Several days ago, a friend I’ve known since high school invited me to attend a special service at Maple Grove Methodist Church in Clintonville (north Columbus). The service was “special” because of the recognition given to veterans who were in attendance. For me, the service was special in another way because Maple Grove was where I attended kindergarten and nursery school some 65 years ago.

Classes were held in the church’s basement, which included an activity room with a piano and stage. Our playground was located across the street in a space now occupied by a BP filing station. Two women driving what I assume were their own cars would ferry us to and from school. Mrs. McPeet (or maybe McPeat) was my driver, and I remember her as being kind of grumpy. Of course, I and the other kids she packed into both the front and back seats of her car probably gave her reason to be. As for the kids themselves, I remember relatively few of them and mostly only by first name — Doug, Jenny, Elouise, Chris. One exception was Billy Baker, who, according to my mother, was the first friend I had in school.  However, I don’t think we were always on good terms because my strongest memory of this kid is of him chasing me with a squirt gun out of the basement and upstairs into the sanctuary.

When the church service ended, I went into the basement to see what other memories might be stirred up. I don’t think my old classroom was still there, at least not in its original configuration since the basement had been restructured to include a kitchen, offices, and other rooms that weren’t present 65 years ago. But as I walked around, memories arose just the same.

I remembered how much I loved to finger paint, how I loved plopping down a lump of colored goo and then wiggling my fingers through it to create some fantastic image. I remembered my teachers Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Burkhart, kind-hearted souls with endless patience. I remembered “rest time” when the room would be darkened and I and the other children would lie down on small carpets for a nap. Of course, often as not, I did not sleep and if the teachers weren’t watching, I’d whisper back and forth with Doug. I remembered show-and-tell when each kid had the chance to share something of value to him or her. It could be a coloring book, a rock from the backyard, a shiny silver dollar, or a postcard with a wondrous picture on the front. I remembered our class pet, a guinea pig who was kept in a cage and who we would feed carrots and lettuce. Every child, including me, got to take the guinea pig home for a night and care for it as if it were our own.

Although my old classroom seemed to have vanished, the activity room was still there. It was easily identified by the little stage, only about a foot higher than the floor, at one end. Strolling through this room brought back still more memories, especially of the music teacher. I don’t recall the name of this lady, who was older than both Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Burkhart. What I do remember is the way she would play the piano while we children pranced around pretending to be horses, dragons, or reindeer. If one of us caught her attention by our enthusiasm she would get off the piano bench and praise us profusely. Even I occasionally won some accolades. “You should have seen Clay’s feet,” the music teacher would declare. “They went something like this.” Then she would demonstrate the motion I performed that she admired.

As I left Maple Grove, I wondered about my former classmates and what might have happened to them. I thought about my teachers, too. With the passage of so many years, Mrs. Burkhart, Mrs. Dixon, and the music teacher are undoubtedly deceased now. But the fact that I can remember them fairly distinctly after six and a half decades testifies to the impact they had on my young life. If I could speak with them now, I would thank them for giving me a good start to my education. And I would assure Mrs. Burkhart and Mrs. Dixon that when I lie down for naps these days, I go right to sleep — no talking with anyone.