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10A I DAWSON COUNTY NEWS I dawsonnews.com
Wednesday, August 1,2018
I hope more children know they are loved
I always get nostalgic this
time of year.
There was something so
special and magical about
the beginning of a new
school year.
Brand new notebooks
with clean, crisp pages. The
fresh packs of pencils. The
coveted big box of Crayolas
that made you the queen of
the classroom.
To me, the start of the
school year was exciting
and magical, a welcomed
end to the boredom of sum
mer.
One of my favorite things
was getting to meet my new
teacher.
Of course, the bar had
been set high in kindergar
ten by Mrs. Howard. She
was the litmus test by which
every teacher and most
humans must pass, with her
sense of humor, compassion
and encouragement.
She made me love school.
If I could have stayed in
kindergarten with her as my
teacher forever, I would
have.
First grade, however,
almost ruined my love for
school.
This one teacher - one -
tainted my whole school
experience.
And she was bad enough
that Mama still holds a spite
and grudge against her to
this day.
“She should have never
been around children!”
Mama will exclaim any
time the woman’s name is
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
mentioned.
I agree, but I don’t quite
hold a grudge against her
like Mama does. But then
again, I am the child in this
scenario; I am sure my per
spective would be different
if I was in Mama’s position.
This wretched woman did
several things throughout
my first-grade year that
gave Mama good and justi
fied reasons to dislike her.
“Stronger than dislike,
Kitten,” Mama will remind
me. “I cannot stand that
woman.”
Now, what would possi
bly set my mild-mannered,
kind-hearted Mama off like
this? The woman whose
favorite mantra was “there
but by the grace of God go
I?”
Well, let me tell you, it
was not pretty, but it may
not have been the most dra-
matic of events.
It was a primary school
straw on a camel’s back.
My introduction to first
grade left me wondering if
one could possibly flunk out
of school due to erroneous
paper folding. I never suc
cessfully folded the con
struction paper in the certain
manner this horrid teacher
wanted.
I didn’t say a word to
Mama; instead, I begged
Granny to help me fix it.
If anyone could fix some
thing that involved paper,
fabric, or anything related to
crafts, it was Granny. I am
fairly certain she could have
built a house with a needle
and thread.
Granny helped me inter
pret the directions, which
we followed explicitly. The
teacher still said it was
wrong.
“Now she’s saying I did it
wrong, and I don’t make no
mistakes!” Granny said.
“There ain’t no pleasing this
woman.”
She wasn’t wrong.
We followed the direc
tions, but she insisted it was
still wrong.
A classmate did it the
same way, yet this woman
did not admonish her the
way she did me.
“Maybe you need to go
back to kindergarten,” she
said to me one day.
“Will you stay in first
grade?” I asked.
“Yes,” the bitter woman
replied.
“OK.”
I wanted away from her.
I had no idea how or why
she disliked me so. I was a
chubby little woblin of a
child and eager to make
adults happy. Usually,
teachers loved me.
But this woman hated me.
She had even told me on
the first day of school she
had hoped I wasn’t going to
be in her class.
What kind of adult does
that? What was wrong with
her?
Of course, my beloved
Mrs. Howard was teaching
first grade that year and I
had hoped and prayed, to
the point of negotiating with
God I would give up all
things Littie Debbie, to have
Mrs. Howard again
Instead I got this shrew.
Mama was right, she had
no business being around
small children.
One day, we had to color
a picture for fire safety
week. We could color the
house any color we wanted,
as long as the fire and the
fire truck were red.
My house was my favor
ite color: purple.
Not pink, which I have
never cared for. Not white,
not brown.
Purple. See, long before I
fell in love with anything
Prince, I loved the color
purple.
So, my house was purple.
My fire was red - even
though fire is really not red
but more of a yellow-orange
hue.
And my fire truck was
red.
The two requirements
were met.
The teacher refused to
hang mine on the hall with
the rest of my classmates,
declaring in front of the
class that no houses any
where in the U.S. of A were
purple.
“Your mother will not be
proud of what you did
because I will not hang it
out on the hall with every
one else,” the woman told
me.
I shrugged. “That’s okay,
my Mama is proud of me
anyway.”
“No, she’s not,” the
woman sneered. “Your pic
ture will not be allowed to
be displayed in the hall.
How could she be proud of
failure?”
Even though I was a kid, I
knew beyond a shadow of a
doubt, my Mama was proud
of me whether my painting
made the hall display or not.
That didn’t earn my
Mama’s love or praise.
Years later, I was standing
in the drugstore with my
friends Laura and Jane
when that horrid woman
walked by. She greeted both
while ignoring me.
“She still hates you,” Jane
said shocked.
As a new school year
starts, this experience
always comes to mind
because I know there are
more Mrs. Howards in
classrooms than there is that
horrible woman.
But, I hope, more than
anything, there are more
children knowing they are
loved and worthy beyond
just what gets hung in the
halls.
Sudie Crouch is an award winning humor
columnist and author of the recently
e-published novel, "The Dahlman Files: A
Tony Dahlman Paranormal Mystery."
Back to Rural Route 1
RONDARICH
Columnist
When I was a child
growing up, our address
was simply Rural Route
One. Our road had no
proper name and, for the
first five years of my life,
we shared a phone line
with others.
It was called a party
line. It rang distinctively
for each family so when
the phone shrilled, Mama
would always say, “Wait.
Let’s count the rings and
see if it’s ours.”
I believe our signal was
two short rings and one
long one. When I was six
and we were awarded a
private line by the phone
company, it was a happy
day. Especially since our
party line had been
shared by my first grade
teacher and once she,
rightly, suspected that I
had been listening in on
her conversation. In my
mind, I was doing noth
ing wrong. I was simply
doing what I do today - I
was gathering stories for
retelling.
The best part about
having a private line was
that I was then able to
call a local bank that had
a recording that answered
with a rooster crowing
then announced the time
and temperature. That
rooster was the only per
son I knew to call.
In those days, we never
locked the doors. There
was no air conditioning
so we counted on the
opened windows, doors,
shade trees, and the gen
tle breeze that would drift
in from the creek for
cooling. It is impossible
to cast a number on the
summer nights that we
slept with the doors
opened wide, the cool
ness of the evening and
the smell of honeysuckle
vines flowing through the
screen doors. We slept
soundly and securely.
There was no fear.
When I was 11, we
took the only trip of my
childhood to visit family
who had escaped the
hopelessness of the
mountains to find work in
West Virginia. Before we
left, no one could find a
key for the house because
it had never been locked
so, for two weeks, it was
left open. When we
returned, the grass needed
mowing but nothing in
our home had been
touched.
When Mama and
Daddy grew older, per
haps because their
advanced age made them
less certain that Daddy
could grab his shotgun
quick enough, they began
to lock the doors. Times
had changed. They had
three phones, a machine
that answered if they
were unavailable, city
water lines replaced the
long, trusty well and the
quiet road in front of their
house had grown busier.
It was given a name and
my childhood home was
anointed with a number.
The address of Rural
Route One would soon
fade into the memories of
some while it would
never to be known by
many.
Sometimes, I’ll be sur
prised at the things that
people don’t know. How
they never heard tell of
Clark Gable or Hank
Williams or how WSM
radio in Nashville was
once owned by a large
insurance company, or
that the call letters stand
for “We Shield Millions.”
Sometimes, when people
look dumbfounded at me
and say, “Who is that?”, I
reply, “Well, I grew up on
Rural Route One and I
know who that is.”
Particularly, I like to
say that to people in New
York City or Los Angeles.
Things are a lot differ
ent at Mama and Daddy’s
house now. I go there to
find a quiet place to write
because I still love the
smell of the honeysuckle
vines, the banging of the
screen door, and the feel
of a phone that is corded,
anchored to the wall.
Now, there is an alarm
system with cameras and
motion detectors that alert
Tink’s cell phone. We can
talk to people at the front
door by video camera.
And, to top that off,
Deputy Calvin keeps a
close eye on the place,
leaving us notes that he
signs C.O.P. That means
Calvin on Patrol.
It may have a proper
name and address now
but it will always be
sweet Rural Route One to
me.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of
Mark My Words: A Memoir of Mama.
Visitwww.rondarich.com to sign up for
her free weekly newsletter.
NOTICE
There will be a quorum of the Dawson
County Board of Commissioners held in
the Assembly Room at the Dawson County
Government Center located at 25 Justice Way,
Dawsonville, Georgia, on the following dates
and times for the purpose of FY 2019 budget
hearings. The public is welcome to attend.
August 6-9, 2018- 9 a.m. to noon
August 13-16, 2018- 9 a.m. to noon
j
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