I adored my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Seifert. She was in her twenties, had jet-black, medium-length bobbed hair, black-rimmed winged glasses and a delicate sweet smile. She connected with me in a way that no other teacher did and encouraged my writing and drawing.
Mrs. Seifert was tasked that second-grade year with the job of making sure I kept my glasses on my face. I had “lazy eye.” My left eye was not coordinated with my right. To solve this problem, I had to wear an eye patch for a while at home, then glasses at school.
I hated those glasses and would try to lose them. I remember going into that long coat closet at school, where we stored our puffy thermal snowsuit pants, heavy winter coats and black rubber galoshes, to tuck the offensive glasses them into someone else’s clothing or lay them against the wall.
Those galoshes fit over my Mary Jane shoes, but as my foot and shoe size grew, the galoshes became much harder to fit over them. It became a major struggle just to get on my clothing, including boots, in the mornings before the bus arrived. And because my parents couldn’t afford to get me a new pair of boots every time my feet increased in size, I sloshed through the slushy winter ice, slipping and sliding on slick soles once I outgrew them.
And, the winter outerwear routine at school, whenever we went outside for recess, was difficult. That was at least three times a day. Just imagine 30 second-graders, all needing to put on and take off their various snow outfits before and after morning, lunch and afternoon recess. Wow! My teacher must have spent a good 30-40 minutes a day helping kids into and out of their winter attire.
It seemed that Mrs. Seifert somehow always found those stray eyeglasses. I was bound and determined to get rid of them, until my parents lectured me about the importance of keeping them on my face. Did I want to have a permanent “wandering” eye?
I finally admitted, somewhat remorsefully, that I had tried to lose them, and promised to wear the dang things.
Melted heart
I planned to give Mrs. Seifert a chocolate heart for Valentine’s Day. Mom drove me to the Rexall Drugstore on Broadway Avenue in Moses Lake, handed me several dollar bills, and told me to go in by myself to purchase the chocolate heart. I pleaded with her to come in with me, to no avail.
I was timid; it was a considerable effort for me to go into a store alone and buy that heart in a shiny foil-red Valentine box. But I did.
When I got it home, I realized that the sun had melted the front of the heart and made it look “old.” It was now the dappled light brownish color that chocolate turns when it is not fresh, has been sitting in the sun. No longer that gloriously luxurious, deep-chocolate brown.
I sobbed. I didn’t want to give it to my teacher. So mother drove me back to that store, commanded me to go in and exchange it. I stood on the sidewalk facing the store for some time. Mustering courage, I finally went inside and over to the clerk.
“I need to exchange this heart. It’s not good,” I pronounced. I pointed to the ruined chocolate and showed her my receipt.
The drugstore clerk’s ruby red lips flapped noisily as she chewed a piece of bubble gum and her head bobbed from side to side in a taunt. She asserted with a smirk, “Just turn it around in the box so that your teacher won’t be able to see the melted side.”
I wasn’t about to argue. I slunk outside, back to the car, with that same heart in my hand. Oh, how I wished that Mom had come in and taken care of it for me!
I’m pretty sure that I never gave Mrs. Seifert that heart. Looking back on this episode, I can understand that my parents wanted me to stand up for myself; but I was only 8 years old and extremely shy.
I suppose one could argue that that incident made me into the independent person I am today. So I should have thanked Mom. But at 8 years old, all I could feel was anxiety and sadness that I couldn’t get my favorite teacher a decent gift for Valentine’s Day.
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