CREEK ROAD GANG
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Leaving Ithan
Jackie Kearinscopyright 2010
Ithan Elementary School sits on top of a hill in Radnor Township, Pennsylvania. The entrance road to the front driveway winds up and around a gentle rise that is covered in lush, green grass. The school was built in the 1960s to accommodate the tail end of the baby boom generation. The architecture is plain, as the structure favors function over form. Classrooms are fairly large, the library is small, the gym like any other, and the cafeteria doubles as an auditorium and thus is called a “cafetorium”. Despite the humdrum exterior of the building itself, one feels a certain energy, a buzz if you will, that follows and surrounds happy children. My kids were excited to be attending school there.
I was a Homeroom Mom for many years and loved to walk into the building and breathe in its scents. One would be enveloped by the smells of school: pencils and erasers, chalk, markers, leather bound books and sloppy Joe’s cooking in the lunchroom. There were bright colors and little voices everywhere. It all felt so familiar to me, as if was re-living my own childhood in those moments. Being “Homeroom Mom” meant that I spent a lot of time at the school helping with everything from organizing class parties to assisting with science experiments. I would sometimes complain about having to go the school, but once I walked in and saw my kid’s faces, all was well in my world. Everything about the elementary school experience felt safe and secure to me; the big yellow school busses, the protective staff, and the wonderful teachers who worked with the children.
First grade, second grade, grades three, four, and five, passed by, sometimes with my children overlapping in different grades. Years of concerts in the cafetorium and games played in the gym. Years of the annual Halloween Parade, when the children would dress up and march around the front drive wearing the costume of the latest cartoon, villain, or whatever silly outfit they chose. Years of the annual Holiday pageant, when the kids would sing about dreidels and snowmen while holding a Menorah or wearing reindeer costumes with antlers that always fell off. This heavenly span of time and innocence lasted about seven years in total for me.
I’m not really certain but I think that I became depressed on a school field trip around Christmas the year that my youngest son, Alex, would graduate from Ithan Elementary School. The school bus bumped and rattled while the kids sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of their voices and I felt sad. Sad that the children would probably never sing again with such wild abandon, with such utter lack of self-consciousness. All too soon, their faces would become pimpled, their teeth harnessed in metal for straightening, their voices would change and their bodies would burst and sprout. Soon I would lose Alex to the vast and dangerous worlds of middle school and high school, just as I had partially lost his siblings. He would join them in that all consuming world of computers and cell phones, academic and athletic competitions, and school dances and proms. He would be lost to a time and place where I knew he would never be so safe and protected again.
Thereafter, the time that I spent at Ithan became bittersweet in the way that some endings do. I would drive slowly up the hill watching the snow fall upon the brown, winter grass. Soon, April showers gave way to flora budding and blossoming everywhere. Then finally arrived a sure sign of summer; the children’s butterfly garden was in full bloom and the flowers were tempting the pretty insects with their fragrance.
The school had a little graduation ceremony for the children and most of the parents were in attendance. I felt a lump in my throat as my littlest boy, my Alex, went on stage to accept his diploma wearing a wide “I have too many teeth” grin. His real reason for being so happy would come after the ceremony when we would pick up his brother and sister and make our annual, first- day- of- summer trip to Mapes Toy Store. We’d walk the old, creaky, wooden floors and find treasures hidden in the tiniest of corners. We would buy baseballs and tennis balls and water pistols and colored chalk and a basketball that we hoped would last until September. I would quickly be reminded that for children, summer seemed to stretch out like a vast oasis of time and fun.
After graduation, Alex and I walked to our car.
“I’m really proud of you Alex, how does it feel to graduate from Fifth grade?”
“Feels like we have seven more grades left to go!” he laughed.
After making sure that his friends weren’t watching, I took his already sweaty, starting to get dirty, summer face in my hands and kissed him.
“What’s that for?”
“For you graduated from elementary school and for I love you.”
I took my time leaving Ithan that day, driving very slowly down the hill and just rolling over the speed bumps.
“Why you going so slow?” Alex asked.
“Just cuz I’m a little sad that you won’t be going to school here any more,” I said.
“Well, the school’ll still be here,” he reasoned, trying to cheer me up and get me to drive faster.
What my little guy couldn’t understand was that his graduation from elementary school meant that I had to graduate, too.
I rolled slowly over the last speed bump, out to the end of the driveway and on towards summer. Leaving Ithan felt almost like leaving home.
I was a Homeroom Mom for many years and loved to walk into the building and breathe in its scents. One would be enveloped by the smells of school: pencils and erasers, chalk, markers, leather bound books and sloppy Joe’s cooking in the lunchroom. There were bright colors and little voices everywhere. It all felt so familiar to me, as if was re-living my own childhood in those moments. Being “Homeroom Mom” meant that I spent a lot of time at the school helping with everything from organizing class parties to assisting with science experiments. I would sometimes complain about having to go the school, but once I walked in and saw my kid’s faces, all was well in my world. Everything about the elementary school experience felt safe and secure to me; the big yellow school busses, the protective staff, and the wonderful teachers who worked with the children.
First grade, second grade, grades three, four, and five, passed by, sometimes with my children overlapping in different grades. Years of concerts in the cafetorium and games played in the gym. Years of the annual Halloween Parade, when the children would dress up and march around the front drive wearing the costume of the latest cartoon, villain, or whatever silly outfit they chose. Years of the annual Holiday pageant, when the kids would sing about dreidels and snowmen while holding a Menorah or wearing reindeer costumes with antlers that always fell off. This heavenly span of time and innocence lasted about seven years in total for me.
I’m not really certain but I think that I became depressed on a school field trip around Christmas the year that my youngest son, Alex, would graduate from Ithan Elementary School. The school bus bumped and rattled while the kids sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of their voices and I felt sad. Sad that the children would probably never sing again with such wild abandon, with such utter lack of self-consciousness. All too soon, their faces would become pimpled, their teeth harnessed in metal for straightening, their voices would change and their bodies would burst and sprout. Soon I would lose Alex to the vast and dangerous worlds of middle school and high school, just as I had partially lost his siblings. He would join them in that all consuming world of computers and cell phones, academic and athletic competitions, and school dances and proms. He would be lost to a time and place where I knew he would never be so safe and protected again.
Thereafter, the time that I spent at Ithan became bittersweet in the way that some endings do. I would drive slowly up the hill watching the snow fall upon the brown, winter grass. Soon, April showers gave way to flora budding and blossoming everywhere. Then finally arrived a sure sign of summer; the children’s butterfly garden was in full bloom and the flowers were tempting the pretty insects with their fragrance.
The school had a little graduation ceremony for the children and most of the parents were in attendance. I felt a lump in my throat as my littlest boy, my Alex, went on stage to accept his diploma wearing a wide “I have too many teeth” grin. His real reason for being so happy would come after the ceremony when we would pick up his brother and sister and make our annual, first- day- of- summer trip to Mapes Toy Store. We’d walk the old, creaky, wooden floors and find treasures hidden in the tiniest of corners. We would buy baseballs and tennis balls and water pistols and colored chalk and a basketball that we hoped would last until September. I would quickly be reminded that for children, summer seemed to stretch out like a vast oasis of time and fun.
After graduation, Alex and I walked to our car.
“I’m really proud of you Alex, how does it feel to graduate from Fifth grade?”
“Feels like we have seven more grades left to go!” he laughed.
After making sure that his friends weren’t watching, I took his already sweaty, starting to get dirty, summer face in my hands and kissed him.
“What’s that for?”
“For you graduated from elementary school and for I love you.”
I took my time leaving Ithan that day, driving very slowly down the hill and just rolling over the speed bumps.
“Why you going so slow?” Alex asked.
“Just cuz I’m a little sad that you won’t be going to school here any more,” I said.
“Well, the school’ll still be here,” he reasoned, trying to cheer me up and get me to drive faster.
What my little guy couldn’t understand was that his graduation from elementary school meant that I had to graduate, too.
I rolled slowly over the last speed bump, out to the end of the driveway and on towards summer. Leaving Ithan felt almost like leaving home.
* * *
Biographical Note: Jackie Kearins
was born and raised in Massachusetts. She studied Medical
Assisting in college and has worked in doctor’s offices, clinical
hospital and basic research laboratories ever since. In 2005, Jackie
left her profession to become a full-time homemaker. She began taking
an autobiographical writing class in January 2009. She lives in the
Philadelphia suburbs with her husband, three children and two cats. Jackie's stories "Ruthie" , "My Dining Room
Table," "Aunt Jen's
Ring", "The
Jitterbug", "Dear Janis
Joplin" , and "Fledglings" appeared in previous issues.
