One fall afternoon, I walked through the halls of Chipman Middle School in Alameda, California, still adjusting to the strange new world of junior high. I liked the freedom of changing classes, but there were moments when those crowded hallways made me feel small. I was still trying to find my place in this new chapter of my life.
One September afternoon, I thought it would be just another typical day until a new student marched into our room and took our class by surprise. I didn’t know then, but I was about to meet my lifelong buddy.
After lunch, we went to Mrs. Westmoreland’s class; she taught sixth-grade language arts. While we were settling in, I sat in my assigned spot, second desk from the front. The room smelled like sharpened pencils, old books, and the faint dust from the chalkboard. Outside the classroom door, the hallway still carried the noise from our lunch break, but inside, everything paused when a new girl walked into our classroom.
Everyone instantly became quiet. She had long brunette hair that had red highlights, and it was curly. She also had quite a few freckles that I would later find out she absolutely hated. She was also short and petite, but that didn’t stop her from standing up for herself. I would soon discover that this half pint was quite feisty, a human tornado that could create devastation at a moment’s notice.
As Mrs. Westmoreland walked up to her, she took the paperwork from the girl’s outstretched hand. “Take a seat,” The teacher motioned towards the empty desk that was right next to mine.
Barb’s eyes met mine, and we both smiled at each other before she took her seat. As she started to settle in, I noticed that she had the biggest pencil ever! It was thicker than a normal pencil, and longer, too. I remember thinking that it must be awkward to use, but in middle school, we enjoyed quirky school supplies, and that pencil definitely fit the bill.
After lunch, our teacher usually had us read for a few minutes. This was my favorite activity of the day. The class was silently reading when Mrs. Westmoreland explained that she would be “right back.”
Of course, as soon as she left, the quiet class became quite rowdy as everyone began talking at once. Before I could talk to the new girl, the class bully, Donald, started teasing her.
“Hey, Freckles,” he called.
I glanced at Barb. She sat up straighter in her chair and tried to ignore the disgusting boy. But he wouldn’t stop.
He grinned and hollered, “Hey Freckles! Do you think you have enough…freckles?” He laughed, and a few of the other boys joined in, following his taunting like it was some kind of invitation.
At that moment, Barb jumped from her seat. We could tell by the look on her face that she was furious. She glared at Donald and screeched, “I hate you!” She grasped her huge pencil in her hand, and I watched in wondrous horror as she broke it over dumb Donald’s head.
Time slowed to a crawl, and my heart raced. More than once, I had been on the receiving end of Donald’s threats and torment, and I worried about retaliation.
But instead, the class terror looked stunned as if he could not believe what had just taken place. And I smiled, acknowledging that finally someone had stood up to the biggest bully in the sixth-grade class.
Everyone was utterly quiet for a single moment until my classmates started shouting, laughing, and talking all at once! Donald just took a beat down from a girl half his size! Everyone was astonished.
Of course, Mrs. Westmoreland walked into class as Barb stood in front of the class, clearly upset. Donald was red-faced and rubbed the knot on his dumb noggin. Quickly, we settled down and pretended to read once again, but all twenty-some pairs of eyes focused on the unfolding scene at the front of the classroom.
Barb slowly walked to her desk and quietly took her seat. Still nursing his head and his wounded pride, Donald sat grimly and tight-lipped. He was probably trying to hatch some type of revenge on how to get even with the girl who just schooled him about making fun of others.
Mrs. Westmoreland knew something was up in her classroom, but she did not say a word. Although our teacher kept a sharp lookout, no one said a word about ole Donny’s suddenly diminished reputation. Too many of us had been on the receiving end of his bullying, and secretly, we were all rooting for the new girl.
Barb looked at me, and I smiled, for I knew I had just met someone extra special! This tiny tornado taught the whole class a lesson that day. Dim-witted Donald D. wasn’t quite as scary as we had thought. And his days as the school villain had just gone down in flames.
In an instant, my own fears dissolved; I finally saw Donald for who he really was, just a kid with a big mouth and zero gumption.
From that day on, Barb and I were pretty much inseparable. We spent our childhood years growing together and creating a friendship that has lasted a lifetime.
Over the years, Barb became more than the girl who sat beside me in language arts. She became the friend who could make me laugh when I wanted to cry, tell me the truth when I needed to hear it, and remind me that courage sometimes comes in the smallest, sassiest packages.
Oh, and the best part? That feisty friend of mine has not changed one bit. She is still spirited, sassy, loyal, and full of fire. And after more than fifty years of friendship, I can honestly say I am grateful some things never change.
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. 