By Keith Robinson
I was once challenged to write a haiku and came up with this gem:
I’ll write a haiku
It’s simple enough to do
I’m finished with it
I wrote this in my first year at Nessacus Middle School, where I was thrust into a world of new ideas. Did I fancy poetry? I did not. Did I know what poetry was? Definitely not. So how did I pull such brilliance out of thin air? Allow me to explain.
As a Becket student I began my school journey in kindergarten, held in the Parish House across from the old Becket School. My curiosity earned me my first “time-out” for sneaking a peek at my best friend Billy—already in time-out. I quickly learned that time-out was not for me and began focusing on lessons, like making “Chef’s Kisses,” saltines with chocolate frosting. Thank you, Mrs. Huben and Mrs. Cadman!
In first grade I was bused to the town of Washington, which seemed a world away at the tender age of six. In this new school and on that long bus ride, I met new kids, and I learned some colorful, simple one-syllable words. I also learned why children should not lick cold tether ball posts. On a positive note, I also learned grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and, of course, more discipline. Credit goes to Mrs. Kurtz.
In second grade, I returned to Becket. The school had tall ceilings and dark wood trim—a daunting place where I continued to test boundaries. Mrs. Mason opened our eyes to science: dinosaurs, the solar system—things far beyond the realm of Becket. The cafeteria was in the basement, and boy did they pack a lot of us in there. This little introvert also learned much about cattle herding that year.
Third grade is where I began to blossom, thanks to Mrs. Keiper and Mrs. Roberts. We were encouraged to share and bring in books we read outside school. I was that weird kid, reading Nancy Drew while sporting my Bionic Woman lunch box (but damn, if I still had that lunch box, it would be worth at least $20 more today). Grammar and punctuation became second nature—until I had my tonsils out; still don’t know how to use a semicolon.
Fourth grade brought us upstairs to the coveted second floor. Mrs. Sullivan took the reins, and I may have faked an ankle injury to use the elevator. At nine and desperate to hit double digits, I moved on to The Hardy Boys, Encyclopedia Brown, and Choose Your Own Adventure books. Grammar was now connected to storytelling, and the joy of writing began to take root.
In fifth grade life got real. I joined the baseball team and discovered that my ability to play sports was just as good as my ability to write poetry. We lost every game. Our team—dubbed the Becket Bad News Bears—taught me humility and apathy for baseball. Writing became more central. We kept journals and began creative writing. I also encountered my first bully. We exchanged blows in an area away from the oversight of the always-diligent teacher’s aides. When some classmates told Mrs. Bendross I had hit the bully, who scoffed, “He hits like a flea,” she replied, “Next time it might feel like a sledgehammer.” Lesson learned—for both of us. Thanks for having my back, Mrs. B.
Sixth grade brought a turnaround. My dad coached the baseball team alongside Richard Furlong and Mo Vandesteene. We started winning, partly motivated by post-game ice cream bribes. The team was sponsored by Fred Levine’s Deer’s Inn, where we even had a banquet. For a non-sporty guy, it was pretty cool. That same year we transitioned to Nessacus Middle School in Dalton, thirty minutes away. To ease the shift we went on a camping trip and whale-watching adventure. It was unforgettable—despite my friend dropping his camera into the ocean. Along with all our pictures. Whoever was involved in the creation of that event, I thank you profusely. I still remember it fondly, even without the evidence. Sixth grade was also my first “C”—in penmanship. I must’ve known cursive would one day be replaced by keyboards. See Mrs. Keiper, I was simply ahead of my time.
And now a special tribute to Mrs. Adams. She was with us from first through sixth grade as a teacher’s aide. A rock-hard disciplinarian who, beneath the tough exterior, truly cared. As a timid first grader, I once told her I’d peed my pants during recess. Her demeanor changed more dramatically than the temperature in January. She led me to the nurse, where we discovered only my underwear was damp. Crisis averted. That pair, bound for home in a plastic bag, mysteriously never reached its destination. Mom, if you’re reading this, it may still be at the Washington Town Hall.
In sharing these memories I know I may have fumbled a name or a year. But I just wanted to say thank you to all my Becket teachers who taught me not just how to read and write, but how to survive and flourish. Now I just rely on spellcheck and editors.
