As perhaps we all do, within any given day and every turn of events I learn what I am made of. Still, I’m ceaselessly amazed at just what stuff it is … although I’ve been uncovering clues since at least the second grade.
To be specific, I was seven and transitioning from second to third grade. My family had recently moved from a small town in North Dakota to an equally small town in Iowa. But, somehow, during that move, my confidence had been misplaced. As my mother laid out my clothing for the first day of school, I became inconsolable at the thought of leaving second grade behind.
Second grade had been kind to me. It had been filled with reading about Dick and Jane and coloring (mostly) within the lines. Recess had been equally rewarding. On some occasions I’d played with the other girls on the merry-go-round and swing sets. On other days, I’d built roads with the boys in the sandbox. Although I was often teased during the latter activity, as my undies would sometimes show, I’d roll my eyes, tug the hem of my dress to the tops of my knees and indignantly retort, “Next time you don’t have to look!”
After school, I’d climb to the top of the butte behind the playground to dig mica from the soil. According to the older children, this silvery paper-like substance was a precious metal which could be traded for candy at the only store in town. Still, they seemed surprised when I was able to conduct just such a transaction with the proprietor there.
But now we had moved and my mother was explaining that the next day I would start third grade. “I don’t know anybody! I’m not ready for third grade,” I had cried, feeling so alone and realizing that the work would be more difficult, the expectations so much higher. “Of course you’re ready,” Mother responded with the patience of one who had three other children to attend to. How little she understood. But, as anyone who has ever had a mother knows, there is truly no use in arguing with them. So the next day, filled with apprehension, I silently prepared for school.
The white school house was very small. With only two rooms, it wasn’t even one quarter the size of my former consolidated school with its multiple classrooms, a cafeteria and gymnasium. I looked at my mother, who’d walked us up to the building, with questioning eyes. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t a school, this is an outhouse!” The words were never uttered; I’d already learned that it was better to reign in such thoughts as this. But the irony of my earlier fear tugged upwards at the corners of my mouth and inwardly I laughed at my own naivety. What a baby I had been!
Mrs. Nicholson, my new teacher, was nice, grandmotherly. With grades three through five sharing a single classroom,
I could spot my older sister from across the room. And I shared first names with one of my classmates; by the end of Day One, Brenda R. had become my new best friend.
The school days rolled by and it wasn’t long before Mrs. Nicholson commended me for my oral reading ability -- for using inflection and looking to my audience as I spoke. I’d been reading to my younger siblings since at least age five and they had never noted my gift for the spoken word, so I was surprised that my teacher could be pleased at something so imperceptible. Still I basked in her praise. Here was something I was good at ... without even trying!
By the school year’s end, the world (and third grade in particular) was my oyster.
So, as you might expect, I was very disappointed to learn that my family now faced another move. We were headed to Texas.
Don’t get me wrong: I put up every argument against moving that a child of eight can think of. I would miss my new-found friends. I wasn’t certain I’d like living in a land with no snow. But as the U-Haul truck pulled up to the house and all our worldly goods disappeared inside, I also understood that I had resilience … even if I didn’t yet know the word for it. I knew I’d make new friends. I understood that I carried with me the capacity to excel in Texas, just as I had in Iowa. More importantly, I realized that I had the stuff that it took to deal with any challenge, once I silenced my fears.
I’d tell you that I’m glad I learned these lessons early on, except that I continue to learn them in every challenge that I face to this day. Perhaps this can be said for most of us: throughout our lives we continue to discover what it is we're made of.
What challenges have you conquered in your early life? What did these years reveal to you about yourself?
Have you ever found yourself trying to take more than one path at a time? 
Contemplations on aging.
As I continue to discuss
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