Being Taken Out Of School A Real Boost To My Future

5. The fall of 1941 I started school. I walked the two miles to the three room school and no it was not up hill both ways. The school was staffed by three  old maids—the DeBord sisters. Grades 1 and 2 in one room, grades 3, 4 and 5 in one, and grades 6,7 and 8 in the third. My walking companion was the grandson of Mr. Widner—the same Mr. Widner who shot my chicken.  Two events that first year crushed my spirit.  I was, remember, not yet six years old.  My continued attempts to write with my left hand were met with whacks, hard whacks, with a wooden ruler. Day after day my left hand suffered those whacks until I could not touch a pencil without great fear. I just did not try to write. The second was event was equally traumatic.  When I opened the cover of my first reader I found inside the cover an orange page covered with black and grey animals.  The black and white county label was pasted in the center of the cover. The animals were intriguing.  So intriguing that I began to peel away the county sticker to reveal them all.  Miss DeBord pounced—grabbed me by the neck, hauled me to the front of classroom where I sat the rest of the day.

I hated school. There must have been a god or a genie or an angel watching over me. My walking partner moved away; the weather turned cold and snowy. I was taken out of school. After all I was not yet six years old. Next year was soon enough. Next year worked. I even had learned to use my right hand for writing.