The school year of 1938 was when I attended the First Grade at Saint Gregory's in Baltimore, Maryland. I have two photographs somewhere, in a box, which I haven't seen for several years. One is of me standing in front of the nun who taught my First Grade class, the other is of a blonde haired girl standing in front of the same nun. My mother told me that the blonde was my girl friend. I've never been able to remember having a girl friend nor what that girl's name was. I used to recall the nun's name, but haven't for a few decades.
The classroom was at the back of, and faced the front of, the school building. At the front of the room, to left of the teacher's desk, was a doorway to an outside stair to the ground level. To the right was a door to a hall and the rest of the school. Large windows filled most of the left side and the back of the room, where there were large cabinets which contained various books, paper, pencils and other things we would use from time to time. Somehow, I was one of a couple students charged with taking from the cabinets, whatever was needed at the time, passing it out and collecting it when we were finished using it.
At first I wasn't too sure about this school thing. The teacher looked down at the class from her desk and said that there were too many boys named John in the class. I felt strange because I was one of those boys. Then, she looked right at me and said, "I'll call you Paul." What could I to say to that? I said nothing. My whole being was screaming, "My name is John. I don't want to be called Paul, that's my middle name." Although I came to like my teacher, that was one thing she did, aside from all the good things that got me started in my school career, which has had a permanent effect on me. It's not that I've dwelled on it or that it's given me any big psychological problems but, deep in the recesses of my mind, that little boy still cringes when he hears the name of Paul. I know that there's no reason for me to feel this way, I just do and with no animosity to anyone.
One Friday, when I came home from school, I showed my mother a book the teacher had given each of us to read over the weekend. It went something like:
"Look Mommy. Sister wants me to read this book about a boy named Led."
"Led? No, Junior, his name is Ned.".
"No, Mommy, it's Led. Sister said Led."
"Junior, it's Ned. I'm going to keep the book until you say Ned."
"But Mommy, I have to have the book so I can read it before Monday."
"Just say Ned and you can have it back."
I fretted all through Friday night, through Saturday and into Sunday morning. I have a very clear picture of my sister, Rosalie (two years younger than me), and me sitting on the floor playing with some blocks. She asked me when I was going to say Ned and I answered with something like, "But it's Led, not Ned." Suddenly it hit me, I had said, "Ned." I jumped up and ran to my mother excitedly yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, I said it. I said 'Ned'." She gave me the book. I read it in time to go back to school Monday. My assignment had been completed.
I think of Led every now and again and on a weekend in July 1999, while at the Carroll County Farmers Market in Westminster, Maryland, my attention was drawn to the cover of a book laying on a vender's table. The title, "Little Ned Stories 1" brought back the First Grade memories. The author, Edward Allan Faine, was there giving a presentation to children (and anyone else interested) on writing stories and publishing them. I listened while he spoke with a small group of Girl Scouts, then told him about the boy named Led and bought a copy of the book. There are three stories in the book and it looks like it would make a nice present for either boy or girl. No, it's not my Ned (Led); these are new stories with no connection.
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