12 SEPTEMBER 2023 M y car slows to the mandatory 15 miles per hour as I pass a line of parents waiting to gather their offspring at the end of the school day. The building doors open, and the youngsters scramble toward the waiting vehicles like baby ducks waddling in single file. They are scattered and excited, brightly- colored little blobs garbed in socially- acceptable outfits and flashy shoes decorated with stripes and whirls, loaded down with backpacks that contain books and other supplies, including laptops or other electronic devices that are now such an important part of the learning process. First graders, probably. Older students don’t bounce up and down so much. It has something to do with seniority. And they do not think of the importance of this day. Or the impact they make upon us, those who remember when we were like them. They will someday, but not today. At their age, my current age is an eternity away. To them, the number of my years is a distant figure that descends only upon old people. But as I watch them scramble into the arms of their waiting parents, some vague recollections of my first day float idly across my mind. Because the majority of a century has elapsed since then, I barely remember my first day in school, even though it was, at the time, the most monumental incident of my life. The elapsed years have taken the sharpness off its importance and reduced its image to a shadow that roams the attic of my mind, trying in vain to regain some understanding of how this came to be. It was a September day in Kensal, North Dakota. Although the memory is sketchy, I recall that all the advantages I had acquired as the first-born child lost their allure when it became apparent that my position also meant I’d have to go to the first grade first. All by myself. Sniveling little whelps that they were, my brothers were overcome by sudden attacks of morality and refused candy bribes to walk me to school on the unjustified assumption that when we’d get there, I’d trick the teacher into thinking one of them was me. So I was forced to set out on this treacherous journey alone. The school was a mere two blocks from our house and easily recognizable because it was the only two-story wooden building in town. But I had no idea how to get there. Mom said it was easy. “Just cut across the vacant lot,” she said. However, it wasn’t a vacant lot. It was a huge sprawling wilderness that stretched clear to the horizon and was overgrown with dense underbrush so thick that the only way through it was with a machete. A 6-year-old could easily disappear in there, and because it was harvest time, there wouldn’t be enough able-bodied men left in town to organize a search party. Even worse, having thoroughly discussed this matter with my brothers in several late-night, secret, under-the- covers conferences, I knew there were creatures called “goompies” in there, and they hadn’t been fed since the previous summer. They’d be waiting for me. Armed with that knowledge, I suggested to Mom that there might be an alternate route to school. Or even better, she might accompany me through the vacant lot and repel the goompies with her favorite paring knife. But my pleas were met with such rebuttals as, “If you don’t quit stalling, you’ll be late for your first day of school.” My supply of excuses exhausted, I bid a tearful farewell to my family. I set out upon my odyssey alone, unloved, and looking back frequently in the vain hope that such a pathetic sight might influence Mom to undergo a change of heart. She didn’t. The trip through the vacant lot went surprisingly fast, particularly after a thistle hooked onto my jacket, and I mistook it for the clutch of a starving goompy. The school loomed ahead – a massive, cold, oppressive fortress waiting to swallow me up and never disgorge me, and they’d never find me, not even after the harvest was over. With the pounding heart that follows narrow escapes from certain expiration, I arrived in the schoolyard just as the bell sounded to signal my absolute doom. It was as bad inside as I had feared. I didn’t know where my seat was and got trapped inside the coat closet. I broke my red crayon and tore the first sheet out of my coloring pad crooked. There was a thunderstorm, and one of my new classmates got so scared she crawled under her desk and sobbed that “the boom booms” would get her. During arithmetic, the kid in front of me had an accident. My first day in school was a disaster, and my life was ruined. But things got better, and I managed to finish the year without fulfilling my vow to run away and join the Merchant Marines. And now, decades have passed. The children crossing my line of sight cannot fathom that. To them, my age is something that happens to people like great-grandparents or those wrinkly-faced grown-ups in television commercials promoting vitamins, adult diapers and life-extending supplements. First-graders are immune from even thinking about such possibilities and vulnerabilities. But they have other concerns. They must deal with pandemics, a word they shouldn’t even have to know. And computers and sneakers. New friends. Best friends. It’s tough. Even I can remember some of that, although my task wasn’t nearly as difficult because there were only five boys in our class and they hadn’t invented the 64-carton of Crayola or computers yet. The children sit and fasten their safety belts, then adjust their backpacks with chubby fingers. And I look at my hands as they clutch the steering wheel and wonder what purpose all those wrinkles, blotches, and spots serve. The waiting cars depart. My car eases forward, and the reverie ends. Funny how today seemed like such a long time away, such a long time ago. Tales of a first grader’s first day The Lowe Road A former Valley newspaperman who now writes about his travels across Arizona, the U.S. and the globe. BY SAM LOWE YOUR NEIGHBORS JUST WENT SOLAR FOR $0. YOU CAN TOO! Schedule your free Fusion Power solar consultation today! 6150 W Chandler Blvd 17 | Chandler, AZ 85226 ROC#3301619 Lock in your utility rate. Cut your summer bills in half to save $ thousands. *Tax credits and other incentives available Contact Mandy Myer 808-212-6928 or amyer@fusionpowerco.com amyer@fusionpowerco.com