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or any of the other old schools. Perhaps you looked forward to going back. Sorry

Time:2018-01-06 05:03Underwear site information Click:

school Lincoln Meridian craig trott

Paying taxes, bathing the dog, cleaning gutters, shoveling snow, emptying the litter box: they're all tasks most of us reluctantly face. Life is loaded with issues where we have to suck it up, lace our boots tight, and put our grown-up panties on.

I make reference to the span between Christmas and just beyond New Year's Day. I personally call it my post-Christmas let down. I'm not a bah humbug kind of person. Really, I'm not. But right now the thought of someone humming holiday melodies tends to seek out my spine with the jolt of a well-aimed Tazer probe. If I forego another “ho, ho, ho," it may push me over the edge.

I attribute this distressing attitude to events of decades past. This was brought home last week when a light came on in my head during the annual, all-day TV re-run marathon of “A Christmas Story.” As it looped its way across our flat screen, I spotted the bespectacled Ralphie and his puckish classmates laboring away on English compositions while their teacher, Miss Shields, attempted to maintain proper classroom decorum.

The sight unleashed a queasiness inside my breadbasket which rewound me back to the 1960s, right where I had been in Ralphie's shoes. I attended three different elementary schools during my primary days. Two were very much like the one featured in "A Christmas Story."

You know, the two- or three-story brick facade, tall windows that never shut correctly due to decades of layered leaded paint, and the huge coal or oil burning, asbestos-wrapped steam furnace which produced Amazon-like temps in some areas while other zones bore climates relating to an assemblage of circumpolar Eskimos.

I can still see the wide, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors or down to the subterranean gymnasium or lunch room. Sturdy polished oak or hickory dowel handrails with brass wall brackets provided stability for our diminutive grips. The old buildings smelled the same. Musty “old” with a touch of chalk, pencil shavings, and lethargic sewers.

Yes, I was transformed into the classroom where embarrassment before peers and teachers was not uncommon. Mathematics equations came directly from the infernal regions. Upon being sentenced to the blackboard, the teacher would say, “Craig Trott, problem number six!” What? I didn't know the first one, let alone six. As perspiration soaked through my buttoned Ban-Lon shirt and corduroys, I'd pick up the eraser then the chalk would break. I could hear snickering and, “There's the dummy again.”

So you can see where returning to school after the holiday break might find me a bit anxious. After all, I had all those keen gifts at home waiting at home, vying for my attention. The sheen hadn't even worn off yet, and we'd just reached a personal relationship. Already I had to leave them behind. Like a soldier leaving his girl at the railway station. Heartbreak, hankies, and tears. All aboard!

Can any of you relate to this? Think about those days, returning to the brick educational edifices in New London, Clay, Ervin, Meridian, Lincoln, Columbian, Willard, Jefferson, Union, or any of the other old schools. Perhaps you looked forward to going back. Sorry, not this kid!

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