my son's first day of kindergarten

I just read an article about a man’s son’s first day of kindergarten. I thought about my own son, Sam’s first day and it made me miss him.

He lives in Kansas City and I don’t get to see him or my grandson much.

He looked forward to his first day of kindergarten so much. I took him to school and walked with him up to the school. Children, of course, were everywhere, noise was high. I offered to hold his hand, but he said, no, Dad. He was just too big to hold hands.

However, the closer we got to the classroom, the smaller he seemed to get. We walked down the hallway toward his classroom and he reached up to hold my hand. He suddenly wasn’t too big.

When we got to the room, he was obviously afraid. We looked inside and there were a few children already there sitting around coloring or drawing or just sitting. They all looked up to see who was coming in with equal amounts of fear, dread, acceptance of their fate.

He stood there for a minute, and I let go of his hand. He was so small. Was I really ready to surrender him to the machine? No, but what could I do? It was time.

I stepped back. He looked at me again and began his long lonely plod to a table where a little girl awaited her unwelcome guest.

The teacher came over and I told her Sam’s name and she went to him and welcomed him.

Since he was, after all, raised in church with lots of adults around and had been in Bible school all his life, he rallied but was clearly reluctant for me to leave.

I clearly remember my first day of kindergarten. My mother, who had to have been incredibly young – 24? – walked me to school, OA Fleming Elementary in Freeport, TX, and left me in the hands of the teacher. Since we only lived about 6 or 7 blocks away, it was a simple task.

When school was over (I do not remember much of the day except for a turn war over some toys) I came out the front door. I didn’t see her, but I figured I could just walk home by myself.

As has always been my wont, I turned the wrong direction and went towards town rather than our house, 527 W 8th St. I remember the address so well.

The territory looked absolutely unfamiliar to me but I kept on. After a while, I got to a gas station and went up to the attendant. Of course, they had guys who came out to fill your car and all.

I asked him in my best adult voice, Excuse me. Could you tell me the way to 527 West 8th St, please? As he probably stood there trying to figure out what to do, a man in a pickup truck called my name.

It was Fred Zimmerman, my dad’s supervisor. He recognized me. He asked me why I was there and I told him I was walking home, of course. He knew I didn’t live there and that my mother was probably beside herself by this time not having found me after school.

He took me back to school and my, probably, as I don’t really remember, just having had an adventure, probably crazed mother. Her little boy was gone, having been taken. That wasn’t a big deal in those days, being an absolutely safe society.

I picked up my son after school. I wasn’t going to let him get away. He was a timid child anyway and probably wouldn’t have gone far.

I miss that little guy.