"When I grow up I want to be a hero!" You would never hear that slightly incongruous, self-serving boastful statement come out of the mouth of any self-respecting lad or lassie in my peer group at the time, the twenty-some First Graders at the now-demolished Grant School, Kindergarten through Third Grade.
So..Bobby Bailey, no relation to Billie of another storyline, did not wait to grow up to be a bona fide hero in the eyes of several starry-eyed damsels learning their A-B-C's alongside this always polite and quiet kid who lived up the street on Birch.
The day of the event of which I am about to tell you followed a day that Mom, Dad, brothers Dutch, Perle and Kenny, and I had spent visiting with Grandma Rhoda Cranston and our Uncle Ben on the family farm near Fletcher Chapel, a short distance from Atlantic, off of Highway 71. On that Sunday Uncle Ben proudly introduced us to the mysteries of "The Radio!" a ridiculous invention encased in an ugly box that made no impression on my small mind at all at the time. It certainly wasn't anything I would ever want to be bothered with...too tiny, too tinny sounding and one had to practically wear it to hear it...nope, not for me. I'd rather chase chickens around the farmyard and did. (Yes, I watched carefully where I stepped 'cause Grandma was a stickler for tidy floors, beloved granddaughter notwithstanding!)
All of this has nothing to do with Bobby except to explain that on the ride home from the Cranston Homestead, I felt uncomfortably warm but without any further ado or complaint, I settled down on the back seat and fell asleep. (Yes, I was a model child.)
Jump forward with me to the following Monday morning when off to school we kids went knowing it was bound to be another great and fun-filled day of learning and playing, soaking up quality education under the watchful eyes of Pearl Dahlberg, Esther Butler, Agnes Dawson, Maude Fryman, Clara Ergenbright, a staff like no other, believe me!
A bathroom break that followed consumption of cold chocolate milk this particular morning proved to be life-changing for me and for Bobby. No doors closed off the three or four stalls in the Girls' Bathroom and so it was here that a very observant classmate noticed several red bumps on the trunk of my body (I am blushing this minute when I think of how THAT could have happened...20/20 eyesight is the logical answer and I will try to let it go at that!) Said classmate decided to make this day an unscheduled "Share and Tell" day and I was "shared!" A more complete inspection by the teacher led to a telephone call to Mom and home I went...with measles! And more than a bit indignant! Strip-searched, found guilty of possession, punishment quickly rendered: two-weeks house arrest, meals included but no sympathetic visitors save siblings at home, and they wanted no part of being guilty by association. Could it get any worse? Enter Bobby! ...
Bobby, for whatever reason, picked up on my emotional state of affairs immediately, and though we were simply neighborhood playmates, decided he was going to "make things right!" Bobby, my hero!, (see the connection now?) promptly organized the first "gang" ever to walk the halls of joyful yet dignified Grant School named after Ulysses S. Grant, another warrior/hero of considerable fame.
Without much forethought of consequences, said juvenile gang members ambushed the unsuspecting lass and her supporters who, for every good reason, had spread the news of my contamination to each room via the one connecting hallway (we were a small school)!
The blows struck for right or wrong were light, and no permanent damage was inflicted upon one or the other warring factions. I was ensconced in bed, in my home across the alley from the battlefield and had no idea such a high price had been offered on my behalf. Of course, I felt like a little bit of "royalty" when I later heard of the skirmish, never did properly thank Bobby and The Gang, the skinniest, puniest, ragtag defenders of my somewhat dubious honor on the fateful day when Bobby became a "hero" as he led "The Charge of the Lightweight Brigade!"
Measles, bruised egos and skinned knees were bravely suffered as real heros and heroines do. Indeed, friendships were mended in time for the next pick-up game of softball in Talty's Pasture the following Saturday morning minus their ailing all-around female pitcher. Now...some 79 years later, thank you Bobby and The Gang!
And, as History will always have the last word, the male contenders lived on to fight another heroic battle for honor: World War II
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The classic tale of damsel in distress and her white knight. I love hearing about the small things we remember from our childhood because they are inevitably some of the most important things that end up shaping who we become. I, too, had a white knight at about the same age and that memory is more clear than what others probably would say should be more important, but I think I hark back more often to how my 6 year old self felt because those feelings of self-worth were much more pure and unadulterated. I'm so glad you're back in the blogging world!
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