There wasn’t much to
do in winter evenings under the melancholic light of the bare bulb hanging from
the ceiling, in a room devoid of anything that could have given laughter and
joy to a boy, or at least would have drifted him out of boredom and
listlessness. We were living in an era of
no internet or video games and only a few families in Greece still possessed a TV
set. I was interacting solely with a methodical and pedantic and overscrupulous
primary school teacher who was the daughter of a principal, and both were
exponents of an entrenched and intellectually limited cognition. Thus, I was
becoming embedded in a rather regressive system of learning. The incessant and
monotonous and sterile homework that I brought onto my little desk every night
and completed with stoicism and diligence and remarkable thoroughness was a solitary
occupation, with questionable results over the long-term benefits in shaping my
personality. It did not take long before a sweet drowsiness by the heat from
the stove overwhelmed us both. In retrospect it seemed that I was ‘killing’ time
rather uncreatively early in life, but the days were passing by slowly then.
I was not legally
allowed to attend school proper for another year and, indeed, Mother following
the letter of the law, had me attend the nursery in an annex off the main school,
for a short period, where, I remember, sitting nonchalantly next to the young nursery
teacher who read us tales and taught us the alphabet by displaying huge letters
on a board. After an arrangement behind the scenes between Mother and the
principal, I found myself being informally admitted in the first-year class: a
whole year ahead of my time! Certainly not in a class that Mother was teaching,
as this would trigger whispers of bias and special treatment and unwelcome gossip
(and nothing less ingenuous than that) amongst children and parents, and even
by one or two ill-disposed teachers. Arguably, it could bring classmates into
awkward or contemptuous situations in their association with me, depending always
on one’s goodwill... Not that displays of such prejudices were frequent or
noticeable. Yet nothing would have prevented from being labelled or, as I would
later say to myself, stigmatized as the aloof ‘son of our teacher’, a tag
I subconsciously carried in my first year in ‘Cold Trough’ and beyond, since,
in fact, as the child of a teacher I enjoyed some conspicuous privileges other
pupils did not. For instance, time before the start and after the end of each school
day, sometimes during breaks, I was invited and spent in the warmth and
cleanliness of the teachers' room (where often naughty classmates were dragged
in order to be reprimanded) or enjoy treats that were often brought in and
offered by teachers and parents.
Eventually, without comprehending
much of what was going on around me, I was transferred to the first-year class
in the main stone building, in the class of Mrs. Lola, and predictably placed at
the very front desk at arm’s length from my teacher. Mts. Lola was a short and plump
but extremely benevolent colleague and, by virtue of their year together in ‘Cold
Trough’, best friend of Mother's, who later became godmother to one of her
children. Mrs. Lola had a monotonous and automatic way of teaching in class, and
was shy in her interactions with others. But she was low-key and soft-spoken with
a pleasant voice, which I don't recall her ever raising to children and adults
alike. Perhaps, because of the gentle, timid and rather feeble character, along
with her lack of experience, she had been assigned to teach in the not very
demanding first-year.
It was that lonely and difficult year in ‘Cold Trough’ that solidified Mother's friendship with Mrs. Lola, as it often happens with people of compatible natures who face common adversities in a strange place away from home. Their friendship survived the many years after their appointment to the remote village, until retirement and old age, Mother's illness extinguished one of her best friends from memory. As far as I am concerned, the dictum "our first teacher is never forgotten" holds true, no matter how insignificant the influence of a first-year teacher can be on one’s life.
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