A Monday memory....

Mothers vs Teachers

The photo above from 1916 is of my paternal grandmother and my father, who was then six years old.  There were thirteen years separating he and his older sister, with four children having been born in between.  From what little my father knew, none of those four children lived beyond the age of two, and the reasons for their deaths is not known to me.

As a result, you can imagine how protective my grandmother would have been of my father, particularly in those early years.  He often related stories of her spending hours preparing nourishing foods for him and watching over him closely.  One story in particular came to mind the other day and I will attempt to recall the details.

My father was born at home and raised in Brooklyn, New York.  His parents lived in an apartment, which must have been on at least the second story, as he mentioned the "L" train being almost level with it in those days. One morning, I believe during the first week of a new school year when my father was in first grade, my grandmother was busying herself washing windows.  Having taken the time to walk her precious son to school, carefully negotiating the busy streets of growing traffic in 1920, she was perched on the ledge of one of her open apartment widows so as to reach the outside for a proper job of cleaning.  Looking down for a moment, who should she spy but her darling boy, walking down the street.  She immediately shouted down to him to "stay right where you are."

As quickly as she could manage, she flew out of her apartment, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.  Horrified to find her child no longer safely in school but rather wandering outside unattended, she quickly inquired as to what on earth he was doing. My father was pleased to announce that his teacher had entrusted him with a job.  He had been directed to go to a nearby shop, with money she had provided, to pick something up for her.  

I'm sure many of you can imagine her reaction to that news.  She immediately took him by the hand, marched right back to his school, and straight into his classroom.  My grandmother then told the surprised teacher, in front of the entire class and in no uncertain terms, that she was never to send her son on an errand for her again.

My father could not remember the specific words used during their little exchange, but he recalled that the teacher did not choose him again for any further "trips" outside the classroom.   The twinkle in his eye when he would recount the entire episode led me to believe he was quite proud of himself, both because the teacher had entrusted him with a mission and that he had managed to get as far as he did without incident.  

I, on the other hand, feel complete sympathy for his mother and the fright she surely had suffered.

I suspect the teacher was equally frightened that day too.