It was 1953. I was eight. I had known California for over five years and knew bits of New York and Pennsylvania through my parents’ stories.
Miss Jones was from someplace between the coasts. I’ve forgotten her first name, and I’ve forgotten the state. Iowa, maybe Nebraska. She was my fourth grade teacher, and as I recreate her image, she was light-haired, pale-skinned, bird-like, under 25, and orderly. She did not laugh aloud. She was a first-year teacher. She was a Christian.
We studied California history in fourth grade. I remember the map on the bulletin board that charted Junipero Serra‘s missions, each so logically a day’s ride from the next on El Camino Real. Continue reading “Me and Miss Jones–Gee Whiz!”