An earlier version of this story (without the illustrations) appeared in an issue of Stockbridge Updates. Many thanks to Carole Owens for sharing these memories of my growing up in Stockbridge with a wider audience.
My second grade teacher was Miss Gertrude Wolfe. According to my “progress report” (report card), I was promoted to Grade 3 from Grade 2B. I’m not sure why the “B” — there was only one second-grade class. It was much larger than the class before us, since my cohort was born in the first year of the Baby Boom that followed the end of World War II.
My parents had been married five years before I was born, after my father had been drafted, but before he was sent overseas. He served in the Army Air Corps (later to become the Air Force), at first in North Africa, and later in Italy. I was born nine months after the War ended.
The northern slope of Laurel Hill was part of the school grounds on which we were allowed to play during our recesses. To a seven-year-old boy, Miss Wolfe seemed as old as that hill. My grandmother Wilcox worked in the Stockbridge Library, and I often went to visit her after school. When I mentioned the name of my teacher, she smiled and told me Miss Wolfe had also taught my grandfather when he was in high school.
My poor attendance record in the 2nd marking period reflects my days in bed with the measles and chickenpox. I remember my mother tying my hands to my bedposts when I went to bed so that I would not scratch my face while I slept. (It would be another 3 years before I contracted the mumps, thereby completing the trifecta of childhood diseases that were accepted as inevitable in those pre-vaccine days.)
One day, Miss Wolfe was writing arithmetic problems on the board, which we were expected to copy and solve.
When the teacher had her back turned to the class, I slipped a note to the prettiest girl in the class (she still lives in Stockbridge), who sat across the aisle from me. Miss Wolfe immediately turned around and pointed at us. “Give me that note,” she said. I later figured out that she was monitoring the class in the reflection in her eyeglasses.
Another day, during the morning recess, I had captured a mole in the schoolyard and placed it in my pants pocket. While Miss Wolfe was busy at the blackboard, I took out the mole to show to the girl who sat behind me. She screamed, which startled me into dropping the frightened creature, who started to run around the classroom. Several other girls screamed and jumped up on their chairs.
Miss Wolfe commanded me to capture the mole and release it outside, which I did. When I returned to the classroom, she told me to report to the Principal’s office and tell him what I had done. Mr. Newt Blair listened closely to my account, and then told me to write down what had happened. He read it over, put it in an envelope, and handed it back to me. He told me to bring it home and have my mother sign it so that he would know she read it.
I delayed showing my mother that letter, fearing the punishment I might receive (the worst would be a spanking by my father). After supper, I told her that I had something that she was supposed to sign. She opened the envelope, and instead of getting angry, as I expected, she began to laugh. “You did what?” she could not contain her laughter. She signed the paper and handed it back to me.