The Beginning of the Teen Years

In August of 1950, I started the fall semester in eighth grade. The following month, I had my 13th birthday. It was the first year I would have more than one teacher for the year. We had at least 5 different teachers. Like the high school students, we moved to different classrooms after each class. Our classes were all in the older building which was built when my mom was in school there.

It was the same long dark hallway which I’d gotten lost in once as a little second grader. I remembered how frightened I’d been when the bell rang and all those giant kids came piling out on their way to their lockers knocking me down and trapping me against the wall. A few years had made a big difference and now I belonged here among the giants. One of those lockers lining the hallway was mine.

This would be the first year we would be taking Physical Education or P.E. That class would separate the girls from the boys. The girls would dress out in shorts for PE. We would do exercises and play softball, volley ball or basketball. The boys would play football, baseball or basketball. In one more year, they could try out for the various teams. The girls could try out for the girls’ basketball team.

We didn’t get to choose our classes. We would all take Math, English, Social Studies, Health, and girls would take Home Economics while the boys would take Shop. We did get a list of clubs which we could choose to join. If you were in band that period, you would practice instead of being in a club. Otherwise, you would go to the library to study that period. Each club met once a week, so I had a different one each day. I signed up for Y-teens, Glee Club, 4-H, Drama club, and the school newspaper.

There was a slot in our schedule when all of us were in the study hall or library. I didn’t like the library, because I was intimidated by the librarian. I’d never heard her speak. She was always giving us what I considered the evil eye and pressing her finger across her lips for total silence. I never saw her smile, and often she walked silently up behind us and gave us a stern look. If you checked out a book, she did it without uttering a word. I always felt like I was being watched with suspicion. I labeled her ‘The Gestapo,’ because she seemed like what I thought a German policeman would be like. I couldn’t have been more wrong about her. I’ve written about her before, so some of you will likely remember.

Not long after school started, Mrs. Edwards put up an announcement for an art contest. I wanted to enter it but I needed the details and was afraid to ask. She knew nothing about me, so I went to great lengths to draw a picture on the back of a class assignment on which I printed a big red A+. Then I dropped the picture on the floor, knowing she would steal quietly up behind me, pick it up and hopefully look at it. My sneaky plan worked perfectly, and she called me aside and asked me to enter the contest.

The contest was for grades 8 through 12. To my amazement, I won first prize which was 15 dollars. All of the art work was posted around the library. I guess she was impressed with my drawing, because I became her official artist and poster girl. She gave me a private room across from the library to use for a place to do art work. I didn’t have to do study hall any more. I didn’t have a problem with this. I could do library posters and posters for ball games. I was glad to be out of the library, even though I was no longer afraid of Mrs. Edwards. I’d been totally wrong about her. She was actually a very nice lady. I was definitely someone she liked.

One day, she told me she was responsible for having to get something together for the next program in the auditorium. “I want you to do a chalk talk,” she said.

“What is a chalk talk? I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

“Well, you’d get up on the stage and draw in front of an audience and make a talk at the same time.” Alarm bells went off in my head. I did most of my drawing sitting on the floor or at a big table. I certainly didn’t draw while people were watching me and I didn’t talk when I was drawing. If I ever talked on stage, it was to recite something I had memorized. She was out of her mind. I couldn’t do that.

“I can’t do that. I’ve never even seen anyone do a chalk talk. I’d faint if I had to draw on stage in front of people.”

“There’s a book in our library which will show you how to do it. I need you to do this for me. You’re not going to let me down.” The next thing I knew, she was thrusting this old book into my hand. It must have been written in my grandmother’s day. It had pictures of someone telling a story, while they drew on a big easel. “Mrs. Edwards, I don’t have an easel. I’ve never drawn on an easel in my life. I can’t possibly do this.”

“Sure, you can. You’ll do fine. Don’t worry about the easel. I’ll have you one there that day.” She walked away leaving me shaking like a leaf.

I felt cornered. I had to come up with something, because she wasn’t taking no for an answer. There were several examples of short stories you could tell and pictures which could be drawn to go with the stories. I picked three of them and went home to figure out how to do a chalk talk. One of them involved a story about a miser, and the drawing was simply a big money bag.

The bag was to be ripped open by the artist, allowing money to pour out. I put a board together with cardboard and a sheet of white poster size paper taped to it. I drew and cut out what looked like individual bills, and fastened them into the area where the money bag would be drawn between the board and white paper. I don’t remember the rest of the stories I would be drawing pictures for, but this one would be the most complicated. I memorized the three stories and practiced the drawing. The book showed everything in black ink, so I used a magic marker and three boards for the drawings.

Things might have gone well, but Mrs. Edwards sabotaged my presentation with the easel. An artist easel is made from heavy wood or metal and won’t move. What she brought was a light-weight aluminum stand used for holding a wreath at a funeral home. This was not designed to withstand drawing on heavy poster boards.

The second I started talking and drawing my easel crashed to the floor. I picked up everything and tried again with the same result. What a panicked feeling. My face was getting hot and I felt like running off the stage crying. Luckily, there was a high school senior boy sitting on the front row. He became my hero. He stood on the stage with me and held the easel firm as I told my stories and drew. The last one was the money bag. After drawing it, I took a razor blade and slit the paper allowing my hand drawn money to fall out. The audience gasped in surprise. Everyone clapped for me. It wasn’t the most elegant performance, but I thanked the good Lord it was over and vowed I’d never do that again.

Years later, I took a chalk talk class in college. We worked with colored and florescent chalk on special poster board and black velveteen poster board. I did get talked into doing some drawings in church of biblical and landscape scenes while hymns were being played. At least no talking was required with these.

The year 1950 will continue in the next chapter.