When I was a kid, I read a book called The Secret Garden. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade. Mrs Cannon was my teacher at Jay Elementary, and while she was an excellent teacher, she was also the only teacher who hit my hand with a ruler.
To be honest, it wasn't her fault. In those days, one teacher taught all subjects, except for PE. I was reading my library book, and the subject changed without me noticing. My concentration was intense and absolute in those days. It had been honed by escaping from the chaos that was my life. I had learned, "Calgon, take me away before that was even a thing."
Mrs Cannon walked toward me, and she grabbed my hand before I could turn the next page. She asked why I didn't change subjects. I was silent.
My hand met the back of a wooden ruler. One hit. She asked me if I thought I could listen next time, and I was mute. I wasn't used to being asked to speak. I was raised that children were seen, not heard. I felt the next hit. She asked again, "Why weren't you listening when I changed subjects?"
Again, I was mute. I was still in that daze that I entered when reading. Third hit, hard on the back of my hand, and she asked if I was going to listen in class. I nodded my head, yes. The silent tear rolled down my cheek. My hand was stinging, but I did not cry out loud. That was for sissies and I was tough. I was a beaten child.
Beaten children learn a few things growing up that other children may not. We walk in fear of adults. In my case, it was men. We don't show signs of being beaten. This may cause trouble for us when we get home. We cover up. We appear clumsy.
We are quiet thinkers. I immersed myself in books. Inside the pages, I could escape. I could go on a ship to a faraway land with Lilliputians or find a secret garden where flowers bloomed and birds sang. I survived the first 12 years of my life, in part, due to books.
On this day, I was reading about this garden. I think I identified with the garden because my mother loved plants. She wasn't at home, but I could see where she had been at one time. The flowers, bushes, fruit trees, and bricks edging flower beds, tires cut in decorative patterns, and painted green to make a flower pot. She had a green thumb that missed me and landed on my oldest daughter. I think that probably makes her smile as she watches my daughter grow peppers, tomatoes, strawberries, and sometimes flowers.
My mind was back in 3rd grade this morning, thinking of the only time I got whacked in school, and I'm thankful that I had school, the library, and books to escape to. Some children have none of the above, and my heart goes out to the many children who have nothing. I guess that's why I give things away.
I'm indebted to the people who gave things to me as a child. My grandmother, who brought me iced tea, gave me the first cookie out of the oven and protected me when I was in her house. I felt love for the first time from her. My first cup of coffee with Aunt Loree. I felt so big over that cup of coffee. My Aunt Elma who gave time to this motherless child. That gave me confidence. My sister for reading to me when I was real lil. That gave me wings of escape. My Dad who stopped drinking when I was 12 and gave me a daddy. Frances Hodgson Burnett for writing a story that I felt was just for me. I could open that secret door and go inside for a bit. I still have my 3rd grade copy of the book. I lost it for a bit, and by the time it resurfaced, I had paid for the copy, so it was mine. Whether the losing was intentional or not, I can't recall. And if I do, I'm staying mute. I did learn some things from my childhood that remain useful.
Have a beautiful weekend and pick up a favorite book to read. I've heard that reading is in a huge slump in recent years. That hurts my heart. I bought several books this week to read to my great grandson. I'm hoping that books will be his friend not from necessity but from the joy of reading.
Much love always, kimmee. ♥️♥️
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