Grade Eight

  

 

Grade Eight

 

The Saint Jules path (as the kids would call it) was the way home after school but that path would have to wait, I was making a detour. The note that had me standing up in front of the class awarded me a walk home with the most beautiful girl in school. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes and a smile that melted this young boy’s heart. She wore a black dress with big yellow flowers and black pants underneath. Her brown and tan lace-up shoes had a little heel so I looked up to her. literally.  She knew walking home would have raised some eyebrows from her mother so we agreed that the park down the road would be the best place to part ways.

Alice Street Park was a field and because it had a slide and a pair of swings they had to call it a park, I guess. It wasn’t a very big park. One square block.  It was surrounded by three roads. Alice faced south.  Norman was on the east side and Olive Road was to the west. The latter was the road where my eventual sweetheart lived. In the park next to the swings, there is a small brick building which conveniently hid our after-school activities, at least from the vantage point of her house near the corner of Olive and Alice. It’s not like we had something to hide. We just hung out swinging. 

Suddenly, my days at school weren’t as bad. I had a reason to go to school. I looked forward to walking her home. We’d hang out on those rusty old swings until supper time and then I’d run as fast as I could to get home to scarf down dinner. I didn’t have to worry about the bullies; they were home long before I got to the ambush point. After dinner, I would run back or bike back to love our nest to the swings of Alive Street Park.

It’s amazing how fast two years go by. Before I knew it, I was in grade eight. I was still walking my sweetheart home and hiding in the park. Holding hands was a big step. This was Little League's first base. Let’s just say I was on first leaning toward second. I knew a home run was a kiss and I was scared to death. I had seen my parents do it on occasion. Usually a special occasion. So, not very often. Paralyzed by shyness I never hit it out of the park.

I had hired my friend to be my bodyguard, and the bullies gave up the fight. With me at least. I was still the smallest kid and school. We were all waiting for the growing spurt to happen. It never did. I started wearing my younger brother’s clothes. They were outgrowing them. Usually, kids wear out clothes, but my younger brothers grew too fast to wear them out. My mother had decided that they'd be good enough for me. Now I have heard of hand-me-downs, getting hand-me-ups is going too far. School picture day was always a surprise and my flair for fashion was not. My hair was parted in the middle almost shoulder length. I wore a vest covering a brown hand-me-up long-sleeve shirt and to complete the look, tan corduroy pants. I looked like a cute little girl, but I wasn’t a girl because a girl wouldn’t forget what shoes she was wearing. I will venture to guess running.

Grade eight was my favorite and My teacher Mr. Sasso was the best. He was a big, tall man of course from my vantage point everyone seemed big and tall.  He wore a tan corduroy blazer with dark brown patches on the elbows. A dark brown vest and matching polyester pants. The tie was optional, and he often opted for a big collared puffy colourful shirt instead.  He had a moustache, big dark brown hair and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He looked like a big hairy, somewhat fashionable giant.  Luckily, he was a friendly one.

He was the first teacher to really get me, and he even encouraged me to be more creative. Suddenly, getting caught doodling was okay and in fact, encouraged. I never could stand up in front of the class to give a speech. My words spoke with the images drawn on paper. Homework consisted of storytelling in cartoon form. Now, handing in projects was a joy. The gentle giant waited in anticipation for the stories that flowed from my pencil. All I wanted was a simple smile and what I received was a big giant grin. Acceptance is a smiling face and that was enough.  I started believing in me. I was only small on the surface; I was Walt Disney on the inside.

Grade eight flew by and so did love's first fling. I was off to a new school in September and the girl in the flowery dress was off to another. I never made it to home plate. Our goodbye was a hug and a tear I hoped she would never see.

It was the last day of school and he had one last lesson to teach.  Mr. Sasso brought in a record player. He played the song “Imagine” by John Lennon and asked the class what we thought about it. I was raised catholic so questioned the no religion verse. I was wondering why he would play this song in a catholic grade school. There was only one reason why he did so. To understand that life is all about what if. Imagination. I can see it clearly now. I didn’t then.

When we were young our life was all about what if. When we grow old what if becomes if only.  Imagination and regret. Using it or losing it. He made me promise on the last day never to lose it and because of him I never have. He is the reason I am writing to this very day. He believed in a little boy. And I am thankful.

 

A walk in the park is not just a walk in the park

Love the journey

Smell the flowers

Swing on a swing

And don’t forget to say

Weeeeeee!