Man, did I hit the jackpot. It was Christmastime in the fourth grade, and the richest kid in our class drew my name as a Not So Secret Santa. A toy car? A handheld video game? A set of really good baseball cards? Sky’s the limit! It was one of the few times I was the envy of my classmates.
That was the Christmas my parents bought me a GI Joe Fighter Jet, among other gifts. As I’ve written before, Dad and Mom went above and beyond for their sons on the big day. It was also the year after my newly widowed grandmother stayed with us, so things were slowly getting back to normal.
Life was good as a 9-year-old at Maplecrest Elementary, a medium-sized school and the home to hundreds of kindergarten through fifth-graders in Lebanon, Missouri. It was my second year in the school, and I’d finally settled in after moving from Joplin two years earlier.
As normal as life was, though, the fourth grade was anything but that. That school year (1985-86) got off to an ominous start when I continued my annual tradition of balling my eyes out when my parents walked me into the classroom on the first day. It went next-level when the teacher walked through the door and stood in front of us.
“Well, I thought I was going to be teaching kindergarten this year, so all I have is these cards,” said Ms. Matthews as she held up cards clearly designed for 5-year-olds. “So, I guess we’ll be learning together.”
Ms. Matthews was right out of college, an incredibly sweet, kind and beautiful lady who was the crush of every boy in her class. She was also woefully unprepared to handle a rather rambunctious group of children.
I’ve always been shy, especially as a child. In a class of 25 kids, maybe 10 of us were calm, quiet and dedicated to listening to Ms. Matthews. The other 15, many of whom grew up to be respectable adults, of course, had no desire to behave or listen.
I have vivid memories of watching one classmate chase another around the room for about five laps before Ms. Matthews, who later became a great teacher, ran to get the principal, Mr. Hough. On another day, one of the boys got busted with a can of Skoal. Each week featured at least one fight.
It was like Fast Times at Maplecrest, where recess and lunch often felt like parole … and P.E. with our drill sergeant teacher like prison. Despite all that, I liked Ms. Matthews, and I liked the vast majority of the kids in my class. They were entertaining, if nothing else.
The fourth grade was the last time I had most of those kids in class. They smartly separated most of us for our last year at Maplecrest. Some of us ended up with Mrs. Pace for the fifth grade. Her class, an incredibly tight and disciplined ship, was quite the culture shock for some. That was also the year my Dad had one of our first father-son chats and the last time I cried on the first day of school.
“Son, you’re in the fifth grade now,” he said. “You’re growing up. I want you to try really hard not to cry. I need you to be a man.”
I know I learned a little more in fifth grade than I did in the fourth grade, but I missed Ms. Matthews class at times. It was an adventure, though the Not So Secret Santa was a bust. On the day we exchanged presents, I greedily opened mine to find a miniature helicopter clearly regifted. It might as well have been a can of Skoal. I’d learned a valuable lesson about perception.
TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS SERIES 2022
Part VIII: Dad and St. Charles, my favorite craft show
Part VII: Coming home from K-State
Part VI: Going back to the well
Part V: Bloomer where you’re planted
Part IV: How the heck did I misspell that?
Part III: A partridge and an electronic sign