RICH: School Days

Published 12:06 pm Sunday, June 22, 2025

When I was notified the elementary school of my childhood was having a reunion of all its classes, I thought back to those storied days.

 I loved that school mightily. Every day I leaped enthusiastically off the last bus then skipped happily into the red brick, one story building. The lunch room was down a dark stairway passage onto a dark gray concrete floor that led to a screen door and into the lunchroom. Another joyous part of the day was afternoon recess when we filed down those steps again toward an oblong square window with a wooden door.  Someone opened it at 2 p.m. I would step upon the small stool, give him a dime and order which ice cream I wanted. Usually an orange creamsicle but, on occasion, a chocolate fudge on a stick.

 Treat in hand, I ran off with my friends to the playground where, for 15 minutes, we expended the energy that was giving our teacher a headache.

I wanted to go to school at the age of four. My sisters promised, “you’ll get enough of it soon enough. Wait and see.” They were wrong. I thrive on learning. I still do. Once when I was working in racing, someone came looking for me in the garage area.

A crew guy with grease stained hands said “she’s under the car with Frosty. He’s showin’ her where the springs go or somethin’.” Hearing my name, I slid out on a crawler, dressed in a long straight skirt and high heels. My nose was smudged with grease.

Clermont Elementary was one of my happy places. Every night, I thoughtfully laid out my clothes for the next day then went to sleep sweetly, knowing I would wake up for another day of learning.

When the time FINALLY came for my first day of school, I was a whirlwind of excitement. In the mirror, I would practice saying a poem, a scripture or make up a story that I plan to stand in front of the class and tell.

For this auspicious day, Mama had actually brought me a new dress. This amped up the excitement because she sewed 98 percent of the clothes. I was drifting among the clouds.

“Mama,” I said as we cleaned up after supper. “Could I ride the school bus on the first day?” For two years, I had yearned every time it passed our house.

 “No, you’re too little. I need to take you, register you and get you settled in.”

For days, I begged. One of the most tremendous gifts she ever gave me was that of independence. She put me in the hands of the Lord and sent me off, with nary a worry. Especially during my teenage years, college and at age 24 to Washington, DC to live on my own.

Finally, she said, “Okay. I’ll call the bus driver and tell him to stop for you.”

At the mailbox on a darkly overcast day, I waited excitedly. When the bus stopped, I hurried toward the step then hesitated. It was so high that I didn’t know if I could make it. Clutching my dark green book satchel, I, a tiny girl, raised my buckled shoe as high as it would go and touched the step.

“Take ahold of the hand bar there,” the kind driver said. 

I did and pulled myself up. When Mama arrived to sign me in, she couldn’t find me. She went down the hall, peering into every room. In the third grade, she found me where I had settled in quite nicely. I placed my pencil in the desk groove, pulled out paper and slid my satchel under the desk.

The teacher smiled. “I thought she was awful little for the third grade.”

The school was recklessly torn down after only 40 years of use. Stupid. But the gym remains and is now a gathering place for social events. 

Another of my happy places.

—Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of The Stella Bankwell Mystery series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.