REST PERIOD IN MRS. SAMPSON'S FIRST GRADE CLASS

Like most adults the bulk of my memories, prior to the age of seven or eight, are a bit nebulous.

I mean, take rest period in Mrs. Sampson's first grade class. I know it happened on a daily basis, but when I attempt to conjure up the source of that memory, well now, that's "a horse of a different color."

As an aside, it is important for my readers to understand that I haven't expended all that much mental energy on this subject for the past, oh, almost six and a half decades. Whether I, as it were, have carried a recessive mental gene of the memory, or whether my mother or a classmate had, at some time, "whispered it in my ear" I just assumed, and as much as lay in me, I knew.

However, the memory was, as memories go, "short and sweet." 

It's rest period in Mrs. Sampson's class. We all laid down. We all got up.

I think I must have the strangest sleep pattern of all time.

While I have always been a "night owl" retirement has geometrically complicated what passes as a schedule. I mean, I watch "The 11th Hour" with Brian Williams 'til l fall into my easy chair about 2am, sleep for two hours, and now, to maintain my fitness, I walk the highways and byways of my little corner of my little world, when I return I watch "Morning Joe" for about a while, find my way into my bedroom, sleep a couple of hours, get up in time for an early lunch, do the things I need to do, take a nap, do the things I need to do, (including writing blogs like this one), and start all over again.

Until yesterday

I was lying in my easy chair about 3pm "catching some zzzz's" when I had a dream. (No, I can't promise you it was as profound as the one MLK dreamed, but it was enlightening to me).

I was a boy again, and I find myself seated in the third row, third seat in Mrs. Sampson's 1st grade Bartow Elementary classroom. We have just finished working on a mathematics handout, and our teacher collects our papers, and says,

"Alright, students. It's time for a nap."

(Hmmm, it occurs to me...perhaps my nap had "awakened" this dream).

My teacher continues.

"Get your blankets out of your cubby holes, go to the back of the room, and lie down."

I find myself toddling towards the back of the room, and notice about twenty matching "cubby holes." There are various colored blankets in the rectangular spaces, and each space features a student's name which has been inscribed on a small piece of paper and taped to the top of each respective cubby hole.

My dream does not provide me any understanding concerning some sort of cushioning beneath our "blankies," but I can only presume we have each assigned a mat. At any rate, at this point each student finds his or her familiar place on the floor, lies down, and covers himself or herself with his or her blanket. After a bit of preliminary chatter among "mat mates" many of us fall asleep, while others merely tolerate the quietness which envelopes them.

And that was it. My dream over, I awoke.

And while it may seem a small thing to you, dear readers, I can tell you it was both poignant and insightful for me to join my little classmates again, if only mentally and if only figuratively, and to participate in a tradition which was, (and continues to be) so near and dear to each of us.


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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