Beyond the Byline: Remembering a landmark of my life

PLYMOUTH — Driving through the homeland last week, I drove up Nottingham Street and as I passed the former elementary school on my right, the memories came flowing back.

So I went up to Third Street and turned around and came back down Nottingham and I stopped to stare at the old Nottingham Street Elementary School.

I snapped the photos attached to this column.

I didn’t need to hop into the Way Back Machine because I was already there. It was my first day ever of school.

This was a life-altering day for me. Consider that my only-child existence up until this day consisted of me being very spoiled. For instance, many times I asked for and enjoyed ice cream for breakfast. Not every day, but once in a while. It was good, with chocolate syrup drizzled over the top and whipped cream. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but I did hit a lot of home runs in Little League.

For nearly the first six years of my life, I was extremely content to live the life of an only child with two strict, yet sometimes doting parents who spoiled me rotten.

So it was with great resistance that I fought going off to school that fateful morning.

There was no way I wanted to leave my house. Why would I want to leave a life where the most difficult decision was what time to go outside to play? And while in the house, it was TV. All the cartoons and kids’ shows. School? Not me. I liked it right where I was.

As far as I was concerned, school was for losers.

My mother literally dragged me up Reynolds Street, through Balita’s yard to the back wall of the Nottingham Street School. As we approached, I could hear the sound of kids running and screaming and having fun. My first glimpse over the wall opened my eyes — hey, this isn’t so bad. All my pals are here and they’re running around and playing.

I ran around to the front of the school and took off to the left, running with no real purpose, just to be part of this crazy scene. As I approached the back left corner of the school, unbeknownst to me, a kid was running around the opposite side of the school with a rock in his hand.

As he turned the corner, he apparently threw a rock as I turned the opposite corner, hitting me squarely in the head. I woke up in the nurse’s office with a laceration bandaged and a large bump on my head.

My mom was standing over me. The nurse was also there, as was my teacher and maybe the principal.

I looked at my mom and asked, “What happened?”

Well, let me tell you, if my mother thought she had a tough time getting me to school that morning, the next day would only be worse. Why would I want to return to this place? Do you blame me?

But go back, I did. I became a shining star in Miss Shovlin’s first-grade class, which shared the room with the second grade. I never got less than an A in my first six years, except for a “D” in penmanship in fifth grade.

My first grade was the last year for Nottingham Street School.

So as I stared at the old school last week, snapping those pictures, the memories of being a kid and going to grade school all came rushing back. I could see and hear all those kids running and laughing.

But I still never saw that rock coming.

The neighborhood kids used to play baseball in the courtyard. The large stone walls provided a stadium-like atmosphere for the “big games.”

And when I looked at the pictures, I noticed that the big pine tree in Balita’s yard is still there! It’s huge!

Back then, every yard had a lot of trees — our front yard had a humongous maple tree that provided shade for the entire house. We also had a Rainier cherry tree that produced the most delicious cherries. And we had peach trees and plum trees and a black walnut tree. Romans across the street had a black cherry tree that we would climb and find a branch to perch on and eat black cherries. Romans also had two Chestnut trees. We would break open the spiny shells and roast the chestnuts over an open fire. (Get it?) And there were plenty of apple trees in the neighborhood that we enjoyed and many ended up in baked apple pies.

I thought about all those trees of my childhood neighborhood as I stared at the pictures of that old school.

And my mind also drifted to future school years and the pre-school ritual of going “school-shopping with our moms to buy school clothes and supplies. My mom took me to the Boston Store, The Hub and American Clothing, all on South Main Street.

As I got older, I can still remember insisting on buying the same colored socks as my shirts — yes, I wore yellow socks and sometimes, even powder blue ones. But back then, I was way cool — or a nerd.

Back then we marched off to school and listened to our parents and our teachers.

We did our homework.

We respected our schools.

We supported our teams.

We formed forever friendships.

I long for those days and wish they would return. We need supportive parents. We need teachers to be role models. We need students who want to learn. We need leaders to lead.

We need all that to have a chance at a future as good as our past.

Looking at the old Nottingham Street School took me back to those days. The Way Back Machine was parked in the garage.

Staring at a landmark of my life was all I needed to remember what I could never forget.