Teaching Music
December 1 ,2015
Introduction:
The loud noise of the rain muffled sound of the handheld school bell, and then, just like magic, the rain stopped.
I remembered very well what Mom told me that morning:
"Now don't forget, don't leave school if it rains, but as soon as it stops, rush right back home."
Lucky for me, the rain stopped right on time. Now, all I had to do was run home as fast as I could. I grabbed all my books, stuffed them in my school bag, picked up my chair, dropped it on top of the desk, and without realizing that it had fallen right back on the floor, zipped through the door.
Looking up toward the sky for a glimpse just made me run faster. The sky was very dark as if night was coming, yet, it was only five minutes passed noon. We always ended school at five after twelve. My house was just half a mile from the school; I had to walk through the nursery school, and the “Tippat Halav - Drop of Milk Center” for the Mother and Child. There I had to be very careful not to slide and fall into the puddle of “hamra” - That's what the Arabs called the red and slippery dirt. I had to go down the hill, look to the left, to the right, and to the left again, only then, when I'm sure that no cars are close by, cross the road toward walk in medical center – Kupat Holim. Next, I had to pass the sand dunes where I always stop to play, (sometimes I forget, lunch is getting cold,) go up the hill, and turn left to our newly paved street. The house of Gadi on the left, Moshiko on the right, Yonah, the dirty boy, on the left next to the old lady that is in front of the “dead man's” house. Skip over the empty trash can that Yossi and Yoram didn't put back in its place yet. They came home from school at one. Both are older than me, and they went to the orthodox school. On Wednesday they came home at two because they had music lessons, Yoram plays the “Darbuka”, an Arab drum, and Yossi plays the Mandolin, I always liked to visit them when they played together; They were very good. After I passed their house, I would enter our yard and walk on the old pavement, careful not to trip over the crooked tile, step up the two steps, and enter the house.
Well, this time I ran very fast. I passed the nursery school, and just next to the Drop of Milk, where the “hamra” was, I tried to run around the puddle. But it was so large it passed the fence of the “Drop of Milk”, and I was forced to go through the puddle. I could not stop now because everything came too fast. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself face down in the middle of the “hamra,” my school backpack opened, and the books flying above my head into the red mush.
I tried to get up and slid again right on my face. I had to crawl on all fours to collect all my books, dirt and all, and put them back in the bag. After falling two more times, I finally managed to get up and walk home. When I passed next to the house of Yona, the dirty boy, I wondered if he ever got to be so dirty with this red “Henna” color, and if so, would he wash it off?
"Did you stop to play at the dunes again?" Mom yelled from the kitchen when I opened the door. "How many times did I tell you to rush home when it's rai... " She stopped right there, when she came to see if I shook the sand off before entering the house.
"What happened? You look like you went swimming in chocolate."
"Chocolate?" The voice of my little brother came from the bedroom. "Chocolate, I want chocolate! I want chocolate..."
We never heard the end of it...
The silence in the classroom was suddenly broken and erupted with roaring applause and cheer. I was stunned. Being the smallest and darkest child in the 6th grade I wasn’t very popular. Most of the time, I was the subject of ridicule and torment by the bigger boys and even girls. Yet, when I finished reading my first composition to the class even the teacher was surprised. She was wondering if I wrote the story all by myself.
“What do you mean?” I asked; “Who else could have written it?” It didn’t look like anything special to me it was just something that happened to me a few years ago. The impact on the rest of the class was like a shot of adrenalin to me. I decided to try writing more but being a kid like most kids it didn’t happen until I was at my 30s, and even now at over 60 I am still taking my time writing my stories about growing up in Israel.
Stick around, maybe you would like my next stories too.
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