Janet Lynn Davis

Yet Another One

a long-rayed sun
above a box-shaped house
. . . and flowers,
always bright flowers
in my childhood art

A new wing to Horn Elementary had just been built. It was cooled by central air conditioning (unlike the rest of the school), its tiled walls and floors sparkled, and we were special. Our kindergarten class was among the first to occupy the building. Of course, we had the customary age-appropriate supplies: thick white school paste, dull-bladed scissors, Crayola crayons, Our Big Red Story Book, flat cardboard clocks for learning how to tell time. Activities included 15-minute naps, which in retrospect may have been devised to give the teacher a break. And once, maybe twice, we partook in a Cold War duck-and-cover atomic bomb drill, diving under our little desks as instructed. I recall feeling a bit anxious at the time, but I'd been raised to be obedient and figured it was something schoolkids were supposed to do.

That was back when we, as a nation, feared others more than ourselves.

'breaking news'
rarely interrupted
our TV shows . . .
those days of Mouseketeer ears
instead of massacres