It’s all about me!

(from the Dog Box #2)

I’ll make this quick and easy. Quick by leaving out most of the details nobody cares about. Easy by sticking to my earliest writing efforts, after which, who really cares?

I wrote my first poem when in grade school. It was a writing assignment. I was in the third or fourth grade. Whatever grade I was suffering through, it was the one when they assigned the task of writing a poem. 

Poems weren’t what grade schoolers did back then; it was the era of film strips and Rat Fink stickers. Batman comics and drawing fast cars behind textbooks in the back of class. It was the sixties.

The prompt (if that’s what they called it) for the poem was “What do you want to be if you grow up?” I wrote:

>>>>>>>>>>0<<<<<<<<<<

000

I want to be a ranger,

and help people in danger

I’d work in the park

and help people through the dark

000

>>>>>>>>>>0<<<<<<<<<<

I did write another, well forgotten verse or two. Later, in college, I might have unrhymed these lines and flipped them to make a tanka, or a strand, but never did. At the time, I had only to read this heartfelt Ranger saga in front of class. 

The thought was terrifying, but we all had to do it. And we all did. The order of performance was determined by the teacher’s master seating chart. A sort of pre-meditated sign-up sheet, the blueprint for all of our class activities.

Later, unbeknownst to us, perhaps in an effort to complete our young literary odyssey as first-time poets, or maybe to mimic the thrill of submission and acceptance by a publication, our teacher typed up our precious works, took them to the room near the teachers’ lounge, and mimeographed them. 

 These were special prints, not the dittos we tried to read in class. It must have been later, perhaps late after work, or at home on the weekend, perhaps very late at night somewhere, she found time to bind them with big staples. 

The poems we turned in on Friday were passed back to us on Monday, just like regular homework, but there were no grades; simply positive and encouraging comments. She had been assembling the copies of our poems at home. Over the weekend, on her own time!

 Our parents were delighted to discover these darling handmade chapbooks lying on our desks, waiting for them to take home the night of Open House. Each one was specially assembled with ribbons and little bows tied to conceal the staple bindings, and each was decorated with star stickers and personal doodles. 

Written inside were kind personal words for each parent to read. Glowing positive statements about their child, their progress, and the positive attributes they contributed to the class. Also, carefully clipped to each inside cover, a small, unofficial photograph of the entire class.

As kids, we found ourselves trying to compare the notes written about us, but then they were remarks of praise about us, not the kind of stuff kids our age wanted to share. Not us boys, anyway. 

The cover read something like “Vine Elementary School, Miss Kindricks, ‘Xth’ Grade Class, Our Memories to Begin Tomorrow.”

There are so many left.

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Next time: Writing is punishment.

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-dp-

(30) 

10-16-25 (364/533/538)