Life in the Cheese Drawer

tell me everything you remember about kindergarten.
the kindergarten room at queens was unlike all the other classrooms in the private catholic school. it was by itself on the second-and-a-half floor along with the reading room for grades 1-5. there was a short stairway taken up from the 5th and 6th grade classrooms, and you were in kindergarten domain. it was a green room, i remember, large and cut up into sections by dark-trimmed large archways like you see in older homes. there was the small corner cut off from the rest of the room for reading, another for playtime, and a semicircle of small desks with small chairs for when we learned our ABCs. and can’t forget the statue of the virgin mary, around which every morning we said our prayers.
but the mainstay of the room was sr. brian. i had no particular beef with the teacher of the kindergarten class, other than she seemed to make a lot of people cry more than any other teacher did. one time i was humming while i was putting my ABC blocks in order, and she told me to quit humming. i don’t know why a kindergarten teacher would discourage humming in children, but there you have it.
we hatched a butterfly in kindergarten. i don’t know who it was, but someone found a cocoon, and we put it in a jar to watch its transformation into a monarch.
our kindergarten bags came to us before we started school. they were simple, made out of cloth with a design on the front and our name, just big enough to carry the few sheets of paper needed for kindergarten homework. mine was light pink.
then there was the rivalry between me and nicki bibus. she was at the beginning of the morning kindergarten line, and i was at the end. because we rotated leaders in the line, when she got stuck at the end, she was behind me. and for some reason she started literally picking on me. don’t as me why – maybe she didn’t like my face. anyway, i ratted on her because i was sick of the picking. sr. brian made us shake hands underneath the virgin mary. and guess what? the picking became worse – who knew, right?

i remember my aunt colette coming from rochester to austin on the weekends. when i was young, she would stay at my aunt kathleen’s house in the small office area painted a warm peachy red color, its small, high windows letting in little light. there was a pull-out couch, cream with neutral, nubby stripes running down the cushions, that pulled out into a bed little larger than a twin. friday nights i would spend with colettie, cuddled up as little spoon to her big spoon, and fall asleep as she ran her hand over my ear, smoothing my brown hair back from my face.
my mom has a crimson suit, or had, i should say, as it now belongs to my aunt rae, with gold buttons running down the front, high collar, and long sleeves. she called it her power suit, and when she wore it, we all knew that something big was going to happen. because it was the 80s when she donned the bright, richly colored suit, she was going to a meeting that required some presence and obvious power from a female in a male-dominated field. the brilliant suit worked for her on more than one occasion.
thursdays and sundays spent in the cities at the gay 90s always resulted in throbbing music pulsating into my head. if i have early onset hearing loss, i blame the 90s. outside the club, all was quiet, but closer to the doors, the thrumming beat of the bass got louder and louder until we were inside, our bodies throwing themselves onto the dancefloor where techno and electronic music blasted from large, black speakers.
everyone looked forward to the 2nd grade teacher at queen of angels, mrs. royce. word was, in first grade, that she could turn her eyelids inside out, and that was enough to get any 6-year-old excited. she had straight, frizzy brown hair, a long face, and looking back she seemed rather tomboyish. her defining feature, those inside-out eyelids, were what kept her reputation as an easy-going teacher alive.
let me tell you about the best chicken i’ve ever had. last week (yes, it was only last week), i went to chester’s in downtown rochester with my cousins and aunt. it had snowed heavily two days before and downtown was still a slushy mess, and to top it off, it was 5 p.m., rush hour, so finding a parking space was close to nil. after walking through the chilly march weather, we were seated in the “outdoor” space of chester’s (actually in the galleria mall, not in the restaurant). i ordered rotisserie chicken, hoping that it was worth the $17 price tag. and NOMG, it was. five stars – would eat again.
i have always been freaked out by thunderstorms. my mom attributes it to some violent storms leading to having to spend some time in the cellar in the house in austin, not a pretty place. since nate’s started working nights, i’ve grown to hate night storms. the thrum of the rain against the windows wakes me up, and if it’s summertime and the windows are open, i rush through the house slamming windows shut. then i curl up in bed, blankets pulled snugly around me, waiting for the strikes of thunder that shake walls and rattle my brain. if i’m lucky, i have a warm kitty curled up next to my head, but i would rather have someone holding my hand when the lightning streaks and those violent cracks of thunder hit my ears.
smells i remember: cut grass, tree sap, lake, christmas tree, baking chocolate chip cookies, springtime on a farm – melting manure, lilacs, library books, printer toner, cut wood in the black hills.

i remember crisp fall days, walking to my dad’s aunt mary’s house from school in my blue and green plaid uniform with shorts underneath, swishing my tennis shoes through the fallen leaves. i remember chalk lines on the blacktop playground, standing in line to have my turn at foursquare, hoping against hope that i would end up i the #1 spot. i remember drawing the same square with a stick in the gravel dirt driveway, always getting the #1 spot because i played against my siblings, all younger than i. i remember the front yard of the austin house, the cement slab steps leading to a front door no one used, a small roof over it anchored by white pillars. i remember summer evenings my dad sitting on the cement steps, sometimes my mom joining us, and him telling us each where to race to ( all different dependent on age and ability), lining up, waiting for GO, putting every ounce of energy into a short run, slapping a tree, then running back, hoping the length of my older legs would outrun the speed of liz’s legs. i remember going to bed with the sun still up, hearing the yells and shouts of the neighbor kids, wondering why i had to sleep. i remember twilight, watching the fireflies slowly blink into existence, one, then all suddenly and all at once. i remember catching the blinky bugs and watching as my dad smeared the butts over his shirt, giving his shirt a fluorescent glow where the goo stuck. i remember the length of the yard, thinking it was the longest piece of yard ever, the short hill in the driveway a mountain, the trek down to the bus an endeavor likened to mt. everest. i remember coming home from school and tearing up the driveway, especially in springtime with report cards in my bag. i remember trees tall and towering, grass that never seemed to brown, days that never seemed to end.