Last Day

It was cloudy outside and the threat of rain did nothing to quell the excitement that this was the last day of school for the year. As I walked down the linoleum covered hallway, I took in the sights, smells and sounds of each classroom. I passed a second grade room and as I glanced through the window, I saw the teacher, sitting at her desk, reading one last book to her soon to be third graders. They sat at their desks, captivated by the story and their teacher’s voice she changed it from character to character. I passed another second grade room. Here the teacher was at her desk and her students were at theirs, only they were not listening to a story; they were eating cut up fruit and snacking on cheese and crackers with music in the background. Party time in this room. I reached the first grade room. It smelled of children, glue, construction paper and the underlying smell of what a school smells like. I know it sounds weird, but each school has a smell; it smells of learning. No matter what time of the year you could walk into a school blind folded and be able to tell where you are at because of the smell. (Churches are the same way—I swear!)

The first graders were in the midst of a scavenger hunt game. Several parents lead groups of students around the school to figure out the clues. Each group had clue which lead them to another clue and at the end they were to put together a puzzle of all the pieces gathered. Some teams finished very quickly (one parent literally drug her group through the school running and jogging . . . . . well, we call can’t be type A!) while others took their time. Of course, there were snacks for the children here as well. It seemed every room had an impromptu party to celebrate.

I left the first grade room and discovered that it was pouring rain outside but no one paid any attention to it. I meandered to the third grade room to see that they were starting a game as well. The tables and desks were littered with little bits of cheese, crumbs of crackers and empty vessels that once held juice. The walls were void of all decoration; all the bulletin boards were torn down as well as everything else that let a person know who lived and breathed in these rooms for the last nine months. Just last week the walls were bursting with color and art projects. It seemed sad that they should be so barren over the summer months.

I moved on to a fourth grade room. The room was empty. The students had escaped outside for a water balloon and silly string fight. They came in soaking wet and sprinkled with silly string. But they had fun and that is all that mattered. They cleaned off the best they could and headed down to the elementary gym for the Summer Jam. Someone had come up with the idea of bringing in a DJ to play fun dance songs to send the students off. It was damp and warm in the gym from the rain, but the students didn’t care. They had a blast and danced to a ton of their music. It was their day.

Finally and yet too quickly, it was time to dismiss the students one last time. The fourth grade teacher called out the names of her students in alphabetical order and handed them their report cards, as well as shared a hug before they exited the classroom. She had tears in her eyes as she said goodbye. Over the course of the year, the teachers not only teach, but they are the caretakers and parents too. They settle disputes and sooth heartaches. They give hugs and stern looks. They teach character and compassion. They get to know these little people; their fears and dreams, their habits and quirks. And then they have to let go.

The students scattered. Little voices called out goodbye’s to teachers and to each other. Some would never return for classes here. Parents move and take the kids with them. Some move to other families in other districts. Heaven help us if one is called to God to soon. The school quickly empties out. It’s lifeblood for the last year had disappeared. It is an empty shell, waiting patiently for the students to return for the fall.

Westminster Chimes

The clock just struck two. Two a. m. in the morning. Bing-bong, bing-booong, bing-bong, bing-booooong. The Westminster Chime emits from my clock. I love that sound. It reminds me of being a small girl again on an overnight to my Grandma Sieg's house.

The clock she had was not electric chimes. It played the actual chimes, so beautiful and the entire song as well. On the hour. On the quarter hour. On the half hour. On the quarter til hour. And then, it would mark the how many hours had passed since I last heard it.

When I slept there, my mother would complain about it because it would wake her up. Not me though. I loved that it woke me up. I would be asleep on her orange and black floral covered couch. The smell of cigarette smoke would have faded, as well as the supper smells. The street lights would glow softly through her bay window. Occasionally, I would hear the bar refrigerator kick on and hum softly. Have to keep that PBR cold.

I miss that woman something terrible. She was EVERYTHING. She held the family together--insisted on family gatherings. Insisted on spending time with us. Insisted on the ties that bind.

Now, those ties have come undone and are frayed in sections. Some will never come together again. Some have a chance.

I think as long as the Westminster Chimes play--the ties that bind will always exist. You need to look up the sound and listen to it with your eyes closed. Try it.