Having moved into our new house in southwest Little Rock that summer, I transferred to Cloverdale Elementary for the first day of fifth grade, just after Labor Day.
Cloverdale was within easy walking distance of our home, which was a first for me. This was my fourth school during my family’s nomadic period, achieved American style without the aid of camels.
Unlike my previous changes of school, two other folks had also braved the two mile exodus. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Steed, and a sandy haired classmate named Ronnie also made the switch to Cloverdale.
When Ronnie and I were in line for lunch that first day, he exclaimed, “I’m so excited! I’m going to give you a roll!”
I was baffled. A roll? Was that some euphemism for a welcoming gesture, like a smack on the shoulder or vigorous noogies?
“What’s a roll?” I asked.
He looked at me suspiciously, as if I were reciting love poetry in ancient Sumerian.
Forming an invisible ball with his hand, he exclaimed, “A roll. A roll. You know, bread!”
To my disappointment, Ronnie did not share any victuals, although he did bestow a hearty whack on my arm for good measure.
I made a lot of new friends in fifth grade with whom I would share adventures through high school: Clark Isaacs, Andy McGee, John Farr, Kent Beauchamp. Girls did not yet register as friends, being wholly uninterested in the necessities of life, such as comic books, science fiction, and any green creatures encountered in the back yard.
My BFITWU (Best Friend In The Whole Universe) was Mark Cook, another smart and nerdy kid decades before it was cool. With horn rim glasses and genial smile, Mark resembled a young Rick Moranis. I took after a youthful Benny Hill so closely that my school photo came with a 45 of “Yakkity Sax.”
Mark and I were in Webelos together, the introductory year of boy scouts. My mom first met Mark’s mom Pat at a scout function held in a building across the street from the school. Pat said to Mom how she had heard a lot about me, the standard conversational opening gambit.
After that, I paid no more attention to the grown up stuff. So, why is this meeting fresh in my memory, since it involves no devastating humiliation or empowering triumph?
That little building was the Charles’ Chips distribution center for the neighborhood, so we were treated to unlimited fistfuls of potato chips at the meeting. It was crispy, salty nirvana for me, chunky junk food monkey that I was.
If you suspect a theme here, it is that my memories of fifth grade mostly involve food.
For instance, one of my least favorite memories in fifth grade was Miss Gordon letting us know, from that day forward, we never had to ask permission to scurry to the bathroom.
That might not sound so bad, but at the time I was swaying at the periphery of my recent hot dog lunch, which had made an unwelcome reappearance on the classroom floor.
Cloverdale Elementary was the second of my four elementary schools to be destroyed. The first, Rose City Elementary, burned, and Cloverdale was summarily bulldozed.
I swear I was not in the vicinity for either, and I have witnesses.
