A Critic is Born

Critic is born

About the time I was in kindergarten, my family lived on Elm Street in Colville.

 

I don’t remember very much about the house but I do recall quite well the woodshed behind the house, for the reason which I will recount later. Maybe my mind draws a blank on the house because we spent a lot of time next door in the neighbor’s yard. They had a creek that ran through their yard and a large sand box nearby, premiere attractions for kids ages five and under.

 

Play would inevitably veer from the sand box to the creek. As you can guess, someone fell in.  It wasn’t me or my brother, but rather my baby sister who tumbled head first into the water. Our mom just happened to see her predicament and rushed by us gawking boys and rescued her. I guess we were just galvanized into inaction by inexperience, not knowing what to do.

 

And I almost lost out on gaining some experience and education, if you will, that fall when I started school.

 

The kindergarten was just a couple blocks down the street – a very short walk – and an even shorter flight.  I had no problems with school until I was made to take part in the performance of a poem or song accompanied by hand motions. I felt ridiculous and thought the whole thing rather silly. In short I didn’t want to participate anymore. So the minute the teacher’s attention was elsewhere, I exited out the front of the building, circled around to the alley in back and made my way via the alleys to that woodshed behind our house.

 

I slipped into the shed and shut the door behind me. I held up there until my folks discovered me.  By that time I had come down with pneumonia, and spent the next week in bed.

 

My mom tells me that I showed more interest in school after that. I guess I missed being with my classmates.

 

This may explain why I enjoy writing scripts for others to perform, and am just too self conscious to perform myself.