A Truant from Kindergarten

Abstract

The gray sky that opened morning on my rides to kindergarten resulted from a perspective at the bottom of steep hillsides of the Appalachian Mountains and from the haze of burning coal. Jenkins, Kentucky, in the 1930s escaped some of the worst effects of the Depression because the whole town—houses, stores, hospital and clinic, utilities, schools, churches—and its industry were owned by Consolidation Coal Company. Everyone who lived there was employed by the company, and though wages were small, even a miner's child could usually afford kindergarten. Some five-year-olds walked there because the town was so safe. It was small enough for all the adults to know each other and to recognize one another's children. No matter where walked, was Jack McClellan's young' un or Sol Looney's gran'chile. One of my earliest memories is of running away, always from kindergarten. Presided over by Mrs. Hilsenbach, kindergarten for me was nothing but tedium. Songs like Old MacDonald paled beside the wind-up victrola and records my Aunt Eileen danced to. The game I Spy with its demands for the obvious bored me to frustration. Too often the object was on top of the piano, and when dutifully raised my hand, Mrs. Hilsenbach pretended not to see me. Kindergarten was held in the basement of the Methodist Church, strange in its brickness that matched the office buildings and stores. Except for the janitor, no one was there during the week but Mrs. Hilsenbach and her charges. had never been among so many children and so few grown-ups. was used to parents, the hired girl, grandparents, aunts, uncles, Daddy's work crew, Mother's friends who, unlike Mrs. Hilsenbach, were housewives, and one cousin smaller than I. The children seemed dull to me. They hung on Mrs. Hilsenbach like baby opossums. saw nothing interesting about her. She was slimly tall and spoke so that any animation that might have lit up her face was lost on near-