6th grade. We used to pledge allegiance to the flag, sing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”, and then say a short prayer for the day. Teachers wore ties and dress shirts, or dresses. We looked like little ladies and gentleman in our Brady Bunch, polyester “good” clothes. This was in regular, public elementary school. Girls had a “hush, hush” film we watched – boys were ushered out! – about menstruation. We felt scared and excited for it to happen. Sex Ed? That was it!

But guess what? No girl got pregnant at 13. No one knew how to get on drugs if they wanted to. We were hooked on Jolly Ranchers and Pac-Man.

We played outside until dark and then you heard moms around the neighborhood calling kids. We screeched back “Coming mom!” at the top of our lungs. (Back then, we had a healthy respect (okay FEAR) of our moms.) Moms ruled the roost and you knew it. Kids were lowest on the pecking order which made sense to us. You knew your place, along with “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” But moms were the best. They gave us brilliant birthday parties with balloons!, amazing cakes!, and crepe paper! Sometimes all our friends came too and if so there was punch (I still love “party punch”), tons of amazing presents, and all kinds of games, inside and out.

Moms made us special soup, mine was my Granny’s recipe, when we were sick. They took care of everything, moms did. I can smell hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids as I write this. They were there when school let out and as soon as we spied our family car (with Mom inside) we would bolt like young stallions to that sedan!

The entire family ate together, all 4 of us, every single night. To not do so, to any of us kids, would have been puzzling. We were told to “Wash up!” and that meant dinner was about to be put on the table. We put the “pedal to the metal” at that juncture with soapy hands and hairbrushes all akimbo.

The one lovely exception was because a neighborhood friend invited one of us over for dinner. This was a big deal. Phone calls ensued between the moms (“Are you SURE it is no trouble?) Ultimately, this polite exchange sealed the deal. My best friend’s mom was a divine cook. She had tea glasses with Japanese ladies in kimonos on them. They fascinated me. More than anything, Mrs. Thompson made a Cherry Cheese Cake that was simply Mine. It existed for me alone, I knew it. It was the culinary highlight of my young life’s dining experiences. I would give any sum for all the incredible dishware and serving ware, including the kimono glasses, from my youth. (I collect vintage tableware now. Never made the connection, consciously, ’til I wrote this.)

Well, this was in a small city in Texas. Maybe it was just our halcyon bubble, but everything turned out alright for everyone, whether they left town after graduation or stayed. I’d love another day like 6th grade, just one day, now. I would love that feeling of wholesomeness, innocence, un-selfconsciousness. Of such anticipation for no reason, just laughing and running wild down the street…with windy-haired, shoe-untied, gap-toothed joy.