Memories from Suzy

Shared by Suzy

Suzy here.  I don't know if the women folk are part of this, but if we're not, or my entry is too long, you can delete me. I had to get in my memories of Barnes--I loved the place! I was there for K through 7th grades. Most of my memories are from the old part of the building and not the new wing. I remember those heavy wood and metal desks, with the ink wells, and stains and carvings on the lid of the desk.  I had a desk one year that looked like someone spilled an entire inkpot on it.  Underneath the desks were encrusted wads of gum, spitballs, and sundry other substances not fit to discuss.  I think one of the reasons why we Wolves are a sturdy and healthy bunch is from sitting for years at those desks, being exposed to all sorts of pathogens. 

 

I well remember lunch time, heralded by Mr. Mashue delivering milk from the Sirrine Dairy in those nifty little milk bottles.  After securing my milk supply, I remember rifling through my lunch looking for something to barter, like a homemade cookie or piece of cake. My prime targets for swapping were Hostess cupcakes or Hostess snowballs from the Sirrine Store.  For those not familiar with snowballs, they were wads of chewy chocolate cake encased, heavily, in a rubbery marshmallow mixture, then sprinkled with flakes of cocoanut.  The snowballs were probably so loaded with preservatives that they could have been placed in the death chamber of Ramses II and unearthed 4000 years later, still intact, but maybe minus the cocoanut from the tomb robbers bouncing them off the walls of the tomb, and, wisely, leaving them behind. But I digress.

 

Another highlight were the Christmas pageants which we put on every Holiday.  The stage was made of bales of hay put side by side, then covered with sheets.  Candace Sirrine was always Mary since she was the only one from our motley crew who could look innocent and angelic for protracted periods of time.  Darryl Post always read the passages of the Nativity from Matthew.  I don't remember ever playing a part, probably because the teacher found out I couldn't act, so I was part of the chorus, even though I can't sing either. If I had played a minor role, like a nodding donkey, bleating sheep, or lowing cow, I'm sure I would have remembered it.  At least I wouldn't have had any lines of dialogue. I remember one performance where my foot slipped between two bales while trying to hit a high C in "Silent Night".  I lurched forward and bumped the kid in front of me who had on sheets and angel wings framed by wire hangers.  Those hangers really did a number on me.  About the same time, Byrd Williams, who played a shepherd and had a cane for a shepherd's staff and his dad's bathrobe hanging off him, started shifting around on the stage. Byrd was never known for being graceful or showing restraint. He must have stepped on the hem of his bathrobe because he lunged to one side, bumping Mary (Candace) and causing her to fumble and nearly drop the baby Jesus.

 

And, of course, who can forget the thrill of recess? We lunged out of the school doors and headed for the well-worn playground equipment to let off energy and collect splinters. The back field was a hot spot for red rover, and it was a given that Dan or Don Soper would lure one of us smaller kids--we were all smaller than the Soper boys--onto the teeter-totter, get us high into the air, then jump off their end, leaving us with bitten tongues as we landed, hard. If things got slow, we girls got together and took off after Bobby Haney, a squirrely kid who was faster than goo through a goose.  If we caught him, we beat him unmercifully, but it never seemed to bother him. That was my first experience with an adolescent masochist.

 

I'll end here, but wanted to add that someone out there has a faulty memory about beenie weenies.  Mom served them very often for Saturday supper.  I have the bean pot that she used. Not surprisingly for someone who prized Hostess snowballs, I really liked beenie weenies. Just the smell of them baking takes me back, just like the smell of chicken being cooked in a pressure cooker reminds me of Grandpa and Grandma's, and the smell of scalloped potatoes reminds me of the potlucks at United Methodist Church.   I'll quit blathering and send this on to y'all.