Roger Jones

Classroom, with Pictures

A walk up that not so long street led to the two-story stately brick school building where we began – stone pillars like a temple, large trees outside, scotched with fall colors. Mrs. Nelson was rarely there, always gone, it seemed, a pert young sub forever filling in for her. Maybe Mrs. N returned briefly that year; maybe she was too ill. One day Miss O told us to keep Mrs. N in our prayers. Then she told us to put on our coats because it was dark outside, and fall. She sat down at the upright piano and taught us to sing “Open Up Your Bumbershoot!” We sang not knowing what it meant or what was next. Soon enough, the bell sounded. We thundered down the hall, amid louder voices, out the big double door into cold straight rain.

first grade
smells of a crayon box
corn gold      apple red      burnt umber