For some of us the great thing about grade school was the daily captive audience, with weekends off to develop new material.
The phenomenon of Show and Tell in particular was an opportunity I did my best not to waste.
I brought in my mother’s baton and tried to duplicate her moves as a former majorette. I presented my occasional poem, written in my best imitation of Ogden Nash (“History is a mystery/It makes me so forlorn/After all, why shouldn’t it?/It happened before I was born.” To this day I don’t know whether I actually wrote that, as I long believed, or whether it was a case of cryptomnesia -- inadvertent creative theft. Either way, it really went over). Although it was a classmate who read my epic poem about bowling; I’d refused, not wanting to be exposed in the event someone who’d actually been bowling spoke up correctively.
Then I came upon a treasure trove that was to be my guarantee of perpetual Show and Tell dazzlement. An avid outdoor explorer of limited geographical range, I discovered a patch in our backyard that somehow regularly produced four-leaf clovers -- sometimes five- and even six-leafers!
Toxic waste bed? Caffeinated leprechauns? Who cares -- we’re going to Show and Tell!
I took them to school flattened in books. I carried them in my hand or pocket. I brought them lining the rims of little, water-filled paper cups, trying not to spill on the bus. They never traveled well.
But the reason I finally stopped bringing my miraculous overflow of clovers to Show and Tell was my classmates’ mysteriously waning interest. What didn’t they get?
I could only conclude finally that I was making them sad, since -- it was obvious -- I was going to be the LUCKIEST GIRL EVER.
The phenomenon of Show and Tell in particular was an opportunity I did my best not to waste.
I brought in my mother’s baton and tried to duplicate her moves as a former majorette. I presented my occasional poem, written in my best imitation of Ogden Nash (“History is a mystery/It makes me so forlorn/After all, why shouldn’t it?/It happened before I was born.” To this day I don’t know whether I actually wrote that, as I long believed, or whether it was a case of cryptomnesia -- inadvertent creative theft. Either way, it really went over). Although it was a classmate who read my epic poem about bowling; I’d refused, not wanting to be exposed in the event someone who’d actually been bowling spoke up correctively.
Then I came upon a treasure trove that was to be my guarantee of perpetual Show and Tell dazzlement. An avid outdoor explorer of limited geographical range, I discovered a patch in our backyard that somehow regularly produced four-leaf clovers -- sometimes five- and even six-leafers!
Toxic waste bed? Caffeinated leprechauns? Who cares -- we’re going to Show and Tell!
I took them to school flattened in books. I carried them in my hand or pocket. I brought them lining the rims of little, water-filled paper cups, trying not to spill on the bus. They never traveled well.
But the reason I finally stopped bringing my miraculous overflow of clovers to Show and Tell was my classmates’ mysteriously waning interest. What didn’t they get?
I could only conclude finally that I was making them sad, since -- it was obvious -- I was going to be the LUCKIEST GIRL EVER.
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