HEART BEAT: Safe-Kept Memories of Lovely Things

By Felicia Mitchell

I told my son that I was going to be sentimental and write about how cute he was his first day of school, and he said to knock myself out.  That was his way of saying he didn’t care.  And saying that he didn’t care was his way of saying that he did care. 

So I’m not going to write about how cute my son was the first day of school, especially not how small his knapsack was or how large his smile.  Instead, I’m going to write about how cute I was.
In the photograph my father took that morning, right before I got into his car, I was smiling a toothless smile.  My hair, platinum from a summer playing outside, was pulled into a ponytail with a big black bow.

Let’s not forget the dress, a black and blue plaid dress my mother stitched on her Singer, some white lace crossing the bodice to offset the plaid.  The skirt, tightly gathered, was sticking out from starch and petticoat.  My black Mary Jane shoes and white stocks completed the outfit. 

In the photograph, there are two shadows.  One, nestled in the left corner near my right foot, is my father’s elbow, raised to hold a camera.  My father worked nights at a newspaper until very late, but he would wake up every morning to take us to school, since my mother couldn’t drive, until we were ready to cross the highway separating our neighborhood from the street that would take us to a lovely little school set on the edge of a marsh.

The other shadow in the photograph reflects the torso and head of a thin woman who is waving her right hand.  You can see the hand that is extended embossed in the dirt where the car is parked.  I don’t remember what my mother was holding in her left arm.  A cat?  I do know that there were two small children asleep in the house, which is why she stayed home that morning while my father took the two older children to school. 

And that was just the beginning of a wonderful day.  I remember seeing blue mimeographed papers for the first time and smelling the ink.  I remember sitting in my wooden desk, handling my book, listening to the teacher.

I remember, too, looking around and noticing that I was just about the only girl wearing a dress and not only a dress but also a starched plaid dress with a poufy petticoat.  After all, it was still summer.  The school was on an island.  Most children were wearing shorts.  That’s okay.  I could run as fast as the rest of them in my dress, perhaps faster, when recess came.  Did I mention that my Mary Jane shoes were disguised sneakers?

Sara Teasdale once wrote, “Into my memory, I slipped a coin that time cannot take nor thief purloin.”  I memorized the whole poem my first year of school and recited it to the class.