In the wee hours of the morning because a thought was nagging me, I decided to get out of bed, Google my childhood rental home, map the route to my elementary school, and walk it virtually using “street view”. I had no idea the memories that would come flooding to me from doing this exercise, especially through squinted sleepy eyes in the dim hours of darkness before the dawn.
I started with the street name, South Sixteenth Street, and realizing I lived in the second house on the street, I zoomed in to where I thought I lived, noticing the house number come into sight, 319. “That sounds like it has a ring to it,” I thought, like maybe I had to memorize it in case I got lost so I would be able to tell a helpful adult “Hi, my name is Brandy, and I live at 319 South 16th Street.”
When I looked at the street view, a 360 degree virtual view from the street on Google Maps, the home didn’t look as familiar. The paint was different, the moss overgrown. I wasn’t even sure that this was the right place. I typed that address into a real estate webpage and flipped through the pictures of the rooms on the most recent listing. When I got to the picture of my childhood bedroom that I have not seen since I was 7 years old, it felt not like a gut ache, but not the warm feelings of nostalgia either that one might encounter upon re-entering a childhood home. I saw the picture of the bathroom, so tiny, then a brief memory of my mother flashing through my mind. I was 5 or 6, in the tub, taking a bubble bath of sorts, when she came in and put the toilet seat lid down, a small wrapped gift box in her hands. She smiled with glee as if it were her present that she was about to open. “It’s from your dad!” she says excitedly. It was nearly my birthday, and my dad had sent me a present through the mail. “Do you want me to open it for you?” Her smile was so big, and so were her eyes. She couldn’t wait to rip that thing open. “Yes” I replied, nervous and excited at what would come next. She had to build the suspense first. “Guess...guess what’s in it,” she whispered as she leaned forward, smothering my present in her elbows and forearms and chest. “I don’t know” I whimpered a little, really not having any idea what it could possibly be and being incredibly impatient. After I gave her two or three hideously improbable ideas, she realized her intention of building suspense was starting to backfire, and she got to the fun part, tearing off the wrapping paper to reveal the present underneath. It was a small blue gingham fabric musical jewelry box with a spinning “dancing” ballerina inside. The ballerina was plastic and her features consisted of a blob of red paint for lips and a blob of yellow for hair, but I was elated, enamored, it was the best present I had ever received, and I treasured it for many years to come.
Yes, that WAS my bathroom. And this WAS my house. As I scrolled through the remainder of the pictures, more memories started to come into focus. The home had been renovated and was hardly recognizable, but rooms, and the doors, and the layout was as I remembered. It was time to go back to my street view, get walking directions to my elementary school, and take a virtual walk to school. According to Google Maps, the walk is 1.1 or 23 minutes. I wonder how long it took for my little kindergarten feet to make that same distance. As early as 5 years old, I walked myself to school every morning. To be honest, most mornings I also got myself dressed and ready as well. Mom would wake me and then head back to bed most days. I would see myself out.
I followed my route virtually, taking a quick glance around at homes, looking for items of familiarity. My recollection didn’t completely come back, but when I made a wrong turn, I felt it in my gut immediately and corrected course. While taking this virtual stroll, I encountered my first major road to cross, and remembered getting in trouble with the crossing guard at Beasley Middle School for crossing a block early and all by myself. I didn’t want to walk down further so she could assist me across. It felt like it was so far out of my way that I would try to avoid appearing in her line of vision and sneak across the street when she wasn’t looking. There was another crosswalk when I reached my elementary school a few blocks later, and this road was far too wide and busy to not use the assistance of the crossing guard.
When I was teaching in my twenties, I started going to a tanning bed to treat my psoriasis. While in the waiting area one day, a middle-aged woman came in and sat down across from me, and I recognized her. She was the secretary at Moseley Elementary School, where my mother-in-law (at the time) worked as a regular substitute, the same elementary school I had attended and was virtually walking to this morning. When Martha saw me, she exclaimed, “You’re Brandy!” I immediately thought she had recognized me as Sharon’s daughter-in-law, but what she said next hit me like a ton of bricks. “I will never forget the day you came to school with no shoes on!” Apparently, Martha had been at Moseley since I was a little girl, and remembered me specifically, for a really embarrassing reason. As soon as she said it, I had a memory flash of searching and searching and searching through my room and my toy box for my other shoe that morning. I couldn’t find it, and I didn’t want to wake up my mom, and I didn’t want to be late for school, so I went anyway, barefoot. I remember being grabbed up off the sidewalk, “Girl, where in the world are your shoes?” once I got to school, and some calls were made. I wonder if it was Martha’s office I sat in all those years ago, while we waited for shoes to arrive.
Looking at the school on the street view, I can remember walking into school, and going straight to the cafeteria to get a warm breakfast when I would arrive, then the hustle and bustle of the sidewalks as I made my way to class. I know the layout of the school well as an adult now, having provided professional development to teachers there over the years.
I had Mrs. Downs for kindergarten until she put me over her knee and spanked me for talking. The next week and for the rest of the year, I had Mrs. Finner for kindergarten. For first grade I had Mrs. Brown. I got lucky in second grade and landed Mrs. Williams. She was caring, and younger, and she loved her job. She fostered a sense of community and is likely the original inspiration for me wanting to become a teacher. I remember writing and reading my first story out loud in class. It was Halloween, and we had to write about a jack-o-lantern. Not knowing what that was, and being too afraid to ask, I wrote my story about a boy named “Jack”...”O’Lantern”. I’m sure he was a nice Irish lad. After being given plenty of time to flesh out our ideas, several students were called to the front of the class one at at time to read their stories before me, where it was becoming clear and at a quickening pace that my story would make not one bit of sense because JACK IS A PUMPKIN!!! Ugh. Panic hit me hard. She called my name. It was my turn. With trepidation, I walked to the front of class and began to read my story aloud, but had barely “eek”ed the first syllable when a lump in my throat formed. Gulp. I looked around at all of those eyes staring at me, waiting, heating crawling up my chest and neck. Second sentence in, I knew it was already turning to gibberish, when with reckless abandon, I began changing the story as I read, reciting a new elaborate story about a PUMPKIN, not a boy, because that would be silly, of course. My teacher was far too kind to me because I am sure that what actually came out of my mouth could have been classified as a natural disaster. I survived it. “Thank you Brandy,” Mrs. Williams clapped, and the class joined in. I slinked back to my seat, face burning, wondering if there was the slightest chance that I pulled that off. Doubtful.
I had the biggest crush on a boy in my class, (and current Facebook friend), Michael Halbrook. When Valentine’s Day came around, I had my mom buy a special valentine for him, which I scrawled the words, “I love you” on. Mind you, we had probably shared less than 5 words but he always smiled at me, and it made me feel like I had a friend. I remember feeling so nervous passing all the generic cartoon ones out to everybody else, holding on to his very serious one until the very end, then quickly slamming it face down on his desk before running to my own. I peeked. He smiled. What a guy.
Mrs. Williams experienced far more pain as a teacher than most of us in the profession could imagine. One morning, our principal pulled her outside to the sidewalk to have a word with her. We could hear her wailing from inside, shrieks of anguish. In our naivete, some whispered, “Do you think she got fired?” She didn’t return to class that day, and until a substitute could be found, our principal took over class. He solemnly informed us that a classmate had passed away from a car accident on the way to school that morning. Years later in my twenties, I would discover while talking to a good friend and colleague that the little boy who died that morning was Mark Tucker, her (then) husband’s brother. For a moment, my heart ached hearing that news, finally experiencing the sorrow of that moment so many years ago.
When my own mother passed away suddenly that December, I didn’t get a chance to say my goodbyes to Mrs. Williams. While my brother continued to live with my dad in Melrose, I went to live with my grandparents in Welaka on 10 acres of sugar sand and oak trees. It had horses and cats and dogs, quite a change from the small city home Mom rented in the middle of Palatka, where a stray rabbit Mom caught was the only pet I ever had. My only memory of that fluffy white terror was him running toward me on the couch at lightning speed, biting the tip of my nose, and running away at warp speed in the other direction. Tears started streaming down my face immediately. I wasn’t crying. It had just pinched me so hard it caused an involuntary response.
Shortly after the funeral, Mrs. Williams sent me a care package in the mail. It included a few Christmas gifts, things to read, puzzles to solve, and a goodbye/sympathy card. It was my second time getting a gift in the mail, and it meant the world to me at a time when I felt so alone. I never got to thank her, but she holds a special place in my heart.
Several months went by, and I was walking down the hall of my new school, Crescent City Elementary, when another class walked past ours. In the line, was a familiar face, a cute boy with a big smile, “Hey Brandy!” It was Michael Halbrook. Cue the Hallelujah chorus. A familiar face! And his face of all faces. Eventually we both ended up back in Palatka, and at Palatka High School together, and have stayed loosely in touch over the years.
Wow. What a walk down digital memory lane, South Sixteenth Street. If you decide to Google your childhood home or school, my advice: clear out a few hours to reminisce and relive. And maybe grab some tissue. Thanks for walking with me.
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