The Willamette Valley is wet. That’s what I remember most about the winters when we lived in Corvallis, Oregon, between 1959 and 1961. As I am writing my current work-in-progress, I find it easy to write about winters on homesteads near Oregon City—I just think of my preschool days. Wet. Dark. Depressing. It isn’t a heavy rain, but it seems almost constant.
I attended preschool at Oregon State University, where my father was a graduate student. As a four-year-old, I didn’t know the particulars of how the school was organized. I didn’t realize until much later in life that the teachers were students learning about early childhood education and that my preschool (it may have been called a nursery school—I just thought of it as “school”) was a laboratory for these students.
This preschool was my first school experience—my first organized activity of any type. Before that, I had only had my little brother to play with, or an occasional neighbor or friend who visited.
When I got to my last school experience—law school—I discovered that one of my law school classmates had also gone to the OSU preschool about the same time I did. We might have been classmates then, too, although neither of us remembered the other.
I enjoyed preschool. When I started there, my brother was too young to go, so it was something I got to do by myself, because I was a big girl. Later, he went to the school also, but he went on different days and was in a class for younger children. That meant we developed different friends, and we each got some alone time with Mommy.
The preschool curriculum was typical. I learned all the usual songs and dances. I remember Ring around the Rosie, the Hokey Pokey, and Farmer in the Dell. I also remember quiet time, even though we were only there for two or three hours each day—we were supposed to rest, and I think we could look at books.
And every day we had a period of time for outside play. Even when it rained, which was often.
Some days none of the kids wanted to go outside. If all the children agreed, the teachers didn’t have to take us outside. But because outside play was part of the curriculum, if someone wanted to go out, the teachers had to accommodate us.
I have always hated the rain. I was born in the desert of Richland, Washington. That dry climate is still my preference, despite my early years in Oregon and my now 35-plus years in the Midwest. I’d really rather not go outside in the rain.
But one day at preschool, I wanted to be ornery. It was raining hard, and it was cold. Nevertheless, I insisted on going outside. I knew I had the power to make it happen. Maybe I just wanted to follow the rules. I can still be a stickler for rules, but only when I want to be. Now, I also ignore rules I think are stupid. And the rule that kids had to go outside, even in the rain, was really a stupid rule.
None of the other kids wanted to go outside. Sometimes the teachers made everyone go out, but this day, the teachers let the rest of the children stay inside. I and one teacher (a young man) went outside by ourselves. (Think of how unlikely an event that would be today—a teacher is not permitted to be alone with a student, if it can be prevented.)
I bundled up in my coat and mittens, and we went out. I rode a tricycle and I talked to the teacher. It was really a miserable experience being outside in the rain without anyone else to play with. I lasted about fifteen minutes before I agreed to go back inside.
But I had saved face and made my point. Even at four years old, I could make my case and stick to it. Even if I wasn’t very nice about it.
When have you been ornery?