Dad's First Day of School
This story happened before I was born, so you ask, “How do you know?”. I don’t know exactly, but I have some photos; I listened to my father’s stories; and I imagined the rest.
It is August 1918 in rural Central Illinois, a mile from the village called Oakley, four miles as the crow flies from Cerro Gordo, and in those days, an hour’s horse and buggy ride from Decatur.
On this very important day, Earl does not go to the field at daybreak but instead fashions a tripod out of leftover lumber, atop which he balances and focuses his new Kodak on his son, Quinter, and his wife, Cora, the two people he loves more than he loves the farmland. They are framed by the screen door, standing just outside the kitchen on the back porch. Cora’s head tilts towards young Quinter as she hands him his round, galvanized lunch pail and his Guffey’s Reader secured by the tail end of an old belt so that six-year-old Quinter can easily manage his precious cargo. For his other hand, she offers a gray, round, galvanized lunch pail, lid firmly in place. Inside are two slices of freshly baked bread slathered with freshly churned butter and a luxurious sprinkling of white sugar because, after all, it is Quinter’s first day of school.
Quinter cuts southeast towards Blue Door School, the one-room establishment of learning where he will study for six years, named simply to commemorate the color of its portal.
Even for a youngster, it’s within walking distance because, in those days, six-year-olds on farms had responsibilities that came with physical exertion, stamina, and independence. He doesn’t flinch as he walks barefoot across the pebbly driveway to the tall grass on the other side. This is the same tall grass that, when he is 92, will entangle his feet, causing a backward fall that breaks vertebrae that will cause his death a few months later.
Just as he reaches the dirt road, his parents call to him. Quinter turns and smiles confidently, curls peeking out from under his pith helmet, striped denim shirt under bib overalls, rolled at the cuffs, one bare toe pointed to his new life, the other pivoted towards home.
How staged is the scene? Who knows? This photo later appears on the cover of Sunday School Curriculum Magazine and is distributed nationally.
I take for granted how lucky I was to have this guy, Quinter Miller, third-generation farmer, as my dad. But in case you haven't heard my stories about him, here is how I experienced his Slow Death After a Fall as well as the funeral for a Ted Lasso Kind of a Dad.
Happy Father’s Day to all of the guys. I am also sending a special hug to all of you who wish your father had been different. Perhaps he did the best he could have; perhaps he didn’t, but letting ill will go and being the best parent you can be today is the best revenge. Happy Father’s Day.
As the saying goes, "a picture is worth more than a thousand words" You have looked at a few family pictures and again your creative mind has given us a warm and interesting story of your dad's first day of school.
This is a beautifully rendered scene!! I’m glad you found a narrator to imagine it!!