Miss Wood got a bad rap

It wasn’t about Miss Wood. Really.

Well, there was the time she confiscated everybody’s bubblegum provided by a grade parent for a class party. Miss Wood didn’t want to find gum sticking to her precious first grade furniture.

Yes, Miss Wood was my first grade teacher. To be honest, she was an old maid with a trim figure, neat salt-and-pepper hair, a serious face and a voice that commanded obedience.

But as stern as she could be, I can say I was her pet. My workbook was filled with her checkmarks since I typically circled the right answers and connected the proper objects.

Miss Wood even hugged me a couple of times. But they weren’t the soft, cuddly mom hugs.

I need to go back to the beginning.

 I was the third son born within three years and five months. That made me the baby of the family.

Such a position includes a number of perks. For instance, I could sit in the front seat of the car between Mama and Daddy. If there was a disturbance among us boys, the older ones would be considered responsible.

When my brothers were at school, I was home with Mama. While she did housework, I had the big yard all to myself. Or I could hang out in the barn or check out the spider webs under the house.

Inside, I had all the toys to play with. But I could also watch “Search for Tomorrow” or “The Edge of Night” on TV.

Years before “Sesame Street,” I was learning to read by watching soap operas. I knew Tide and Fab and All.

Then, when Mama took me to see a friend, I was showered with compliments. “Wow, how you’ve grown.” Or “You’re such a handsome young man.” I would grin and try to hide behind Mama’s skirts.

Those good times lasted for six years and five months. That’s when my baby brother was born and I had to relinquish my title as baby of the family.

Then just a couple of weeks later, I went to first grade. It was traumatic.

For instance, Mama handed me a dollar and told me to give it to the cafeteria lady to pay for my lunches that week. When I showed it to her, the cafeteria lady told me I should have paid my teacher for a lunch ticket.

Oh sure, Miss Wood had said that morning she was taking money for lunch tickets. But in my head was Mama’s instruction to give my dollar to the cafeteria lady. It was confusing.

Then poor ol’ Georgie wet his pants in his seat and left a puddle on the floor. He didn’t know he could raise his hand and say “May I be excused?”

So that’s the foundation for what happened that fateful day when my brothers and I walked to Trotter’s Store to wait for the school bus.

All the kids were older than me and were joking around. But I wasn’t in a jocular mood.

The bus arrived and we lined up to board, first Rhonda, then Lonnie, then David, then Jerry, then Ronnie, then … But I was still standing next to the store, my feet unable to move, feeling like they were in cement.

The kids on the bus were shouting at me to “come on, hurry up, get on the bus.” Finally, the driver gave up and drove away.

Now I felt free. But on the walk home questions entered my mind. “What will Mama think? What will Mama say? What happens next?”

I walked in the front door and Mama asked, “Why aren’t you on the bus?”

“I don’t want to go to school.” 

“Oh, honey.”

Mama removed her apron, wrapped up baby brother, put us in the car and drove to school. We went to the principal’s office and Mama explained that I didn’t like my teacher, could I be moved to another room?

Mr. Holland told her that the assignments had been made and couldn’t be changed. It was part of the learning process.

As Mama wiped tears from her eyes, I thought, “It’s not about Miss Wood. Really. I just don’t want to go to school.”

I returned to my class room, did my workbook and read from our reader, “Look! Look!” said Dick. “Here comes Spot.”

I finished that year with a workbook filled with checkmarks and was promoted to Grade 2.

Meanwhile, Miss Wood retired after a year or two. I imagined her sitting at home watching “Search for Tomorrow” and “The Edge of Night.”

I couldn’t blame her. That’s what I wanted to do. Because it wasn’t about Miss Wood. Really.

■ Larry Penkava, is a writer for Randolph Hub. Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.