Once upon a time I told stories, much like Mother Goose, only in a myriad of costumes from a butterfly attending the “butterfly ball” to a cumbersome Myrtle the Turtle. Besides the Starkville Public Library, I adopted a county school and became the “homeroom mother” to a class of third graders. The teacher would say that I read to them, played games, sugared them up with sweets and then left. That was precisely my mission.
Planning my first venture to the classroom I was so excited until some curmudgeon said, “Don’t you know they don’t want you out there? You’re not their kind.”
Fear pierced my heart; then Professor Smith at Mississippi University for Women shared, “Bravery is not bravado, bravery is being afraid and doing it anyway.”
Armed with that credo, I set out for the school. My biggest fear was that I’d be caught in the hallway when the big kids changed classes. I thought I might hyperventilate or pass out. At the school I stepped six feet inside the doorway and the bell rang.
I froze and waited to pass out. Two doors opened, a few students crossed, then doors closed. That was it. And thus I stayed for six or seven years.
On occasion, while sitting on the floor, a child would touch my skin, feel my hair and look into my blue eyes. “Why is your skin that color?”
“Well, you see, your grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents came from a place that was very hot, and over time their skin and eyes darkened and their hair grew thick to protect them from the sun. And my grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents came from a place that was cool and often dark so my skin and eyes are pale and my hair is light, but we all came from Adam and Eve, and you know what? My skin will darken a lot if I stay out in the sun.”
It tickled them that my skin could turn dark. And so we laughed and played and attended butterfly balls and fairy teas and colored pictures and ate cookies.
During that time my children’s book collection expanded, and now it was time that the books would be better served in the hands of a child. I packed them in boxes and put them in my car to deliver to the local library. Until …
Down the road just off Highway 45 I saw a rusted sign, almost obliterated by overgrown bushes and trees. It said, “Elementary School.”
I turned around and took the road less traveled. It was clearly an impoverished school, much like the one I knew. I went to the office and asked if the school had a librarian and if I might see her. The extremely nice lady paged Ms. Drusilla to the office.
With a head full of memories and misty eyes, I drove away and left a grateful and astonished librarian holding her very own invitations to butterfly balls and fairy teas.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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