Treasure Chest Treasures

Classroom Management

The Treasure Chest was finally full, bursting from its cardboard seams.  Parents had pulled through, had donated to the treasure hoard, according to a list of requests from Ms. Wallace, First Grade teacher in Room 31. Some parents donated even more. 

When the new first graders streamed through the classroom door, pencils had been sharpened and books stacked. The classroom rules and rewards were posted on the wall, along with bright alphabet letters and numbers lined up in a row. First day was thrilling for all.

Life in First Grade

At the end of the day, three lucky students who had shown exemplary behavior reached sweaty and dirty hands into the treasure box, pulling out their own special prize. School bell rang, students from Room 31 poured out onto the playground to see what those treasures were.

From Australia

Day two, then day three, day four, and finally day five came about and three  little girls reached claw-like hands into the chest, pulling out matching Barbie-pink pencil cases. Squealing, all three dashed out with other Ms. Wallace students.  What is it?  Open it! Open it!

Out on the playground, each pulled out white tubes wrapped in white paper. Ooooh, look at that! What is that?  Excitement became confusion.

Each girl revealed a strange cylinder of compacted cotton with odd strings hanging out one end.  One girl pretended to put on makeup. Others experimented, which allowed students to take turns swinging one around.  But, novelty wore off, most first graders ran to waiting parents. Only the three girls remained, batting each other and giggling.

They raced around, swirling Tampons over their heads and then batting the tether ball pole.

Ms. Wallace thought she had seen it all in her years of teaching, but now she had watched the three girls chasing each other, swatting each other with Tampons. You missed me! No, I didn't! Here, take that!!  A sword fight using Tampons broke out. One Tampon was dropped into a puddle and magic happened as it absorbed the liquid.

You can carry this in your purse or backpack!

Ms. Wallace stepped backwards into a dark corner as the parents found them.

Hurrying inside, Ms. Wallace culled through the Treasure Chest, opening each Barbie-pink pencil case with a Tampon discreetly wrapped inside. Other donations were up to the list's standards and Tampons definitely were not on it. 

As she drove home, Ms. Wallace sighed. There'll be hell to pay tomorrow.



Part of this true: the Barbie pink containers did contain two Tampons, and only one girl chose it as her prize. She then did all of those activities (except the water bit) in the car with her younger sister. They had a good time.  It was a heck of a thing according to my daughter.

About Writing

The first thing I wrote was when I was four years old.  My brother Robert was in first grade, which I considered to be highly unfair.  Robert was born in January 1951, and I was born in December of the same year.  In my opinion, where he went, I went.  We were Irish twins, I was told; I was ten-and-a-half months younger than Robert and we shared the same year.  My mother insisted that I add the “and-a-half” to the number, as if it somehow made a difference.  So Robert went to school, and I stayed home, looking out the back screen door for him.  I would run out when I got a glimpse of him, and race to hug him.  He generally hugged me back, if no one was watching. 

He did his homework on the kitchen table, with Mom on one side and me on the other.  As he dutifully learned the ABCs, so did I.  As he learned to add and subtract, so did I.  I expressed the thought that I should go to school then, because I knew as much as Robert.  It didn’t happen.  So I continued to stare out the back screen door, waiting for my brother and wishing that I was with him.

One day he came home and said that there would be a Visitor’s Day at school, and he could bring me to sit beside him for a day.  I leaped around the kitchen, and then waited for the day to come.  On that day, I put on my best dress, and let Mom come my hair without complaint.  I skipped and chattered the whole two blocks to school.

The day was magic.  I got my own piece of lined paper and a pencil that had been sharpened in a pencil sharpener.  The point was perfect for writing.  We were told to write a letter to someone we knew.  I looked around the room; I knew everyone there.  Heck, I knew everyone in the whole town; it was a small farming community, and I was related to half the town.  But I saw that Ralphie Edwards was a visitor for the day, and was sitting by his sister Linda, so I decided to write to him.

In my best form I wrote the letter.  I didn’t know how to make words, but I knew that a bunch of letters put together formed words, so I wrote a combination of letters, interspersed with little drawings of birthday cakes, kittens, and apples.  I wrote until I filled the page, and looked proudly at my work.  We all carefully folded our papers and put them in a giant envelope.  The teacher would “deliver” them later that week.

Ralphie never wrote back.  I waited and waited for a reply, but then gave up. 

As Robert learned to read and write, I was with him at the kitchen table, and understood the mysterious connection between letters and words.  It was a lightening bolt moment that would  lead to more and more bolts and flashes of comprehension.

I have since written volumes and tomes (most of which are in my files and boxes), but it all started with that letter to Ralphie.