My mother walked me into the classroom and introduced me to Miss Tidwell. I might have cried a little, but mom gave me a reassuring pat and said she would pick me up out front at the end of the school day. New crayons and fresh notepad in hand, I took my assigned seat.
At noon, students lined up single-file and followed Miss Tidwell out the door. While the other students turned right to go to the lunch room, I, believing school was over, turned left to meet mama. She wasn’t there. What to do?
At age 6, I decided to walk home. I managed to cross three streets and the railroad tracks before arriving at US Highway 59. As I stood there, daunted but determined to figure out how to maneuver through four lanes of busy traffic, Mrs. Bergman, who owned the Dairy 59 Drive-In, saw me through the pick-up window and rushed to my rescue. Somehow I retraced my steps and found my way back to class. First Grade . . . It’s not for Wimps!
It isn’t for wimpy parents either. I never wanted my children to attend school. I loved being with Allen and Ashley, but also feared the truant officer. When the time came for my youngest to attend school, I made an appointment with the principal and explained in no uncertain terms that I would be picking up Ashley at noon every day since she needed to rest. Mrs. Talbot chuckled knowingly but agreed. At the end of the first week, Ashley figured out she was missing playtime and insisted on staying. I was left to nap alone.
Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Howard Nemerov penned his memories of a similar morning: “My child and I hold hands on the way to school, / And when I leave him at the first-grade door / He cries a little but is brave; he does / Let go. My selfish tears remind me how / I cried before that door a life ago. / I may have had a hard time letting go.”
Although each fall I reluctantly sent my children back to school, I must admit there was (and still is) a certain excitement about it all. Most people think of January as a new beginning–a time to make resolutions in anticipation of the re-birth of spring.
In truth, the first day of school marks the true beginning for children, a chance to start anew. New crayons, new backpacks, new pencil boxes, new books, and new teachers. The world is full of possibilities: mastering the art of cursive writing, learning about heretofore unknown cultures and places, exploring the miracles of science and math—electricity, magnets, fractions, algebra–and being introduced to stories and authors that become a part of their lives forever. What an adventure.
So let me thank those patient and knowledgeable men and women (past and present) for making it their life’s mission to introduce our children to a land of limitless possibilities.
I have no idea what school policies are, but most teachers appreciate good food. Perhaps something for the teacher’s lounge? You can’t do better than a plate of raspberry bars, a triple-decker comfort cookie with shortbread base, jam center, and streusel topping. This is my secret recipe, but your child’s teacher is worth it.
Preheat 375. Line 12 x 18 x 1 inch pan with buttered foil. In large mixing bowl combine 5 3/4 c. all-purpose flour, 1 1/3 C. granulated sugar, 1 tsp. salt for 5 seconds. With the mixture at low speed, add 4 sticks unsalted butter (cut into ½ inch pieces, softened) one piece at a time until mixture resembles damp sand. Set aside 2 ½ c. of mixture. Press the rest mixture evenly in bottom of prepared pan. Bake until edges brown, 14-18 minutes.
While crust bakes, blend 3/4 C. brown sugar, 1 1/3 C. old-fashioned (not instant) oatmeal, and 1 C. chopped pecans. Work in 8 TB. butter until incorporated. Set aside.
In saucepan over low heat, mix 2 jars raspberry preserves with 3 TB. lemon juice until heated through. Spread filling evenly over hot crust. Sprinkle streusel (the 2 ½ C of leftover mixture) on top. Bake 22-25 minutes until golden brown. Cool completely, 1-2 hours. Remove foil from pan and cut in squares.