My first grade teacher at Wallace School, Miz. Marbel Currie taught me everything I needed to know. Anything else I learned was by accident.......
First, she taught me to listen, ask permission to speak by raising my hand (very trying). With my family so large and all having something to say, I hadn't developed the skill of listening or waiting to speak. We all talked at once (Grissett side) and somehow learned to winnow important information. Mama & Daddy were tired and just let us run with it. Most talking was around the kitchen table as we sopped, slurped, spilled and generally shoved it in, as talk came out. Worked for us.
Miz. Currie tried to teach me personal grooming and public demeanor. "Earline, don't chew your plaits, your collar, your sash, and for heaven's sake keep your dress tail down". Mama was on Miz. Currie's side from the get go. Maybe I could be salvaged after all.
Secondly, she taught me the ABC's, numbers, colors, how to cut with scissors, stay inside the lines, spell and print my name, recite the Pledge Of Allegiance and The Lords Prayer. Everyday, front of the day and on Monday at Chapel in the auditorium with grades one through twelve. Somehow I felt pride in that ritual. This was imprinted in my DNA. I loved putting my hand over my heart, looking at that flag as the drone of youthful voices filled that old sacred place. Pride, honor and Love, That is what it was.
Miz. Currie ran a tight ship. September 1947 she opened her classroom door to forty some odd little country bumpkins with no worry of political correctness. She could snatch up one of us by a skinny little arm, pull us into the cloakroom for some understanding without repercussions. A well worn, board paddle with a hole carved into the center was the final straw for her. I never got introduced to that paddle, but once as I saw a need to break line on the way to the lunchroom, go back a ways to chatter with my friend, Miz. Currie bent down next to me, slapped a stinging on my leg that I never felt. The humiliation of that correction stayed with me. I couldn't eat my peas that day.
If we Smith kids got in trouble at school, we were in trouble at home. We had no telephone, but the message was delivered at the super table that night with a smirk and smile. Older and younger siblings listened to the playground gossip which spread like lice and was shared with the family as a sacred duty.
Daddy fixed it and it hurt.
To this day I feel the thrill and wonder of learning to read. Miz Currie opened a world to me with letters when strung together made words. Those words helped explain to me, stories that the pictures in that big old Alice and Jerry book sitting on the easel was telling. Mother and Father, Dick and Jane, Spot and Muff, on to Down The River Road. I loved reading, figuring out a new word, light bulb over my head moments. When we were allowed to start bringing our reader home to practice, I sat by the fire to read for Mama and Daddy. I could feel the love! With so many babies in our family, I kept my book safe by hiding it between the mattress of my bed. Babies gnaw books.
With three older siblings and three younger at that time, I was the middle biscuit. No rank from the top, no sympathy from the bottom. Simply there. A tomboy! I never liked housework so Mama assigned my to the great outdoors. I mostly hung out with my second oldest brother, Humpy. I did however, have to drag around my baby brother Buddy. Mama needed relief from Buddy as she had a toddler and a new baby to attend along with all the other drudgery. I really liked to have Buddy with us as he got a pass as Mama and Daddy's baby boy and in turn allowances were made for the two of us that wouldn't have been otherwise. My oldest brother wasn't interested in me so, Buddy and Humpy and I got the fun done. Humpy taught me to make a pea shooter, tom walkers, water mills, rollermen, clackers and bow-n-arrows. Two things that were Smith kids inventions need explaining here. Rollermen were made with using a tin syrup bucket filled with sand and the lid stomped on tight so as to allow hard playing. A piece of bailing wire was run through the lid into the bottom of the bucket, through a wooden handle and secured with a good twist. We pulled these contraptions aimlessly for hours. Mud holes were good for dragging a rollerman through to make curtains of muddy water. Clackers were Pure Oil cans, stomped onto our sturdy oxfords where they would curl and clamp to our shoes. Stomping and clacking on the blacktop pavement in our front lane was loud and wonderful. Daddy didn't like the thought of scuffing our shoes, but he knew fun when he saw it, so let it be. My life at home was great and I had all the companionship I could bare, but school was beyond wonderful.
Christmas 1947 was a magical time for me. Miz. Currie gave to us drawings of Santa Claus to be colored and hung on the blackboard for all to see and judge. I tried very hard to stay inside the lines because I craved attention and approval from Miz. Currie. Rudolph, sleigh, big Christmas tree with draped garland, all colors of ornaments and the shiny star on top. We got to take our Christmas art home for the holiday break. I pasted it onto the windows, and the bedpost. Mama, not wanting to break my spirit, let it stay.
We had drawn names for gift exchange and the anticipation was almost unbearable. I had to squeeze to keep from wetting my pants as names were called to the tree for their present. My distant cousin Joyce Grissett had drawn my name and her mama had bought a little book from the five and dime in Brewton for my gift from Joyce. I owned a book. To this day, I can still feel that shiny cover book, smell the book, the pages, the binding. Whatever happened to that little book is lost to the ages. I will forever remember, "The Book".
Valentine's Day was celebrated with exchanges of sweet declarations of love. Girls gave them to girls, boys to boys, girls to boys and boys to girls. We stuffed the red colored crepe paper covered box with our offerings and hoped for popularity to reign in being the winner in getting the most. Light bulb moment! Mama found enough pennies to buy about ten valentines each for me and my siblings. I used Blue Horse lined note paper to make up the deficit. Best of all was the red icing cookies and strawberry Koolaid we got to enjoy that day of LOVE.
Easter brought another day of celebrating. We had cut out bunnies and flowers and pretty decorated eggs to string along the blackboard. Miz Currie read the Easter story to us and explained the meaning of the cross. We enjoyed a loud and rowdy egg hunt before we stuffed faces with cupcakes topped with jelly beans nestled in green coconut grass.
God is good and so was Miz Currie.
May rolled around and we were moving on up. We had earned an end of year party that was promised to be celebrated at the little creek which crossed under the railroad trestle running north in Wallace. Miz. Currie advised us to bring a sandwich for our picnic lunch, The big day arrived and we trekked down to Gilmore's store where we were told to pick out a soda of our choice and a moon pie. Not flush with money that day, I got and held a pucker at that announcement until Miz. Currie told us that all charges had been paid. I never knew if she paid or if Mr. Ollie treated us. My heart, that special day was young and gay. The creek had clear water running over sand pebbles in about a foot deep and ten foot wide area. We took off our socks and shoes to wade about, girls lifting our dress tails with sashes trailing in the water, boys rolled deep cuffs in their pants. Boys splashed water, caught minnow and crayfish to chase after the girls with. The party dissolved into a soggy, screaming, happy fest. With all the splashing and dislodging of clumps of gray clay, the pebble bottomed stream turned cloudy as a hog wallow.
I can still remember Miz. Currie sitting at a distance, the ever present yellow pencil stuck through her rat rolled hair, with a wisp of a smile on her face, watching us have fun.
I wonder if she ever knew what a wonderful legacy she left to us--especially me.
Miz. Currie is in my heart until my last breath, she will be a precious memory as long as my gray matter stays intact.
RIP MIZ. MARBLE CURRIE
