Ann Arbor House was home to both kindergarten and first grade for a few years in the early 1950’s. The pretty little white house sat on top of a hill and the children entered from opposite ends of the building. First-graders entered through the front door which faced the street. On the back of the house was the door to the kindergarten basement classroom, cut into the side of the hill. Today that door is covered up with sod. Both grades shared a playground and athletic field for recess.
The shared recess time is important because I have vivid memories of pretending to be a first-grader. When their bell rang ending playtime, they were trained to run up the hill to the front door and file inside. For reasons that today are obscure and undoubtedly flawed, that same bell also galvanized me to call out to my classmates “I’m in first grade!” and run up the hill after them. I would then pass right by their door and run back down the other side. It’s embarrassing to think how much I enjoyed this exercise.
My absolutely favorite activity, though, was the sand table. If you were particularly short, you climbed up on a stool to reach the finely filtered, beautiful white sand complete with enthralling sandbox toys. I remember vying with the other Betsy in my class for space to play. Once in great frustration I simply climbed into the center of the table so I could reach enough sand. That’s what I wrote in 2008. A few months later, I unearthed what I had written about this same episode when I was in sixth grade: “I was quite small so whenever we were playing in the sandbox, I jumped in the middle and stole all the sand.” Memory is a funny thing – I’m not sure which story is correct. But I was the smallest kid in the class. And I did like the sand.
In one corner of the room were twenty small chairs and a blackboard which I will forever associate with the first song we were taught. The tune and the words were neither pretty nor instructive but I can still sing them today: “Apple tree, apple tree, send a big one down for me.”
Weaving on real looms was a special pleasure. There were enough looms for each child and they were stored on shelves in one corner of the room and brought out weekly. Greenfield Village
Our teacher was young and kind – Miss Turner. One day she asked me to take a written message upstairs to the first-grade teacher. I had noticed that other children had been asked to perform this important task and I was honored to have been chosen on this particular day. But as soon as I was handed the envelope, I panicked. Suddenly the old steps, worn down by thousands of footsteps before me, loomed large and foreboding in front of me.
I thought about what I’d have to do. I’d have to mount the steps – alone. At the top of the steps, I’d have to open the door to the kitchen – alone. I would wend my way through the house to reach the first-grade rooms. In my imagination, I would confidently sail into their classroom ignoring the twenty pairs of older eyes all staring at me, and politely hand the teacher the note. The more I imagined all those people looking at me, the more I realized that I had to avoid that nightmare scenario. I made it as far as the antique kitchen when my eyes spotted a black iron oven built into the brick wall. Its heavy door opened easily. I simply left the note in the oven. Whether or not the envelope was important and whether or not its non-delivery caused any repercussions between the two teachers I’ll never know. I do know that I still feel guilty about the note in the oven.
I took this photo through the window in 2011. Today a phone is in the oven and the iron door is gone.
We spent all day at school and perhaps most five-year-olds still napped. My mother told me I gave up napping at age two. Nonetheless we were all herded up two flights of stairs for naptime. The first flight led to the kitchen; the second set of steps was tiny and ended in the small darkened second floor of this house. Here I had to endure a torturous hour of lying still on a cot. It might have been 40 minutes; it felt like two hours. I remember staring at the wall, window and ceiling and hating every second. It amazed me then and still does that some children actually fell asleep.
“Sometimes after lunch we fed the fish at the covered bridge. Only a few of us went at a time.” I wrote these words about my kindergarten experience when I was 12, but I still remember the fun of the fish rushing to eat the bread crumbs. I wonder if the fish have returned to the ponds under the bridge…
