There was no getting rid of Mrs. Smith, a crabby sort of woman who had once fallen on school property and been seriously hurt - which made them afraid to ask her to retire. (That was my mother's story - it was before my time.) I envied the kids in the one other kindergarten class downstairs in the basement. They had mats to roll out and nap on. They had a young teacher full of enthusiasm and sympathy. Okay, maybe I made that part up, but they did nap on mats on the floor. My first grade boyfriend, Marty, told me about it. Upstairs in Mrs. Smith's classroom we had to put our heads down on our desk, resting on our crossed arms. Any deviation from this during our "nap" time resulted in a resounding "U" for Unsatisfactory on a report card. I have one "U" for this infraction. Granted, I lifted my head and switched arm positions in a mocking, defiant way, but it was enough punishment to have the Wrath of Smith come down on me and shake me by the shoulders without also ruining a perfect "S" record.
Mrs. Smith expected trouble from me because my sister had been nothing but trouble. She was trouble in class, trouble at home. If you looked in any dictionary in the mid-twentieth century under "trouble," you'd see her picture ... along with several things she was pressing and had forgotten about. Mrs. Smith not only expected me to behave like my sister, she called me by her name the whole year. For an entire kindergarten year, I was Anne. This only slightly bothered me because I was called that at home as well. My mother would go through the names of her friends, the dog, and my sister before remembering mine. At least she never called me "Shoppie" or "Bill," two names for my father. However, the dog's name was "Tommy." That stung.
Back in the old days, school supplies were limited. In kindergarten we didn't need to supply our own, they were kept in the Supply Cupboard. In this magic cupboard were hideously blunted scissors, a white substance called "paste" (I didn't use mucilage until I was fully 22), that thick paper with lines for practicing writing, construction paper, and clay. Before I get to the clay, I want to go over crafts in general in kindergarten. If we were going to make anything, we all had to make the same thing. That's okay. I understand that. I do crafts with kids myself. Too many choices can paralyze a child. Mrs. Smith made sure we had everything ready: all pieces cut out and ready to paste. When we were ready to paste, we had to stand in line and go up to her to show her the layer of paste before we were allowed to stick anything together. No one ever got this right. The paste always needed smoothing out with her finger and often a complaint of "You've got it all bumpy with little pickles!" Yes, it was bumpy, but those "little pickles" were actually bits of paste that had dried while waiting in line to be inspected. I still have a card I made for my mom from this experience. My mother saved it, and I hold onto it as a reminder of What Not To Do when sharing artsandcrafts with kids.
Now, let me get to the clay story. I don't remember the exact day of the week, but one day was designated "Clay Day." On that day, let's say Tuesday, we would line up outside the Supply Cupboard and Mrs. Smith would hand out a ball of clay, all of them equal in size, to each child. This clay was made from many colors of clay that had all mixed together over the years but bits of yellow, blue, and red seeped out here and there in that brown. We would all return to our desks and Mrs. Smith would tell us what we were now allowed to make. The (alleged) Tuesday in question, the goal was a cat.
First, you had to work the clay to get it soft again. You had to squash it down onto the desk with your tiny five year old hand, turn it, and squash it again. Once it was warmed up and malleable, you could start modeling with it. I had a book at home that showed the various implements used in modeling clay that poked or shaved. We had to use our little fingers to improve our fine motor skills - and, besides, anything pointy in a child's hand is just an accident waiting to happen. I worked hard on my cat. I strangled the clay to create a neck and head. I pinched ears onto it. I pinched and pinched and formed a tail. I was about done with pinching some front paws onto it when I happened to look up at one of my classmates at a desk one ahead of me and to my left. She had taken an entirely different approach! After softening the clay, she had torn off pieces of it and rolled them into balls or snakes of different sizes and was now building a clay version of a snowcat! Brilliant! Little triangular ears were being put on as a finishing touch when a huge vision of tweed obscured my view.
"That's not how you do it! You're supposed to make it out of one piece!" There was a slamming noise as Mrs. Smith's palm squashed the little girl's efforts. "Start over!" was the command, and Mrs. Smith lumbered onward. I couldn't see her face, but the little girl's rigid posture told all. She started over eventually. Her hands may have trembled or maybe I'm making that up. I looked at my own wonky clay cat and decided that I was glad I had done it the "right way." But that other way looked easier and more fun.
Moral: Please don't do this to kids.
The end.
