Cindy Wilmot talks to her son, Micah Wilmot, a kindergartner at NewBrook Elementary School in Newfane, Vt., before they enter the classroom on his first day of school on Tuesday, Aug. 30, 2022. (Kristopher Radder/The Brattleboro Reformer via AP) (Kristopher Radder Brattleboro Reformer/AP)
There was always something special about the first day of school.
Maybe it was the smell of the recently varnished floors, or the sight of the chalkboard, scrubbed jet black and dust free, but when I walked into St. Peter’s Elementary School in the 1960s, with my new school bag, pristine metal lunchbox, and freshly sharpened No. 2 pencils nestled in their leather case, I was filled with energy and optimism.
“This will be my year,” I told myself. “I will finish my homework before dinner, complete my assigned readings on time and not wait until the last minute to cobble together my book reports. I will participate in class and to keep my notebooks neat and organized. This year will be my year to learn!”
Yes, despite my noblest intentions, it was tough maintaining that first-day enthusiasm over an entire school year. Usually by week two, I was somehow four weeks behind in readings. By Halloween, my notebooks were filled with indecipherable chicken scrawl, more emblematic of some deranged manifesto writer than that of a serious student.
As for participating in class, the only time I ever raised my hand was when I needed to go to the bathroom. And even then, I usually just tried to hold it.
The principal was Sister Pricilla, a Sisters of Charity nun who was not to be trifled with. She stopped by every class on that first day to deliver a fire-and-brimstone speech on the importance of schoolwork, discipline and morality. Standing in front of us cloaked from head to toe in black religious garb, the rosary beads tethered to her side flew from side to side as she gestured wildly to emphasize her points. Her lecture culminated with an ominous warning that any misbehavior could easily make its way onto our permanent record, which would follow us throughout our lives.
Awaiting us on the first day was a stack of our books, big thick textbooks to be returned at the end of the year and soft covered math and grammar workbooks, ours to keep. I can still recall the distinctive smell of those new books.
The school had a policy that all books were to be covered to preserve them. It was a loosely enforced rule, but I made sure mine were always covered. I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Well, Mr. Ficarra, I would love to offer you this position as Vice President in Charge of Important Stuff, but I see here on your permanent record that you failed to cover your books in third grade! Pity. My assistant will show you out.”
When I returned home from school that first day, I left my books on the kitchen table for my father, who worked the 8-to-12 shift. He arrived home around 1 a.m. and didn’t go to bed until every last one of them was covered.
My father was a master craftsman when it came to book-covering, especially softcover workbooks. He began by stapling two pieces of stiff chipboard to the front and back covers of the book, essentially turning it into a hardcover. He then wrapped it in heavy brown craft paper and finished off his masterpiece with a Dennison red and white label positioned precisely in the center of the front cover, on which he printed my name and grade.
His covering method kept my books in near-new condition throughout the year. Sr. Pricilla always took notice.
The sight of my covered books neatly piled up waiting for me that next morning remains one of my most vivid early school memories, and one of my fondest. Seeing my father’s tireless devotion to me and the meticulous way he covered my books every year taught me a life lesson the books never could.
This week, millions of students will be returning to the classroom. Certainly, much has changed in the world of education since I was a grade-schooler. For most kids, nuns have given way to lay teachers. Leather pencil cases in school bags have given way to laptops in backpacks. The simple metal lunch box in which I carried my peanut butter and jelly sandwich has been replaced by a trendy plastic container with multiple molded compartments — perfect for anyone who typically sends their kid to school with a five-course lunch.
Some things, such as cursive writing and the diagramming of sentences to learn the parts of speech, two subjects relentlessly pounded into me during my years, have been essentially dismissed as unnecessary. (Now they tell me?!?)
One thing I hope hasn’t changed is the sense of excitement and renewal that a kid can feel when he or she walks into a classroom on the first day; of the endless possibilities that await them in the coming school year. It’s an exhilarating and wonderful feeling even if, for some, it only lasts till recess.
Ficarra is a freelance writer.
Copyright © 2022, New York Daily News
Copyright © 2022, New York Daily News