Mrs. MacMaster's nursery school was in the field house next to the brook at the park in Summit, NJ. There were floor to ceiling windows that looked out to the playground and Memorial Field. In the center of the room was a long table where we did art projects. We each brought a cloth smock from home. I remember flowers, pockets, frills. At least on mine. Every day, Mrs. MacMaster put on a record and we skipped around the table in a long line.
In the corner of the room was parked a large red wooden fire truck. The paint was glossy and smooth to the touch. It had a black wooden steering wheel. Sitting on it, you could make it move by walking along and if you got going fast enough, you could pick up your feet and glide. I often gazed at the red truck but I never rode on it. I knew it was only for boys.
4 comments:
I wonder what the boys would have said about the doll collection?
Also, if the truck was wood, glossy and smooth to the touch, it sounds like the girl's fire truck. I can imagine the boy's fire truck would be chipped, banged up, covered with cookie goo and sn**t, probably with one wheel missing.
But I love the piece.
Next: the playground? Boys and girls side? REd Rover, Red Rover, please come over? Jungle gym that would be an OSHA poster child?
How time speeds by.
THIS we had in common! My memory of Miss McMaster (at this even made the book) was, when workers were making noise outside, we would all sing the Marine's Hymn at the top of our lungs AND we all knew the words!
i was so sure the story with the floor-to-ceiling window and dancing around the table would lead you to another, more gory story... why stop with the joyful, carefree dancing??
Amazing how clear your perceptions were of boys vs. girls at such a young age and how they stuck with you. Also incredible what an impression Mrs. McMasters had on you. I remember almost nothing of preschool- except when I claimed another child's McDonald's toy was mine and I had to go in the next morning during to morning preschool (I went in the afternoons) and return it to him. Aside from stealing a pacifer from the church yard sale that same year, I don't think I've done that since.
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