The Second Seven Years

 

My second cycle of seven years continued at our Houston home. I made my way through elementary school and entered seventh grade at Hamilton Junior High School. 

 

I remember lots of details about elementary school—seatwork in second grade, the Indian notebooks we made, getting in trouble for walking back to my seat doing a fancy little sidestep, going to "Rhythms" with Jerry Basden, playing hopscotch on the playground, getting the privilege of cleaning the chalkboard erasers in Mrs. Welhausen's third grade class, being the fastest person in third grade, answering extra credit "fish bowl" questions in fourth grade, using the encyclopedia, having a refugee from Cuba in our fourth grade class, practicing for nuclear attacks by sitting under our desks or in the hallway, winning seven blue ribbons for poetry writing in fifth grade, being the campaign manager for Arthur Santa Anna Centeno's bid for mayor of the school, hearing the news about President Kennedy's assassination while we were rehearsing "Pat-a-Pan" for the Christmas presentation, enjoying art in Mr. Vick's sixth grade class, winning a scholarship to the Museum of Fine Arts for drawing a picture of a pet store from a unique perspective, not being chosen to be hall monitor before school, being falsely accused of writing a dirty word on the wall of the girls' bathroom, singing the solo in "This is My Country" for the PTA program, dressing up for sixth grade graduation.

We made summer trips to Arkansas to visit relatives. There were no seatbelts and no air conditioning. It was a twelve-hour drive. We would leave early in the morning in the dark after my dad got off work. My mother made herself a purple sleeve with elastic at both ends to put over her arm so she wouldn’t get sunburned when she rested her arm on the window. She also made sacks to hang on the backs of the front seats for my brother and I to keep things in to occupy us on the long trip. She packed the ice chest with good things to eat at our roadside stops along the way. I remember fruit juices in little cans, Vienna sausages, crackers, and cheese. One year my grandmother went with us, and she fried a chicken for us. I think I got into that chicken before we got to Humble. I loved going to Arkansas. I loved all my relatives there. I loved swimming in James' Creek, exploring the spooky upstairs of Aunt Willene's house in Imboden, picking vegetables from Uncle Jewell's garden for a delicious vegetable soup that Aunt Vera made, the Fourth of July Picnic at the Portia school grounds, buying a flat of strawberries that smelled delicious all the way home to Texas, riding around with Uncle Hack in his sheriff's car picking out the farm I would buy when I grew up, sitting on the stool behind the meat counter with Uncle Shelby while we waited on customers at McLeod's grocery store.

 

At the end of my second cycle of seven, I was in eight grade at Hamilton Junior High in Mrs. Knebel’s home room. It was an awkward time, trying to find myself among a much larger group of students. In the mornings, we stood by the kumquat tree in front of the school and talked or made loops around the school, talking, waiting for the bell to ring, I took Mechanical Drawing. Robert was in that class. I liked English, and began to write some of those angsty teenage poems. I sewed most of my own clothes. Sometimes I would go to Cloth World on my way home from school, buy a pattern and a piece of fabric, go home and make a dress, and wear it to school the next day. I made myself some very fancy bell bottoms for “Go Western Day.” That was the only day we could wear pants to school. There were knife fights and bomb threats. There were a lot of scary things like remembering my locker combination and making it to the next class on time and changing out of my clothes into those puffy white gym suits in front of other people. The Beatles were very big and the Beach Boys and Mo Town. I remember laying in bed at night, listening to my transistor radio.