Every year as the temperatures start to drop and the earthy scent of fall is in the air, I can close my eyes and clearly see myself as an elementary student anxiously waiting for the school bus. The memories of waiting for the bus, listening to a white-throated swallow singing overhead, holding my new notebooks and pencils are so vivid it seems as if it happened yesterday. I don’t know why I so clearly remember those lovely first days and weeks of school when the wood floors gleamed and the chalk was new and homework was a fairly easy review of last year.
The chill in the air and the fragrance of the fall forest bring back pleasant memories. I savor the memory of how wonderful it was to see the friends I hadn’t seen all summer long. I was an “out of town” kid, so I didn’t get to see my “town” friends much. It was delightful to be back in school with my long-lost friends.
For a little while. Unfortunately, I also remember that rising in the dark and bouncing to school on the cold bus seat quickly became tedious. It was disappointing that I didn’t have that much time to visit with those friends I had missed all summer. And of course, as the first semester loomed, I had to worry about my report card.
I was not an exceptionally good student. I loved to write, so English, history, and social studies were enjoyable, but I preferred to write freestyle rather than stick to the expected essay formats. Science was somewhat interesting, but not something I really wanted to spend time on. And math—I floundered in math, begging someone to let me write another essay rather than try to understand equations and fractions.
So I never knew what to expect when report card time rolled around. I don’t remember ever opening the envelope and not finding disappointment. My grades weren’t horrible—well, except for math—but they weren’t honor roll material.
I’m still amazed that they handed us our report cards and expected us to deliver them home to our parents. I never tried to pull the “I lost my report card” game and I was far too timid to try to change a grade on the Xerox copy. Not that I didn’t consider it. I just knew I wouldn’t get away with it.
When I learned that there were parents who paid their sons or daughters cash for each “A” or “B” earned, I thought that sounded like a fantastic concept. Although my grades weren’t stellar, I thought I could earn at least a buck or two each quarter. I approached my parents but they didn’t think it was such a great idea.
I begged and pleaded and tried to convince them that I should be paid for receiving an “A” or a “B.” My parents obstinately refused, insisting that education was something I needed. They said a child should not be paid for doing something that benefited her.
I remember thinking that they were certainly the meanest parents on the planet.
But that lesson of personal accountability—of doing a job well just for the sake of doing it—stuck with me. As sure as I remember the fragrance of fall, I remember opening my report card and feeling the satisfaction of eventually seeing an “A” and a couple of “Bs.”
No, I didn’t make any money. But there truly was a reward.
That’s what learning is.
You suddenly understand
something you understood all
your life, but in a new way.
Doris Lessing
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