Rosedale

Rosedale Elementary School, to me, equaled Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.  I get the same silly smile on my face as Snoopy, whenever I think about my old school.  The granite floors were shiny, the banisters I ran my hands over as hall monitor were polished oak, and the bathroom stalls were either slabs of limestone or marble.  Hall monitors, in that era, had little to do, but read the occasional timed hall pass of the rare student that was always going to an important appointment, such as the dentist.

The front was reminiscent of Hogwarts, in a good way. A sheltered patio graced the front under an ancient tree, where we lined up in front of the steps entering the school, after we said the pledge. Cognizant of natural beauty, I remember the autumn leaves swirling down over our heads and feeling the consecration of September.

At lunch time, boys and girls blacktopped with tetherball or four square.  I excelled in both.  Park-like grounds or private ones curved around our tar patch, and once being very naughty, I with a few other girls and boys tiptoed past the no trespassing sign.  Living out in the suburban condominiums for divorcees and old folks, this was paradise to me.  My romatic heart thrilled at the idea that one of the boys would kiss me or even hold hands.  It did not happen.  But once in sixth grade, after school, a truck driver gave me an ice cold bottle of Coca-cola out of the back of his delivery van in front of my admiring friend. Because I asked him.  I felt so grown up, or worse, powerful. (More to come.)

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