Back in the 1950s, our rural school district didn't have a kindergarten, so 5-year-olds like me with late birthdays usually started first grade.

My entire life, I'd spent all day and night with my mother, and the idea of leaving her for a great big, strange world terrified me.

Poor Mom, who was on the brink of giving birth to my baby sister, had her hands more than full, as I cried and begged not to go. I didn't want to put on shoes and I certainly didn't want to wear a dress.

Most of all, I wanted to stay home and play outside in the puddles all day, making up adventures for my little plastic animals. I wanted to be able to come in at lunch time and scrub off the dirt with Boraxo powder and sit with Mom for my usual tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich, which she'd prepare on the wood-burning cook stove.

That first morning, Mom and I were up and on our way early. The bus didn't even come past our house, as I was the only student on our road. Hand in hand, we walked over a half-mile to the corner of the village. My heart squeezed its way up into my throat and nearly choked me, and I tried not to cry.

The familiar fields of goldenrod and purple asters only reminded me of what I'd be missing, locked away in a classroom all day long. No time to stop and feed Dolly, the fat, shaggy, brown-and-white pony. Only a wave for my grandma, as we passed her house at the halfway point.

What if I miss the bus? Can I go home? What if I have to go to the bathroom? I kept asking Mom the same questions, listening closely for any sign she was as terrified and unsure as I was.

As we approached the Sorber house on the corner, Mom handed me my new Roy Rogers lunchbox and my milk money. But where were all the other kids, who should have been waiting for the school bus?

Mrs. Sorber came out onto her porch. "You just missed it," she told us.

I felt myself shrink inside. How would we ever deal with such an enormous calamity? My father was away at work, and we had no car at home. Even my mother, who had always had the answers to all of life's problems, couldn't possibly have an answer to this one.

But I had underestimated her. Mr. Kirk was still at home, and he would be glad to drive me to school. At that point, I lost any small glimmer of hope that this could still end well. I would not only be late on my first day of school, but now I had to ride with a great big, cigar-smoking grownup I hardly knew.

In a daze, I let Mom shove me into the weird-smelling car. Mr. Kirk put it in gear, and away we went.

He tried to make conversation in the way my parents' men friends usually did -- very loudly and with a lot of horrible teasing and good cheer. "So you're going to school, huh? Teacher will probably give you a licking for missing the bus! Har-har-har!"

Cigar smoke filled the car and I stuck my head out the passenger window and waited to die.

When we arrived, the buses had all left, so I had to let Mr. Kirk take me inside. Would I get a licking? Somehow, he found my classroom. I had been assigned to the best teacher, the one that everybody talked about -- Miss Grady. As I walked in, every face turned to stare.

But what I stared at, with growing horror, was the sliding board that reached up to the ceiling in the corner. To my great shame, I had never gone down a slide in my life. I was afraid of heights.

"Welcome, Susie," Miss Grady said kindly, giving no indication a licking was in store. "You just take a seat, and after lunch if you're good, you'll get to go down the slide!"

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