I have always found it quite interesting that children will attack one another about many short-comings, but will say nothing of certain other equally embarrassing occurrences. My observations include those bodily accidents which could be avoided, such as dirtying one's pants or vomiting in the classroom. One is always amply warned, but sheer embarrassment often will not allow the child to mention his predicament before the entire class is visually aware of it.
I once vomited in second grade, too afraid to raise my hand to ask permission of the substitute teacher to be excused. I was always wary of substitutes, and perhaps I also thought that my nausea would eventually subside if I remained very still. It did not, and I spewed gastric liquid all over my book and desk. I was allowed to go home, pacified only by the fact that my "boyfriend" happened to be absent that day. On my return to school I found that my anxiety was needless, for no one mentioned my catastrophe of several days earlier. No one ever ridiculed another person for those types of accidents. Perhaps there exists an unspoken truce amongst children to avoid such harassment because each child knows that it could have happened to him.
I fostered a slight fear toward substitute teachers throughout grade school. They often tended to be rather insecure, a trait which I felt they were justified in having. Substitute teachers paralleled chaos; either the class would be utterly uncontrollable and would be allowed to do as it pleased or the teacher would be unreasonably strict and foreboding. More than the substitutes, I hated when the regular teacher would return. Inevitably, he or she would verbally lash the class, leaving my spirit crushed, albeit the fact that I deserved no such punishment. Those who do not need chastisement, and for whom it was not intended, are always the ones who take it to heart.
Throughout my earlier years, my main playmate was Mary, a girl who lived several houses up the avenue. That her age bested mine by four years did not seem to restrict our friendship in the least; I had a habit of better enjoying the company of those older than myself, and obviously this was no exception.
Much of our play involved the riding of our tricycles, which placed us under the fire of the neighborhood boys, who were sporting bicycles at considerably younger ages. We would ride our trikes despite the ridicule, however, as they afforded a modest degree of mobility and could also be manipulated to serve as reasonable scooters if one so desired.
One of the boys whose tongue was particularly keen happened to acquire a bicycle after a mere six years of life. He would fly past us, wearing a smile of overt superiority, as we tramped our much slower vehicles up the avenue. We bore his stately self-assurance as if it were an inherent factor of childhood which would one day be relinquished for a more affable character, as eventually, it was.
We looked on as he joyously raced through the neighborhood amid a cloud of arrogance; he circled, and returned, then lifted the front wheel off the pavement a trifle too far, causing an irreversible conjunction with the unyielding cement. His back found the street as his bike crashed to its side nearby. I believe the entire neighborhood must have heard his pride dissipating into the humid summer breeze; after that decidedly rough lesson, he no longer jeered at our mode of transportation.
Mary and I rarely played with dolls, although we were both fortunate to have them. Playing with dolls, for us, consisted more of dressing our "Barbies" in their various costumes, and perhaps, dreaming that we would one day appear as shapely and attractive as they, rather than actually involving ourselves with dialogue.
We would often gather together an assorted array of trinkets and gumball machine prizes for the purpose of trading those we no longer treasured. Although I admired the appearance of certain "stars," my devotion was more pretense than real: I could not love an individual simply through reading a handful of trivia gathered by prying, assuming publications. The inclusion of an idol in one's imaginings could result in nothing short of disappointment, and is therefore a cruel waste of time. Thankfully, I was free of any form of infatuation for those in the midst of stardom by the time I reached junior high school.
Mary and I shared many entertaining hours, but the most memorable occasions were those of our overnight slumber parties. I loved going to her house, as her parents maintained a different store of food than did my own. We would often eat "Wonder Bread" spread with butter, accompanied quite nicely, we thought, with a bottle of Pepsi. (My mom always bought the kind of bread that would not stick to the roof of one's mouth, but, as she put it, "would stick to your ribs!" Health bread was not my idea of a good snack.) As we munched on our favored snack, our mothers would wince, believing that our combination was food fit for convicts. We were undauntedly convinced to think otherwise. Occasionally, we tossed a frozen pizza into the oven to complete our late night feast.