First Grade and First Date

My first grade teacher was a far cry from kindergarten’s Mrs. Anderson. Mrs. M. was plainly odd. She was probably menopausal and fighting it with red lipstick and dyed blonde hair.

For some reason she took a shine to me and would give me gifts in the semi privacy of the “cloakroom.” Not too many kids in those days knew what a “cloak” was. So it sounded pretty exotic. The cloakroom was a rectangular area with hooks along the length of the wall for children to hang up their coats and hats. We didn’t have a lot of coats and hats in Los Angeles.  It was also the place where the teachers had their desks.

 On one cloakroom tryst I was given a doll and on another occasion a small silver bracelet that was pretty bendy—which I learned meant “cheap”.    I think my mother thought Mrs. M. was a bit odd too, and the gifts stopped.  But I did get the honor of cleaning out the fish tank; a most highly coveted duty.

Learning to read was a big deal. Dick and Jane and their dog Spot were part of our lives. Mrs. M. would ask us to read silently and then raise our hand when we had finished.  Every single time Nelson finished first.  If a six year old can be cynical, I was.  I knew he was faking it.

Nelson and I were friends. I knew he was under the pressure of being an only child whose parents expected him to excel.  He’s probably a lawyer now.

I had a crush on Nelson.  I loved the way that little beads of sweat would form on his upper lip when he was hot.  I couldn’t do that because I didn’t sweat—and that made it seem glamorous.  When we walked to school (because it was safe for six year olds to do that then) he would tell me how to regulate my breathing when I ran. When I was invited to play at his house after school, I watched as his mother made him change from his “school clothes” to his “play clothes.” She then made him practice reading for a half hour as I dawdled away my time waiting to play with his archery set.

Nelson had freckles and the perfect blond crew cut. And when I invited him to dinner and a Dodgers game with my father, my mother made a meal of it.  Not food wise—cleaning wise.  I had to clean out every drawer in my room, surfaces and closet. Now I wonder if Nelson even went into my room.  I only recall him eating on the patio.

The Dodgers had only just moved from Brooklyn and didn’t yet have their own stadium. We went to the L.A. Coliseum.  The one built for the 1932 Olympics.

It was my first date.  Dad, Nelson, The Dodgers and Don Drysdale.