A long time ago in a far away land, there lived a little girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and naiveté up the wazoo. She attended Hollandale Christian School and at the time, she had no idea what Aladdin had in store for her.
The magic carpet ride on the backburner, she spent her kindergarten days in fear. Yes, the naps and letter people were great and all, but recess meant morphing into Rapunzel, minus the long hair and knight in shining armor. In other words, she climbed the many stairs of the red slide and a little, redheaded ruffian would throw balls at her.
And after school, things only escalated because unfortunately, the bus didn’t cart her off to grandmother’s house we go yet. So whenever the final bell rang, this hooligan, who shall remain anonymous, chased her around the hallway.
Much to her delight, he transferred to a different school after first grade. No longer a victim to dodge ball land, she could safely move on up to second grade.
But the madness didn't end there, because more times than her parents can count, these infamous words flew from her mouth, “My journal! I forgot my journal!” The thing she must write in was most certainly in a dark classroom with the doors locked.
Tears rolling down her cheek, all was wrong with the world. Her journal entry would most certainly not be finished on time.
Fast forward to seventh grade, the mother of all school years. It was a time where brilliant masterminding was at its peak, much to the teacher’s dismay. Nothing seemed to stop this rowdy passé from doing its thing.
Example: the classroom in a dead silence, one of their finest launched a spit wad to the front of the classroom. But not in any old spot, it landed in the spot, my friends.
To this day, she can still picture the teacher deeply engrossed in the literature textbook, spit wad lining the chalk board just inches away from his head. And as fun as all that was, she looked even more forward to what would happen after school, when a totally different world emerged.
The five-minute bus ride to grandmother’s house complete, she dressed herself with layer number six and headed out the door for another day in the cabbage field. Across the county road, the family farm had bins awaiting her assembly.
Everything now atop the wagon, the cabbage cutting soon commenced. She didn’t know it then, but when enduring the pouring rain, stuck in the middle of a field with a knife in hand – the planets had aligned.
Sure, she may not have looked like Mrs. America, but she didn't care. She worked that mud-covered face. She owned those mud-caked shoes.
The crew may no longer haul you-know-what anymore, but the love affair lives on. It always will.