Friends,
Forgive my spotty appearances here of late. I have been quite happily busy in my real, not-online life. Dinners, birthdays, other writing projects, meetings, and grown kids’ lives make for a full plate many days. I’m grateful.
The Part Where There’s an Essay: The Day I Gained a Mortal Enemy
(A bit delayed: an essay I wrote for St. Patrick’s Day)
St Patrick’s Day always reminds me of my elementary school nemesis.
Growing up an hour outside of Boston, I went to elementary school with a lot of kids of Irish heritage. Later on, in high school, I would graduate behind another Kelly (O’Brien), and in front of girls named Sinead and Sorcha. But the elementary school had plenty of Patricks and Michaels and Seans, too.
The year I was in Mrs. Brown’s kindergarten class, she decided to give us a fun task for St. Patrick’s Day. We were to come in wearing as many pieces of green clothing as we could. Whoever had the most green on would win. Win what, you say? I think the prize was bragging rights.
Looking at this exercise now, from the perspective of an Elementary Ed major/teacher/homeschooler, I see where Mrs. Brown was going with this. What better way to build class camaraderie while simultaneously practicing counting?! What could go wrong?
The day arrived, and we all dutifully filed into the classroom. We lived in the days of half-day kindergarten, and we were in the afternoon class. I am not certain if a blood feud broke out in the morning class amongst the five-year-olds present that morning. Anything is possible, as you will see.
I felt good about my chances of winning this thing. My mom had helped me put on multiple green pieces of clothing; I had a bow in my hair in addition to my fully green outfit. A bow is something the boys couldn’t have, so in my mind, it gave me an advantage.
Of course, as I showed up in the classroom that day, I saw that a good number of the boys had come to school with their Celtics gear on. This is a nice way that we New Englanders get away with things on holidays: you can rep the Celts on St Patrick’s Day; rep the Red Sox or the Patriots on and red-white-and-blue holiday. It’s convenient. And also, it’s lazy.
When the time came to count, we gathered in our chairs around the read-aloud rug. Little by little, people were eliminated when their clothing ensembles were found to be, um, less green.
Eventually, it was me and Jeffrey.
Jeffrey and I had been forced to be friends from a young age; our mothers worked together to start our preschool in the white church on the town common. We spent hours together playing in my front yard or his backyard. I learned to play Battleship at his house. We played together a lot, but we didn’t really understand each other. He had just one older sibling, a brother; I had one older sister. Our homes were pretty different. But we managed to pass the time.
Until St Patrick’s Day at Houghton School, the year we went to kindergarten.
Mrs. Brown had us each stand as the class counted our green. I went first. The tights….the turtleneck…the sweater…the bow in my hair. We reached my total number, which was eleven. I had this thing in the bag! There was no way he could catch me.
Then it was Jeffrey’s turn. He had a dumb leprechaun hat; he wore a kicky vest that his mother had forced him into. He seemed confident. The class counted and counted….until they landed on…eleven.
Was it a tie? We were all breathless with anticipation.
But no.
Jeffrey’s mouth curled into a slight smile as he reached into his pocket.
He triumphantly pulled something out of his pocket, holding it up for all to see.
It was a single dollar bill.
It was, of course, green.
Mrs. Brown congratulated him for his cleverness! I sulked back to my seat in the circle. The consolation of teachers and friends did nothing for me. I had been robbed.
Jeffrey and I went to school together through eighth grade. He gained status as a member of the popular crowd while I took my place at the nerds’ table. Our mothers exchanged Christmas cards every year for years. Our siblings graduated the same year, and then later, we walked across the stage the same night at our middle school graduation ceremony. We competed for grades and accolades the whole way.
Our competition was birthed the day that he beat my score in a simple counting contest.
For the Anglophiles
When we toured the Churchill War Rooms, this was my favorite artifact: a letter from Churchill’s wife, Clementine, to the man himself.
“…you won’t get the best results by irascibility and rudeness. They will breed either dislike or a slave mentality.”
Reads & Listens of the Week
A glimpse into post-entertainment culture (it’s not pretty).
The Rest is History recently did a series on the Titanic tragedy.
Our youngest son has spent his senior year writing a thesis paper on the involvement of Saudi billionaires in soccer and golf. So you can imagine my surprise when some of those same familiar names showed up in episode five of Who Trolled Amber? (note: this one is a difficult listen at times!)
A logical question:
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. ―Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Oof that letter to Churchhill! What a beautiful example of speaking (hard) truth in love to those close to us. Admonishing out of an evident love and care