Fifth grade

For fifth grade my school divided us into three classes. We spent most of our time in our homeroom class, but switched classrooms for specific subjects. Miss Lipp was my homeroom teacher, tall, slender, wearing polyester slacks close at the hip and wide at the ankle. I liked those slacks. Years later, when I reached my full height, I wore slacks like those, bought at yardsales, long out of style. I loved my turquoise slacks, but my favorite was canary yellow. I looked good in them, and I knew it, with a secure stylish flair, not caring that the fashion icons had decreed wide pleated hips and tight ankles by then.

Mr. Harris taught reading, by fifth grade a branch of literature more than the mechanics of reading. He stated with the firmness of solid belief, that no one could ever read aloud perfectly. This set my back up. We were the A class; several of us read very well, and finally he awarded someone a 99 percent. My turn came a little later. I read as though my heart were in my mouth, my soul in my ears, persuasion and nuance dripping with feeling. When I finished, there was a long, a very long, silence. At last he announced my score, 99 point 9 percent. I felt disgusted. Stuck up proud man, too proud to admit he was beaten.

Mrs. Boyle taught the third class, history I think. She had the C class as her homeroom, and she was very good with them. She encouraged them and loved them and humbly listened; she patiently taught. When I met her again years later, she asked if my children were in Greybull schools. I told her, a little abashed, that I was homeschooling. I felt embarrassed, as though homeschooling were passing judgment on her. But she said, “If anyone can do it, You can.” I tried to look humble and almost cried with relief. She was a joy to hear.