My first day of kindergarten at Paden Elementary School in Alameda began beside the kitchen sink. My mother stood behind me, reaching into the cabinet for the hairspray she used to tame my wild locks. Back then, girls wore dresses to school; it was the rule, and my mother always made certain I had plenty of pretty ones to choose from before I dressed for the day. Deciding which one to wear was serious business.
Looking back, I realize Mama put so much thought and effort into those mornings. At five, however, I only noticed the dress, the cloud of hairspray, and the excitement building inside me. I was finally going to school.
I had been waiting for this day. I already loved learning, and my mom had taught me to read when I was four. By the time I entered kindergarten, I knew the alphabet, could write my name, and could even put together a few basic sentences. To me, school was never something to fear; it was a doorway to a whole new world, and I could hardly wait to discover what was on the other side.
The walk down Lincoln Avenue was only five blocks, but that morning felt like the beginning of a new journey. My heart beat a little faster with every step as I wondered what school would be like. Would I make new friends? Would my teacher be kind?
Victorian homes, cozy cottages, and bungalows lined the streets beneath an unusual mixture of tall pines and graceful palm trees. The morning air was crisp, and a cool breeze drifted in from the bay and swept through the streets of Alameda. Other children appeared along the way, some walking beside their mothers while others hurried along with their friends. The older students seemed to know exactly where they were going and excitedly talked about their first day of school. I held tightly to my mother’s hand, eager to discover what waited for me at the end of those five very important blocks.
As we reached Central Avenue, we joined the families gathered at the crosswalk and waited for the crossing lady to stop the heavy traffic. Once she signaled that it was safe, mothers and children hurried across together.
As we approached the kindergarten yard, we began to notice one another. Small, timid smiles passed between the children who were still strangers, each of us wondering whether one of those unfamiliar faces might soon become a friend. Our mothers guided us toward the waiting classroom, and suddenly, my first day of school was no longer something I was imagining. It had begun.
Waiting near the kindergarten door was Mrs. Quail, a kind, older woman whose gentle manner reminded me of everyone’s favorite grandmother. She greeted each child as if she had been waiting all morning just for us. Her tender presence quieted even the most nervous parents.
As I slowly released my mother’s hand, she leaned close and assured me she would return that afternoon.
But not everyone was convinced. One shy boy clung to his mother’s leg and refused to let go. While his mother tried to calm him, Mrs. Quail ushered the rest of us into the classroom. Eventually, the boy joined us, although he did so reluctantly.
I remember watching him with all of my five-year-old understanding and thinking that he was acting like a baby. I was not especially sympathetic. Looking back, however, I understand that we stood at the same classroom door and viewed two very different things. I saw the beginning of a new chapter, and he saw his mother walking away.
Once inside, we found our places at long, low tables made especially for small children. A cheerful name tag marked each seat, but to my surprise, there were two names at my seat. When I asked Mrs. Quail about it, she explained that another kindergarten class would arrive in the afternoon, and a different child would sit there. Until that moment, I had not realized that my little corner of the classroom belonged to someone else when I went home.
Mrs. Quail’s quiet strength made the room feel welcoming and safe. Colorful posters brightened the walls, including an alphabet chart showing us how to form every capital and lowercase letter. On the blackboard, she had carefully printed her name and the date in perfect teacher handwriting. The room carried the unmistakable scent of chalk dust, sticky paste from amber-colored bottles, and the sharp bite of disinfectant.
Through the classroom windows we could see the bay and the ships moving across the water. Closer to us was the playground where the older children played. A long chain-link fence divided it into upper and lower levels. From where I stood, those children seemed almost grown as they played tetherball and four square and ran around the yard with their friends.
Once we settled into our new classroom, Mrs. Quail sat at her piano, and she taught us our first song. I wish I could remember the words or the melody, but that particular song has slipped away with time. What remains is the memory of Mrsl Quail at the piano while we sat cross-legged on the floor, lifting our small voices together. It was the first of many songs she taught us that year.
After playing games, we spilled outside for recess and began the important work of learning one another’s names. Some children chased large rubber orange balls around the yard, while others played hopscotch. We drew our outline with borrowed chalk from our teacher and then took turns hopping through the numbered squares. It was one of my favorite childhood games.
When recess ended, we returned to our classroom for our daily snack of graham crackers and milk. Then came nap time, the one part of the morning that most of us would rather have skipped. Mrs. Quail closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and instructed us to choose a mat from the low shelves of a closet. We spread them across the floor and were expected to rest quietly. But how could anyone be expected to rest quietly on the first day of school? In the darkened room, we squirmed on our mats, whispered to new friends, and tried unsuccessfully to hold back our giggles.
The morning slipped away too quickly. Before I knew it, our mothers were gathering outside the classroom door. Mrs. Quail propped it open and dismissed us one table at a time, calling each child by name and telling us how much she looked forward to seeing us the next day.
I had loved every moment of my first day of school, and I was not quite ready for the day to end. As I slipped my hand into my mother’s, I glanced back one last time. Mrs. Quail stood framed in the doorway, smiling and waving as my mother and I started to walk home. I could not have known it then, but the warmth of her welcome would remain with me long after kindergarten ended. Years later, when I stood in the doorway of my own classroom, greeting nervous students on their first day, perhaps a little of Mrs. Quail stood there with me. The walk to Paden Elementary had been only five blocks, but it carried me farther than I could have imagined.
Sometimes I would help grandma with her garden. On one side of her home, she grew rhubarb. In front on either side of her front porch, strawberries, Johnny Jump Ups, and pansies filled her pint-sized yard. We would visit and share stories, while I pulled weeds. She would often share family stories, and from her, I discovered my love for storytelling. Like her, I wanted my grandchildren to know where their stories began.
When I chatted with my grandpa, we always talked about horses and life on the ranch. I loved the adventurous romance of it all. We shared that common bond, the desire to live in the country, and a love for horses. I often pleaded with my parents to return to Colorado, but my mama used to tell me that ranch life was tough, and a lot of hard work. She would often smile at my childish pleas and recite the following poem:
Recently, my favorite aunt, who lives in California, sent a box of treasures. She and her husband plan on moving, so they started the task of sorting their belongings. Since I began working on the family tree and preserving our family stories. Aunt Jan sent me a huge box of pictures and papers that belonged to my grandmother. This box contained a wonderful collection of trinkets that I will treasure, including some items that once belonged to my mother, her infamous paper dolls.