My Summer Vacation

 

The year was 1935 and Haskin Flagg was in Miss Cleveland's 4th grade class at the Hiram L. Dorman Elementary School. "Now children," she said with insistence, "write a composition for me entitled, "My Summer Vacation." The topic was decidedly uninspiring. Haskin picked up his pencil and began thinking over the events of the past summer. He found himself staring at the blank sheet of paper, with the three notebook holes and the light, blue lines, wondering why the red margin was only on the left side of the paper. With a deep sigh, he wrote the title:

My Summer Vacation

"There!" he told himself, "I've started." Now what to write about? "Oh yes," he thought, "I went to summer camp at Forest Park." That had been fun for the most part, although things did not go well at sign-up time on the first day. All the campers had to fill out cards giving certain information. Haskin filled out his name and address, then handed it to the Camp Councilor, not sure how to answer the remaining questions.

"What's your nationality?" came the abrupt inquiry.

"American." Haskin answered.

"American? With a name like Flagg?" Next to the word "nationality" he wrote, "Irish."

"And your mother? What's her nationality?"

"She's American too."

Exasperated, the Councilor shouted, "What was her maiden name? You know, the name before she married your father? They are married, aren't they?"

Haskin replied, "DeGriere, D-E-G-R-I-E-R."

"Oh, a Canuck," and he wrote, "French-Canadian." Next the Councilor asked, "What's your religion?"

"Catholic!" Haskin shot back.

"What kind of Catholic? Roman Catholic, Greek Catholic, Russian Catholic?"

" American Catholic." Haskin replied.

"Ain't no category called American Catholic!" the Councilor barked. Then he added as he dismissed Haskin into the park, "Jesus, you welfare kids are dumb!"

Somehow Haskin felt sure that an incident like that was not something Miss Cleveland would want him to put in his composition, so he wrote simply:

I went to camp.

"Okay, that's a beginning," Haskin thought. "What else happened?"

After a minute's reflection, he recalled how he and Grandfather DeGriere had gone blueberry picking. They had left together right after breakfast, with Haskin carrying the smaller pails while his grandfather carried two large pots. The object was to fill the pails and then dump them into the pots. When the pots were full, they could go home.

Grandfather DeGriere knew where all the good spots in Pine Point for picking blueberries. The old man didn't talk much about human activity, but he surely knew the natural world. They had little trouble filling the first pot, but then the picking got slim. "Better switch to another location," Grandfather said, "pretty much picked out here."

Together they started down the woodland path, going deeper into the woods along Bay Street, until Grandfather came to a stop. "Okay, Haskin," his grandfather said, "let's try here." Again, Grandfather had chosen a good spot. In about an hour both pots were full.

"Time to go home, Haskin," Grandfather said, tying the two small pails to his belt. Grandfather carried the larger of the two pots, while Haskin carried the other. Together, they retraced the path through the woods.

Suddenly, Grandfather DeGriere jumped back in a panic, his heels hitting a log and sending him toppling backwards, with blueberries flying in all directions! Haskin was amazed and alarmed, crying out, "Grandfather! What's wrong?"

The old man said one word, "Snake." Haskin could not believe that he was seeing in his grandfather's eyes something he would never have believed possible - fear. Haskin had always believed his stoic grandfather to be completely fearless, but now he had learned that even his grandfather was vulnerable to fright. The boy looked in the direction his grandfather had indicated. "Grandpa," he said, "that ain't no snake, it's a vacuum cleaner hose!" His grandfather looked hard in that direction. Sure enough, the boy was right.

"We better pick up all these berries," was all his grandfather said.

This too didn't seem like the type of memory Miss Cleveland would like to hear about, so instead, Haskin wrote simply:

I went blueberry picking.

"Well, that's two sentences," he thought, congratulating himself. "What am I going to write next? Oh yes! the Fourth of July!"

Haskin's father had started to celebrate early. By the time he came home from the bar in the wee hours of the night of July 3rd, Haskin's mother had locked the door. Haskin and his younger brother Walter were sound asleep when suddenly both boys were awakened by the sound of glass shattering in their bedroom window. Their screams were quickly followed by their mother rushing into the room, grabbing them out of bed and running into the kitchen.

Haskin's father stood up in the boy's bedroom, brushed the glass from his clothes, then staggered into the living room. Swaying unsteadily, Jimmy collapsing onto the couch and fell instantly to sleep, dead drunk. Irene brought the boys into her room and tucked them into her bed. Finally, they all fell asleep.

The next morning, the family went to the 4th of July parade in downtown Springfield as promised. His mother and father hardly said a word to each other. Excited by the parade, the boys almost forgot the traumatic events of the night before. After the parade, as they were walking down Main Street to take the trolley back to Pine Point, a balloon vendor walked past.

Haskin asked carefully, "Can I have a balloon?"

Walter chimed in, "Me too?"

Mrs. Flagg looked at her husband with a look of anger. "Any money for balloons," she said bitterly, "your father drank away last night." This memory too, felt inappropriate to get into too much detail about, so Haskin added a just a sentence to his essay:

We went to the Fourth of July parade.

As Haskin puzzled over what to write next, he heard over his thoughts, "Alright children, finish the sentence you're writing. Time's up!" It was Miss Cleveland. Hastily, Fred wrote:

It was a good summer.

*  Now, many years later, on a bright September day in 1957, Haskin had become, "Mr Flagg, teacher." He was in his first year of teaching in West Springfield. On the day before the first day of school, the English Department was having its first meeting of the school year. The purpose was to go over the curriculum, and in time it came around to assignments concerning English composition. Mrs. Phillips, the Department Chair, suggested that their first assignment of the school year should be to write an essay on the topic, What I did on my Summer Vacation.

"Mrs. Phillips," Haskin interrupted, "may we assign another topic? The children have been writing that same paper every year going back to 4th grade."

Mrs. Phillips glared at him. "Mr. Flagg," she began deliberately, "you are new this year. The children have been away from academics for the whole summer. They wouldn't know what to write. I suggest you stick to the curriculum and do as I suggest. There will be other composition assignments on other topics for which you can adequately prepare the children." Adjusting the collar on her dress she stated, "I would prefer, Mr. Flagg, My Summer Vacation as a start." Turning to the other English teachers, she said with finality, "Are there any more questions?" She paused, acknowledged the silence, then declared, "Meeting adjourned."

Haskin returned to his classroom to finish putting up his bulletin boards. School would open the next day and now it would be he who would be giving the My Summer Vacation assignment. The next morning the bell rang and the hallways were filled with young voices and the sound of lockers slamming. One by one, somewhat apprehensively, the 9th grade students filed into Mr. Flagg's English class and took their seats. The second bell rang. Haskin crossed the room and closed the door.

Once the roll had been taken, Haskin began. "Since we are all new to each other, let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Flagg and I will be your 9th grade English teacher. To give me an idea of how well you write, I am assigning a composition to be completed during this class period. I'll put the title on the board." Haskin walked to the chalkboard, selected a piece of chalk, and wrote, "My Summer Vacation."

The class groaned.

Haskin turned around. "Why are you groaning?" he asked. "It's just to give me an idea of how well you write." No one responded. "Really, please tell me what you don't like about this assignment, I'd like to hear your opinion."

Still, no one said anything. Finally, a shy voice came from the back of the room, "Mr. Flagg?" It was a farm boy named Grey Edwards. "Mr. Flagg, we have been writing that same composition every year since 4th grade."

Haskin recalled saying the same words the day before. "You're right Grey. Thank you. Those of you who want to write the summer vacation paper may. Anyone who wishes to write about something else may also do so."

"But what can we write?" asked a student named Betsy.

"Everyone has a story within him," Haskin began. "You must reach deep into your self, find it and pull it out. Each story will be different, because you are different. Truly, whatever you write it will be YOUR story."

One by one the students slowly picked up their pens and began. At the end of the class, Haskin collected the papers. After the bell had rung and all the students were gone, Haskin looked over the student essays. Most of the students had indeed written about "My Summer Vacation," but when he came to the one submitted by Grey Edwards, he saw that it had an intriguing title, "Winter, Come Slowly."

I walked across the hard ground towards the barn. The frozen grass crackled beneath my boots....

The composition was a short sketch of how Grey began his morning chores, and how much more difficult those chores were in the winter. It was truly an original and inspired piece! It was then that Haskin Flagg promised himself that he would never again assign My Summer Vacation to any of his classes. And through the many generations of students that followed, he always kept that promise.