The Wind’s Fault

Photo by Khamkéo Vilaysing on Unsplash

Learning the Palmer Method took everything I had. No matter how slowly I went, no matter how carefully I concentrated on the fat, gorgeous script on the blackboard, my capital letters came out squashed like bread packed in the bottom of a grocery bag. And wrapping your mouth around a new word letter-by-letter brought quick snorts from the kids behind you, even when they knew they’d be next. St. George’s School on the prairie was regimented in the Catholic style. The sister in charge was also teaching second grade and we were all in the same cramped classroom. “Fold-your-hands-and-face-the-front” was one word. Our textbooks were pamphlets the Chicago Archdiocese had written and stapled together and shipped out fast as the tidal wave of post-war babies loomed.

At recess, all you needed was your windbreaker and to not step in a puddle with your school shoes. The April sky was lead gray; it had rained, but it wasn’t cold. The boys, all bigger than me, were trying to catch the prairie wind by unzipping their jackets and holding the sides out like sails. Sometimes a gust would shove them a few inches backwards, and they would whoop with triumph. D’ya see that? Suddenly the wind’s noise grew, blotting out the other kids’ racket. I pulled my red windbreaker taut. Gusts went in different directions, so I had to keep adjusting my stance. Just as Sister started ringing the bell, a hard blast picked me up off the blacktop and dropped me a few inches into a puddle. It was over in a second, but my feet had been gone from the pavement. I had been airborne. The whole world had picked me up and moved me. I stood still in the puddle, letting it sink in that I had flown. My shoes had water on them, but it hadn’t been my fault.