Grade Six

The other day, one of my grown daughters regaled me with stories of the residents' social interactions at the Seniors Home, where she worked in her University years, long ago. Their behaviour sometimes brought back memories of Grade Six.

Glory, I'm just beginning to process the social interactions of aging baby boomers, as we enter the excitement of our Golden Years.

I am one of those "one of a kind" individuals who has been known to dabble at the pool, of what some might call eccentric. This is nothing new. This has been my life, is my life and in all probability, will be my life until I shed this earthly coil. As of yet, I have never swum too far from shore.

Believe me, I never strove for this life course, nor to be honest would I want to change it, now. It just happened and continues to happen.

As I remember it, I have always been surrounded by a diverse group of bright, individual, good souled merry makers.

My attention was held by the the grand scheme of things and the intricacies of the details of my small universe. The  immense  "in between" was vague and close to irrelevant.

I didn't really fit into "the who said what to whom world" of public school. I went to a "one of a kind" girls school where our class was so small that it was impossible to define a norm. I floated through the tumultuous sixties at university, where I changed and remained unchanged mostly unnoticed.

Bang. I found myself back in the neighbourhood of my growing years, as a young wife and mother, a matron in training. My neighbourhood was an old staid, stalwart bastion of society in a city that had not yet embraced the excitement and adventures of the new global realities. I could still catch a whiff of the disintegrated British Empire  that had shaped so much through the recent centuries. I was in for the ride of my life.

Those social niceties, I was not unaware of, had power in these new unfolding days. For some reason it really mattered if blue jeans had a crease, hit the boot in exactly the right spot and most importantly had the right little squiggles on a rear-end pocket. Hell, this was too much for me. I bought striped denim workmen's overalls and sewed the little alligator, the man on his galloping horse and the Colours of Benneton to a front high pocket where they could be seen by everyone. I was somewhere I didn't belong.

Neighbours became friends, who remain an important part of my life. In their maturity, they can join endless discussions of window treatments without running for cover.

Before long, my babies were off to school. For their sakes, I tried to behave. I cut off my braids, I bought a fine quality wool suit, and chose footwear I thought would pass. I volunteered  in the classroom, became a tester at Brownies and even became a Sunday School teacher for three-year -olds, an age whose theological questions I thought I could address. These were good times.

Ahead loomed Grade Six. I observed these huge kids as my little ones still played in the sandbox. They were mean; mean boys and mean girls. Individually, I am sure each was a fine individual, together they brought back memories of Lord of the Flies. It sure wasn't like that in my day.

The scary thing became apparent. Some of the parents had the same tendencies. With sharpened elbows, they set out for days looking for elusive Cabbage Patch dolls and red, soft wheeled, roller skates. Scariest of all was that I found myself among them. It was not too long before it sank in that groups that demanded group think for inclusion, weren't really up to much.

My daughters thrived and strived, and sometimes they didn't. Grade six became their reality. They    survived and I survived. When they fledged, I flew off to a small fishing village in Nova Scotia, a community of characters.

I am home by the sea, where all fish don't have to swim in schools Please let there be such a place for me in my more fragile years.