandwich had been eaten, and the last crumbs picked up off the floor there was a nice and orderly dash out the doors. The big kids were always the ones to say what the games were going to be and who was playing. They had us all line up on the baseball field base lines and we were chosen into two teams. There was an unspoken rule that the lower the grade you were, the later you were chosen for the softball games. I was both a young and small person. I was generally chosen last. It wasn’t so much chosen as it was a comment like, “Hey look, no one is on the slide! Are you sure you don’t want it all to yourself today?” This was always followed by hysterical laughing from both captains. That day was no different.
Instead of arguing about what team was up to bat first we all marched past right field and into the ‘NO GO ZONE.’ Dividing up into our teams amidst yelling and shouting everyone started grabbing dirt clods and throwing them at the other team. Part of the time was spent searching for handy clods of dirt and the rest was spent dodging incoming clods of dirt. It was a scene much like a frothing cauldron of chaos. Those tunnels came in handy for the little kids from which to watch the battle. Whenever a clod of dirt would land nearby and work its way down through the branches it became a projectile that was soon returned. After a while, for some reason there didn’t seem to be as many kids in the battle. It could have been when rocks starting landing nearby instead of clods of dirt. Clods of dirt have this tell tale signature landing; there’s always a puff of dust when they land. Rocks don’t do that.
I’m not sure how long it took and how long the ‘battle’ lasted, but at some point there was that incessant and annoying sound of someone blowing on a whistle as if you had missed the last ten minutes of them blowing on a whistle.
The students, at least those that were left, starting walking and running back to the school. Both teachers were standing on the steps to the school, no doubt exhausted from blowing their whistles for the last ten minutes. They impatiently waited until all the students were standing in front of them and then proceeded to tell us in no uncertain terms that they were not happy with us. It was a combination of yelling, growling, and talking in low voices while enunciating each word slowly and very carefully, sometimes with very contorted looks on their faces. When one teacher got tired and was out of breath with sweat beading up on their face the other would take up where they had left off.
I’m not sure how long that went on, but what really got my attention was when my brother was talking or growling (I know not which, as it has been a few years) and Mrs. Pluvoy stepped into her room and came back holding her prized possession. The very same one that was probably the wedding gift from her husband. Her fingers were clenching the handle and she was hefting it to get the correct balance while my brother finished up with the yelling. My eyes were glued on the ease of which she practiced swinging that thing. Much like what a baseball player may do when they’re in the on deck circle and gauging a pitcher’s pitches.
My brother k bellowed something and all the kids lined up to go into Mrs. Pluvoy’s room. The oldest to the youngest. Some even had a sudden urge to use the bathroom. My brother was kind of a guard, a gatekeeper, and a Ticketmaster, except he wasn’t collecting tickets. He would mutter something to each student and they would walk slowly and haltingly into Mrs. Pluvoy’s room. There would be a nice lady’s low voice giving a terse command followed momentarily by a resounding ‘whack.’ I’m no Barney Fife, but it really didn’t take me long to figure out what was happening. The whack would be followed by loud blubbering and uncontrolled crying. Sometimes it would be from inside the room. Most of the time it would be coming from kids in line in front of me and behind me. There was no discrimination, all genders and ages were crying while awaiting their punishment.
Finally it was my turn. I felt like a prisoner of the French standing ready for my turn at the guillotine. I stood at the doorway watching the person in front of me receive their punishment. I didn’t have a tear left to cry, but yet my legs were wet and warm. All liquids had been expunged from my body. My pants were wet and my tear ducts were dry.
Hopefully, I thought, Mrs. Pluvoy would be exhausted from all the paddle swinging. Nope. She gave me one final long stare through the holes in the paddle before telling me to grab my ankles. I held onto my ankles as hard as I could and waited. It seemed like for an eternity. As I looked backwards between my legs I noticed a white ceramic cross with Jesus hanging on the opposite wall. I had to admit, I had never noticed it before. Probably, because of my situation had never been so dire.
I could see the slow moving shadow of the paddle as she drew it close to its target, then leisurely she would pull it back. Aiming, I am sure, for my right cheek. She did this unnecessarily three or four more times. Probably for dramatic effect. To throw off her timing and implore a higher power, I hurriedly and loudly called out to Saint Peter. “Please, Saint Peter! I’m too young to die!”
Just to be on the safe side, I had started wailing as soon as I grabbed my ankles. I heard the whoosh of air and saw the shadow before I felt the paddle hit squarely on my right buttocks. I’ve heard that one’s senses are hypersensitive when there is a dangerous situation near. I will attest that the aforementioned theory is correct. At that exact moment I knew I should have taken the time to stuff toilet paper in my underwear to soften the impact, as the older kids had.
Just for good measure I let out my best terrifying and blood curdling scream I could muster up, following it up by hysterical sobbing and whimpering. While limping away I could only imagine how my butt now looked with half inch circular prints decorating it.
Never again did I engage in dirt clod and rock throwing. The paddle hung there prominently behind Mrs. Pluvoy as a perpetual reminder to follow the rules. All she had to do to quiet the room or get everyone’s attention was to cast a carefree glance in the direction of the paddle hanging behind her. Instantly you could have heard a mouse tiptoe across the room. If one had only dared!
We were a bunch of free-range kids just given our first lesson in civility. The first week of the school year was now over. It was going to be a long year.
