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Chairlift: Lessons from grade school

JULIE ENGLER | Hagadone News Network | UPDATED 2 years, 3 months AGO
by JULIE ENGLER
Julie Engler covers Whitefish City Hall and writes community features for the Whitefish Pilot. She earned master's degrees in fine arts and education from the University of Montana. She can be reached at [email protected] or 406-882-3505. | July 31, 2024 1:00 AM

I don’t know much French but I do know that du bois means “of the woods” because I attended Ste. Genevieve du Bois elementary school. From first through fifth grade, I wore a scratchy, plaid uniform with shorts underneath so I could play on the jungle gym at recess.

I walked to and from school each day through a neighbor’s yard and across a street that is busy now but wasn’t so busy then.

Grade school was a surprisingly dynamic time. I met some great friends: Janet, K.C., Laura and there were also the girls we couldn’t stand: Ellen, Sally and Jennifer. The boys were mostly all nice. Joe would fall asleep during mass. Paul was funny, and we all had a crush on Mike.

Lisa was allergic to milk and one time, Jimmy threw up all over the top of his desk. One day, Chris climbed out the boys bathroom window and ran home.

In gym class, I was the second fastest student in my grade and I didn't cheat by cutting off the swing sets, like a lot of kids did, when we ran the lap around the field. I did, however, cheat on a math test in second grade. I peeked at 7 X 8 on the times table in my desk. That was the first and last time I cheated.

One experience in fourth grade stands out and its recollection never fails to elicit a smile. It also makes me wonder if I have changed at all in the last four decades.

When report cards came out, Monsignor Lodes, the old, large, roundish priest, came to our class and sat at the teacher’s desk. He called us up, one by one to review our marks.

When it was my turn, I stood nearby as he quietly read my grades, all of which were good. He then read the teacher’s comments about my behavior, which were also good, except for one thing.

“It says here you are lackadaisical,” he said. “That is something you need to work on, yes?”

“Yes sir, Monsignor,” I dutifully replied.

On my way back to my desk, I stopped to ask my teacher, who was perched on the wide window sill, what lackadaisical meant. She told me that I would have to look it up in the dictionary.

I returned to my seat and thought, “Nah, I’ll just ask Mom when I get home.”

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