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What Happened to First Grade ?
Smith’s Studio One Flight Up

Mother’s journal entry was short and to the point, and at the top of a brand new page in her “little red book”: “January 1, 1947  Magee, Mississippi; weather rainy”. We had arrived! It was very much a “homecoming” at the Kennedy’s. Their two sons were still in the Navy, so our rooms were very much as we left them. Mr. and Mrs. K had not changed: he still hummed in his peculiar way; she still wore her apron, whether in the kitchen or not, and put on her bonnet, for shade when it was sunny, and for warmth when it was not. Poochie, the collie, was showing his age but wagged his welcome with his tail and most of his body, as well. A lot of the trees were without their leaves, but the tall pines and cedars were the same. The hedges were still green as were the Nandina shrubs around the veranda, loaded with panicles of berries that were bright red for the season. I was getting a little bit too  big to climb in the fig tree without damaging the limbs, so I would not have it for a lookout spot to watch for the school bus, but never mind. When the bus started running, after the holiday break, and classes resumed, it would be my bus! I would be on it!

Moving in was easy and routine because mother was partial to the “place for everything and everything in its place” philosophy. Since we had lived there before, we knew right were to put everything as it was brought in. Mother was explicitly trustful of Mrs. K’s  housekeeping, so that sequence in the moving-in scenario was omitted. There was one new item that needed to be allowed a place, but that was quickly decided and I could hardly wait to show it to the Kennedys, and demonstrate it; our new phonograph! With everything unloaded and put into place, except that which would go to the studio, we would sit down for the evening meal and visit until bed-time. It was almost just like old times. The peaches came out of a jar from the cellar instead of off the tree. The tomatoes were stewed, rather than fresh picked from the garden and sliced for the platter. These were minor issues, if issues at all. Farmers eat well in the winter time, too!

Dad’s Studebaker had been severely beaten up when we got caught in a hail storm in Texas, and had to have all the windows replaced and sheet metal work on the top, hood, and all the fenders. The hail was as big as baseballs and some even larger. When the hailstones started coming through the glass, we were all alarmed and taking turns screaming! I think the worst of it was watching the horses and cattle running in the fields with no place to hide! He traded the car for a pickup truck with a dealer in Basin, Wyoming. He ordered custom-made a heavy canvas canopy for it so it would serve in all kinds of weather. I thought it made the green truck look like an army truck which made it a lot more fun to ride in. The truck came in handy for the move, especially since the studio lights, enlarger, print dryer, and a few furnishing took a lot of space. A trip to downtown Magee to rent a suitable place for his business was the next thing on his list, then paint a sign for the window, run an ad in the paper, print handbills and get them distributed, set up his darkroom, and hang out his shingle, and as they say in the photo business, see what develops!

I have heard of waking up in a new world, but this is a strange new world. When the school year started, in Greybull Wyoming, I was enrolled in the first grade. When we left Pryor,  I was in the first grade. Now, as a newcomer to the Magee, Mississippi, school system, I am told I am not a first-grader, but I belong in the “primer”, pronounced primmer, short “I”. And why? How can this be? It’s because I have never been in the primer and everyone’s first year in school is in the primer! It is not like preschool or kindergarten, but is more comparable to the first grade in its curriculum, objectives, and activities, developing the child’s visual and auditory discrimination to the point that he or she could read, write, and count. They would then advance to the first, or possibly the second grade. It sounds like only a label to help them decide into which basket each egg will be put, so if we can get by the semantics, I will go where I am sent and see if I can do what everyone else is doing, and will probably spend a large portion of my time and tablet drawing horses, cowboy hats, and six-shooters. My main concern at this stage of the game is making sure I get on the right bus for my ride home.

We were required to bring a drinking glass, labeled with our name, to be left on a shelf in our classroom. At recess time in the morning, we would be given our glass, and as we exited toward the playground, we would file past uniformed kitchen workers who would pour a serving of orange juice into our glass. After we had finished drinking the juice, we would rinse our glass so it could be returned to the shelf until the next morning. The  juice didn’t have the best flavor, and was probably a government-issued product, but al least it went down just fine. The same couldn’t be said for the vitamin pill. At some point we were being given a black, rubbery pill as we marched single file past the water fountain. This put me in double jeopardy. I had never been able to accomplish much more at a water fountain than to get my lips wet, and dribble a little off my chin and wet the front of my shirt. Under the best of conditions, I had never been able to swallow a pill. My first attempt had my pill escape and fall to the catch-basin beneath the fountain bubbler fixture. I straightened myself, wiped my chin on my sleeve, and marched away like a good little soldier. About three steps into my escape, I hear a whiney tattle-tale behind me piping up with,” Teacher, here’s somebody’s pill!” The inquisition started immediately, causing the culprit to confess. With these shortcomings being brought to light, it was time for a self-imposed self-help program. Sunday morning, well before anyone else was stirring, I retrieved a glass from the kitchen and filed a pitcher with water. I got the box of “Monkey Ward” vitamins, the big black ones and went outside. I found a private corner where a fireplace chimney attached to “our” side of the house, and began practicing, Hallelujah! Finally, one of them went down. Wondering if I could remember how I did it, I tried another one. It went down!. I was ecstatic, but I had to be sure. One after another, I tried a few more without a failure. By then, my water pitcher was empty, but I was brim full of confidence. I had also been found out! No one knew where I was. We had lots to do before leaving for church. By the time Wes found me I was vomiting up volumes of water and little black rubber pills. He was alarmed and went for Dad, who come on the run. I was expecting praise for overcoming a hurdle that was a hindrance to a long healthy life. It didn’t happen just that way, but Dad was relieved that I wasn’t really ill. The drinking fountain versus pill dilemma was solved easily by simply sharing it with Mom. She showed me how to fold a square piece of paper into a cup, then she cut waxed paper into squares to be used one each day at pill time only. The rest of the day I needed to practice getting fountain-fluent.

Judy, the resident teenage daughter, had turned into a rather sophisticated high school senior who would be graduating in the spring. She had a real talent for dropping hints for the wristwatch she had her heart set upon for a graduation present. Her favorite method  seemed to be waiting for a lull in the conversation at the supper table, and asking what time such-and-such radio program would be on, then she would look at the bare spot on her arm where the wristwatch would be worn, then with the timing of a comedian pausing for the response to a laugh-line, she would subtly manage a few coy glances to measure the effect of her performance. Judy was always smiling, like her mom, and also had her mother’s stature, tall, and rather prettier than I had expected. Her many friends liked to convene at the Kennedy’s for their bobby-soxer gatherings, with the new phonograph with the automatic changer being a big hit at these “bring your own favorites” events. After Judy got her watch, she altered her tactics, to present opportunities to show it off. In the presence of an audience, she would raise her arm, with the watch facing the potential admirers, and with her other hand, she would position her index finger just below the watch, and announce, ”My daddy’s cotton is this high!” It worked every time.

By now, the word had gotten around that there was a photo studio doing business  in downtown Magee. Most families or households by now had some kind of Kodak, which had become a generic term for camera, and snapshots were popular and most households had albums that they kept up to date. With travel having been curtailed, lots of snapshots were being exchanged through the mail. Customers had begun dropping off roll film at the studio instead of the drugstore because it didn’t have to go to Jackson to be processed. The prints could be picked up the next day, and if reprints or enlargements were required, they could be available the day after that. Mom was good at the tinting with oils and she could work at home. It was a specialty of hers when later, she managed the studio at Brown Duncan in Tulsa. Though people were familiar with cameras, there were still some who were foggy on the concept of the technology. Someone dropped of a roll of film that was split from top to bottom, probably by some defect inside the camera. They had removed the film and pinned it together with safety pins!

The pickup Dad brought from Basin. Wyoming, to Magee, MS; Is Wes tutoring little brother in his ABC's ?