I just realized that I've been on OS almost a year.  This is a re-post from March 30, 2009.  It sort of fit scanner's open call, so I thought I'd recycle . . . I linked a couple of things that were in context for what I was writing about at the time . . . other than that, I guess it speaks for itself: 

You know, I've thought about going to grad school.  Seems like a perfectly plausible place for an Owl to perch.  It's possible that the following may have something to do with my choice not to go that route.  I have a million stories about great teachers.  This is not one of them. 

Mrs. T. must have started teaching Kindergarten during WWII, and I figured out pretty quickly that she was not to be trifled with.  For example, during the first week, we did the reading circle.  Each of us took a book off the shelf, and sat in a circle.  Every few minutes, Mrs. T. rang a little bell, which meant it was time to pass the book to the right.

I selected "Green Eggs and Ham,"  one of my all-time favorites (even to this day).  I do not like green eggs and ham.  I do not like them, Sam I am! When the bell rang, I wasn't done with the book, but that was okay - I already knew the story.  I dutifully passed "Green Eggs and Ham" to my right.

From my left, I received "And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street." Now it was getting interesting - this was new!  So when the bell rang, I did not pass my book.  Jeff, on my right, made a fuss about it right away.  Mrs. T's vulture gaze immediately swept the circle.  I quickly took the book I had received from my left and passed it to Jeff.  Crisis averted.

For the next three turns, I happily took the book from Connie on my left, and passed it directly to Jeff on my right.  I was deep into Mulberry Street, which is probably why I didn't notice the air growing still around me, nor the footsteps behind me.  The talon on my shoulder got my attention, though.

"Owl, you've kept the same book for three turns," Mrs. T. hissed into my ear.  "Be a good little girl, and pass your book to Jeff."

"But Mrs. T.," I reasoned, "I haven't finished the book.  I'm only to the part where . . ."

"We like to share in this class, Owl."  She stood tall and tapped her foot menacingly.

"But I've never read this book before!"

"Owl, you don't know how to read yet.  That's why you're here in Kindergarten."  She adjusted her glasses so that I could see the flames dancing in her eyes. I swear.

I dropped my gaze.  I handed the book to Jeff.  I fought back the tears which were trying to squeeze between my tightly clenched eyelids.  Dad had promised me that if I could get to the end of the week without crying in class, he'd take me to the football game on Friday night.

But under my breath, I said, "Yes I can.  I can too read."

"Owl, do we have a problem?"

"No Ma'am."

"Okay, then."

Fast forward to shortly before Easter, that same year.  Mrs. T. had Brent distribute the snub-nosed scissors to each of us.  She passed out the construction paper with an Easter bunny mimeographed on each one.  Remember the smell of a fresh mimeo? Dark blue ink smelling of alcohol and pigment.  Heaven.  Light blue bunnies for the boys, pink bunnies for the girls.

"Everyone - listen carefully . . . I only want to give these directions once . . . Take your scissors, and cut veeeerrrry carefully on the lines.  When you are done, raise your hand, and we'll write your name on it, and hang it on the bulletin board.  See the ones the morning class did?"

She pointed to an impressive display of pink and blue bunnies representing the efforts of the morning class.  Dumb morning class.  They got everything first.

I sighed, and started cutting on the lines. First, I cut the outline.  Not bad.  But there were more lines . . . as I continued cutting, I was horrified to see that the tail fell off completely, then one of the front feet, one of the back feet, and one of the ears.  After another moment, my pink Easter bunny had only a blank stare, missing its eye completely.  I looked over at Connie with her hand raised - her bunny was miraculously intact.  Brent's blue bunny was whole too.  I felt the blood start an early rush to my face.

This time I felt the stillness, heard the footsteps, and knew that the talon was next.

"Owl!  What have you done to your bunny?! I can't hang it up like that!!  I don't have any more pink bunnies, and I can't give you a blue bunny! What did you do?"

"You said to cut on the lines, so I did."  Even as I said it, my voice was trembling.

"Do you want me to put your name on this hideous thing and hang it on the board?"

"Yes?"

"Owl, I simply don't know what to do with this.  How could you be so stupid?  When I said to cut on the lines, I didn't mean the detail lines!!  Look at this poor eyeless bunny!"

I didn't cry until I got home, and I honestly don't remember if I brought the hapless pink bunny home, or whether it ended up on the board, or maybe even in the trash.  Mom was understanding, though.  After all, she already knew that the Owl had been hatched.

Now here's where it gets strange.  Fast foward 20 years.  Dad was playing piano at a nursing home in the town where I went to Kindergarten.  The next time we talked on the phone, he said he'd seen Mrs. T., now a resident of the home.  "Owl, she sends her regards.  She asked about you, and remembers you as a bright child."  A little too late, maybe, but still nice to hear.

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