Around 1919, my seven-year-old future grandfather, Iris Harmon, began attending school. Suffice it to say, his first day was not stellar. 

Someone threw a rock. 

     It struck him in the head. 

               He “cut a terrible shine.” 

Hurt yet undeterred, he resumed his education despite this literally rocky start.

Each day, he and his siblings walked three miles to the schoolhouse and three miles home. Whether uphill both ways, barefoot in the snow, I know not, but Iris dreaded the trek. 

“A little fellar,” he recalled, “time he’d made that trip and stayed there all day, he was ready for supper when he come in.”

Younger children learned their ABCs from primers. As their studies advanced, the three R’s – reading, ‘riting, and ‘ritmetic – were emphasized, along with history and geography. 

Their teachers were strict. One in particular, Iris claimed, was “iller than a sack full of cats.” The students dared not shirk their lessons. 

Iris seemed to get into trouble almost daily, and he would be sent outside to cut hickory switches for his whippings, which he dreaded less than his classmates’ snickering.  

For recreation, one of their teachers decided he would create a basketball court and play with his students. A flat piece of land sat below the schoolhouse, and, together, they scraped it slick and set up goal posts. 

The teacher, much bigger than the children, hogged the ball and cheated so that his team always won. This didn’t sit well with Iris and some of his friends, including his buddy Alvin, who, according to Iris, “was as mean as a young’un could be.” They decided to teach their teacher a lesson of their own.

They ran into him.

      They knocked him to the ground.

                 They stuck out their legs and tripped him.

They were so rough on him that he finally asked another teacher to take over. He claimed he was sick and must have eaten a bad lunch. But Iris and his fellow assailants knew better.

In those days, every holler was full of fox grapes that grew as big as plums. One day, Iris and Alvin picked some and put them in their pockets. Back inside the schoolhouse, they began tossing them about. This angered their teacher – Alvin’s sister – and she ordered them to stop. 

Later, as his unsuspecting sister sat upon the stage at the front of the classroom with her head down, Alvin threw a big grape. It exploded with force upon the blackboard behind her.  Jerking her head upwards, she demanded the identity of the culprit.  

No confessions. 

      No tattle tales. 

              Only…silence.

Shortly after, Iris boldly attempted to replicate Alvin’s mischief. But just about the time he threw the grape, the teacher looked up, and it struck the center of her forehead as if it were the intended target. Juice splattered everywhere. 

Another whipping for Iris.

   More snickers from his peers.

        But presumably better than a rock upside his head.