ENTRY 5

OH XMAS TREE, DARN XMAS TREE

When I started elementary school, drawing, painting, and being creative in any way, shape, or form,  was a big deal. I  went to a public school for children with physical disabilities. I was struggling with learning to print my name on the blackboard. Draw? No way. There weren't any Special Ed. classes for teachers in the sixties.  My first-grade teacher was clueless.

Gone were my carefree days of preschool. (It was called nursery school in the sixties.)  UCP's nursery school was held in Cardinal Glennon Children's  Hospital. I went three mornings a week from age three to age six. My teachers did not care how my finger-painted picture looked. They did not care if I simply rolled the cool modeling clay around in my hands without trying to make anything. And, blowing soap bubbles was about who could make their glasses overflow with bubbles first.  It was fun with a dose of learning mixed in. 

I was too little to realize that one of my nursery school teachers also had cerebral palsy. She could not use one of her arms very well. She walked with a limp. She was a role in us whether we knew it or not I have fond memories of both teachers. I stayed an extra year. The extra year allowed me to go from nursery school right into first grade. 

I don't remember much about my attempt to paint a picture that day in first grade.   All  I remember are the colors blue, and green, and a big glob of light pink running down the page. My teacher was not happy with my effort.  

Learning to use an electric typewriter changed my life. I didn't have to be ashamed of my chicken scratch printing anymore. I could do my assignments. I could keep up with my classmates. All was right in my world. Until...

I was told to draw a Christmas tree using my typewriter. UGH. Would it ever end?  A high school girl, who was at least ten years older than I was, could not use her hands, but she was able to type using a headpiece with a pencil turned upside sticking out of the end of it.  Her typed drawings were featured in the school's newspaper. If she could draw, then so could I.

My typed drawing was the front of a Christmas card for my parents.

X backspace X  Oops. How did that X get out of line?  Oops. that X is out of line too. Start over. A fresh piece of paper  I am ready. I turn on my typewriter. It begins to hum. X backspace X

X backspace, Backspace X. Oops.  It was no use.No matter what I did my drawing was full of mistakes.  My teacher affixed my mistake-riddled tree to red and green construction paper. It was a card only parents could love.

Each year, when my mom got her Christmas cards out, I'd see the card I had made. She'd kept it. Cheesy red and green construction paper boasting a crooked tree made with Xs.  My mom kept it because I had done the best I could. That's all that mattered to her