Picture Day at a Country School.

Nov. 7/04

Picture Day at the Country School: Word Count 1033

Sometimes it pays to be in the right spot at the right time. Of course, sometimes you have to push fate a bit. Like that day back in the 30s when it was picture day at our country school.

A new gal, Maryann, had been with us for only a week. Boy, she was somethin'! Prettiest dimples I ever did see. And her hair, shinny as all get out and braided real neat and tied by the reddest bow I ever saw. She sure was a looker for fourteen. I was only twelve at the time, just about the time that boys start to notice certain things - mother nature can't hide the fact forever that boys and girls are different; sooner or later we're going to figure things out for ourselves.

I took a shine to Maryann the first day she rode up to the school on that loping brown mare. She slid off that slick bareback like an angel sliding down from a cloud. My eyeballs perked up like a Cheshire cat spying a caged canary. If it weren't for the fact that I was a bit shy, I would have walked right up to her that first day. But I didn't.

Now, I never did cotton to that annual drudgery of picture taking. I didn't know why they wanted one every year; I hadn’t changed that much, except maybe grown a bit taller. I heard my Maw talking to her sister, Aunt Beryl, one day. Ma said something like 'bad weeds grow fast.' I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I was sure she couldn’t be talking about me. I did my chores, minded my manners around grownups, and never once did talk back to my Maw or Paw. I just put it off as something grown-ups say that we young ones weren't supposed to understand.

There's one thing boys didn't like to do and that was to get all gussied up. Nosirree! It's different for girls; they're always itchin’ to dress up in their Sunday best and look all girly-like with their hair all shiny-clean and done up in braids and such. That’s just fine for them, but not us boys.

Ol’ man Wheeler took so long to snap the darn picture. He kept popping out from under that black sheet over his camera to move someone over just a tad. He never was satisfied.

We had to stand still for so long it was almost inhuman - unnatural. Tell a fella to stand still for a minute and he gets antsy; he wants to do somethin’, anythin’ but stand still.

My hair was spit-down neat, and my hands and face scrub clean near raw with that lye soap Miss Morecy, the teacher, brought from home – you’d almost think we were gonna church.

At least my hands were clean ‘til Miss Morecy told me after lunch, "The wood box is almost empty, Jeremy, and it's your turn to bring in a few armloads.” Did you ever carry an armload of fresh cut wood, with all the loose bark and sticky sap? It sure can mess up your hands and arms. But, we couldn’t let the stove die; when the October nor-west blows across that flat prairie it can get mighty nippy in that drafty school house.

Never could figure out what to do with my hands though. I thought maybe I could ram them into my pockets.

That year I didn't really mind one bit getting ready for our picture 'cause I’d get a chance to get right up close to Maryann. A couple of times during class I walked by her desk and I could have sworn she had ran that horse through a grove of lilac trees - she sure did smell great. A few times she caught me red-handed looking at her; she just cocked her head to one side and smiled. I darn near dropped my slate. Her deep dimples were like little caves on each side of her face, and her green eyes shined up like my favorite marble. My face flushed up and I felt like sliding right down under my seat and disappear.

When Miss Morecy started to get us lined up, I made sure I was right behind Maryann. She looked darned good from where I was standing. I looked down at those long, brown ringlets and just itched to twine my fingers through them. But I didn’t dare, for fear she’d yelp out and Miss Morecy would move me.

I edge up, slow like, to get a good whiff of her hair without her knowin'. Her hair had the scent of strawberry bush and the shine reminded me of the backside of our stallion when I scrubbed him down. I don't know what kind of soap she used, but I thought I’d sure tell my mom to get some.

Old man Wheeler spread some white powder on this trough-lookin’ thingamajig, got under the blanket and yelled out, "OK, now, boys and girls. Stand still!"

I eased back a bit so it won't look like I was almost eating her hair.

Mr. Wheeler finally squeezed the brown bulb and the white flash nearly blinded us.

"Keep your places!” he yelled. “I need one more." He picked up the box camera by the three skinny legs and moved it about 10 feet to his right. More white powder on that thingamajig. He disappeared under the sheet, stuck his head out to adjust something on the front of the camera, and then back under the sheet.

"Now... Big smile! Hold it!"

Click and poof.

"Thank you, children! That was very good."

Maryann turned to me and smiled that brain-bashing smile. I darn near melted on the spot and wondered if she knew what I was doing behind her back.


"Say, Maryann, how's about you gettin' us men a pint of brew?"

Maryann looked up over her glasses from her knitting. "Get them yourself, you old coot. I can't let this row slip."

Jeremy slapped his knee and laughed loudly. He looked at the reporter and said, "Didn't I tell you she was somethin’?"