I attended a one room private first grade, Protestant Day School, because my parents wanted me to start school before my 6th birthday in December. Otherwise, as required by the public school rules, I would have to wait until the next year. (In retrospect, I think they wanted me out of the house and from under foot).
It was a converted old house (no air conditioning) and a pretty simple affair with a total of around 20 children. I recall it was hot, but pleasant and we enjoyed giant crayons, pencils and Big Chief tablets.
On one occasion we returned from recess and discovered there was not a yellow crayon in the room. An odd little boy named Francis had stayed inside and eaten them all. I didn’t think too much about it, but soon after Francis was transferred to a different school and never heard from again.
Our elderly teacher died the summer after I graduated. I figured my teachers would die off once they were through with me and I looked upon my equally aged 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Harold, with pity.
I began the 2nd grade at Jefferson Elementary in Sherman. It included multiple classes for grades 1 thru 6. It was very intimidating seeing all these older students, patrol boys, hall monitors, kids in cub scout, boy scout and blue bird uniforms. There were cars everywhere dropping children off and picking them up. I did not see how it all worked and did not know how I would fit in.
My friend, George Head, was in my class and had been a pupil with me in the 1st grade private school. I considered George very worldly and sophisticated. He seemed to know the lay of the land and how to conduct himself. On one occasion he told me the patrol boys and hall monitors were free to administer corporal punishment if we got out of line. However if one got in REAL trouble, you were called to the principal’s office and hooked up to the automatic paddling machine. This was a device in which you were strapped in, they turned the crank and a series of boards beat you until you went unconscious. THE HORROR! This was beyond my comprehension.
A few days into the school year an announcement came over the speaker in our classroom directing me…Bucky Sappenfield…me alone…no one else, to come to the principal’s office. I looked at George and he nodded gravely. I could feel the blood draining from my face and I began to sweat profusely.
With trembling steps I staggered to our principal, Mr Kendrick’s office. I was directed to a wooden bench outside his office and attempted to figure out what I could have done that would have merited my destruction. At that moment and for the first time in my life, my eyes fell upon a mimeograph machine, complete with a long handle to crank out copies. I did not know by what evil manner it worked, but I KNEW…this was it! The Automatic Paddling Machine! These fiends were going to send in the patrol boys and hall monitors, hook me up and beat me to death without even telling me why! At 6 years of age my life was over and I would soon be a pile of rubble.
At that moment, Mr. Kendrick opened his office door, looked at me and said, “Uh, Bucky”. That’s all I heard and passed out. I came to with the school nurse bathing my face with a towel soaked in cold water.
They slowly got me to my feet, gave me a glass of water and sent me back to class. (It turns out Mr. Kendrick had wanted me to take some form home to my folks, but after my melt down he mailed it). I backed out of the office slowly, keeping my eye on everyone until I got to the hall. Mr. Kendrick shook his head and went back to his desk.
Upon returning to class, Mrs. Harold saw my drawn, pale face and asked if I was OK. I requested a moment to speak to George and confided to him in a low tone…not only was he correct about the automatic paddling machine, but I had stared into the face of death!
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