The Smell of Wet Wool
When I was in Kindergarten, such a l-o-n-g time ago now, I walked the three blocks to Lincoln School by myself nearly every day. Mom and little brother, Danny, walked with me for the first few weeks, but then I was on my own. Well, not really. Since virtually all of the kids walked or rode their bikes to and from our neighborhood grade school, I usually found myself walking with at least one of my fellow students, long before I reached the playground.
I always wore a dress to school. Always. Girls were not allowed to wear pants or, as we called them, slacks. When the weather was chilly, I pulled on a pair of slacks under my dress for the walk to school, and again at recess time. But the pants came off when we took off our coats and settled down for our school work.
When the weather was snowy, we still walked to school, but we added more clothes. I can still remember that pervasive smell of wet wool, wafting out of the coat closet when its three garage-style doors were rolled up toward the ceiling. Almost every child wore a warm, wool coat and matching snow pants. I loved my hand-me-down french blue coat, with its nubby texture and Peter Pan collar and black buttons down the front. I was proud that I could put on the snow pants all by myself, except for a little help crossing the straps in the back so I could button them at the front waistband. I was genuinely pleased that Aunt Marilyn had outgrown the coat and pants just in time for me to wear them to Kindergarten.
Back then, children's coats didn't usually have hoods. The boys may have worn stocking caps or ear muffs, but the girls never did. Instead, we wore headscarves, made of square pieces of fabric, folded into triangles, and tied under our chins. A few years later, girls started to wear fancy, furry ear muffs or round, furry hats with fluffy pompoms on the end of each tie-string. The newer head coverings were warmer and much more fashionable than those ugly headscarves, and not nearly so itchy!
Whether the weather was rainy or snowy, we wore the same red or blue rubber boots. We called them "overshoes" for the obvious reason that we tugged them on right over our shoes. If my new boots were a little too big, I just pulled on a pair of Mom's socks over my shoes, and then slid my extra-warm feet right into the overshoes. If I was unfortunate enough to have to wear last year's boots over this year's bigger shoes, it became a real exercise in patience to try to coax my new shoes into those stubborn old boots. My shiny, black, patent leather Mary Janes were the hardest shoes to fit into those sticky rubber boots. When all else failed, I took off my shoes, put on an extra pair of socks, and wore the overshoes without shoes, carrying my shoes to school in my book bag. When that happened, I knew that we would soon be heading to the store to buy some new, bigger overshoes, as long as I wasn't gifted with someone's hand-me-down overshoes first.
When I first started to school, young children always wore knitted mittens, usually fastened together with a long piece of braided yarn that was looped through our coat sleeves so we wouldn't lose them. If the weather was exceptionally cold, we wore two pairs of mittens, one inside of the other, and long neck scarves that were tied around our necks and pulled up to cover our mouths and noses, so only our eyes could be seen peeking out of our bulky winter wardrobe.
Mom or Dad would drive me to school once in a great while, when the temperature was below zero. But sometimes, when Dad had taken the car someplace for the day, and Mom had to stay at the hotel to man the front desk, she would call a taxi to take me to and from school. She would place a quarter in my mitten-clad hand, instructing me to give it to the cabbie as soon as he dropped me off at school. When the taxi brought me home from school, Mom would run outside to pay the cab driver before we dashed inside to the warmth of our first floor apartment.
Everyone went out for recess on all but the most frigid days. We built snowmen, had snowball fights, played Fox and Geese or Pom Pom Pull Away. Then, we all traipsed back inside, pulled off our wet overshoes, snow pants, coats and mittens, and hung them on the hooks in the coat closet. We put on our shoes and tied them or buckled them, maybe with help from the teacher or a more proficient classmate. Then, everyone gathered on the floor for story time, still smelling those damp woolens waiting in the closet until it was time to put them on again and head for home.
I always wore a dress to school. Always. Girls were not allowed to wear pants or, as we called them, slacks. When the weather was chilly, I pulled on a pair of slacks under my dress for the walk to school, and again at recess time. But the pants came off when we took off our coats and settled down for our school work.
When the weather was snowy, we still walked to school, but we added more clothes. I can still remember that pervasive smell of wet wool, wafting out of the coat closet when its three garage-style doors were rolled up toward the ceiling. Almost every child wore a warm, wool coat and matching snow pants. I loved my hand-me-down french blue coat, with its nubby texture and Peter Pan collar and black buttons down the front. I was proud that I could put on the snow pants all by myself, except for a little help crossing the straps in the back so I could button them at the front waistband. I was genuinely pleased that Aunt Marilyn had outgrown the coat and pants just in time for me to wear them to Kindergarten.
Whether the weather was rainy or snowy, we wore the same red or blue rubber boots. We called them "overshoes" for the obvious reason that we tugged them on right over our shoes. If my new boots were a little too big, I just pulled on a pair of Mom's socks over my shoes, and then slid my extra-warm feet right into the overshoes. If I was unfortunate enough to have to wear last year's boots over this year's bigger shoes, it became a real exercise in patience to try to coax my new shoes into those stubborn old boots. My shiny, black, patent leather Mary Janes were the hardest shoes to fit into those sticky rubber boots. When all else failed, I took off my shoes, put on an extra pair of socks, and wore the overshoes without shoes, carrying my shoes to school in my book bag. When that happened, I knew that we would soon be heading to the store to buy some new, bigger overshoes, as long as I wasn't gifted with someone's hand-me-down overshoes first.
When I first started to school, young children always wore knitted mittens, usually fastened together with a long piece of braided yarn that was looped through our coat sleeves so we wouldn't lose them. If the weather was exceptionally cold, we wore two pairs of mittens, one inside of the other, and long neck scarves that were tied around our necks and pulled up to cover our mouths and noses, so only our eyes could be seen peeking out of our bulky winter wardrobe.
Mom or Dad would drive me to school once in a great while, when the temperature was below zero. But sometimes, when Dad had taken the car someplace for the day, and Mom had to stay at the hotel to man the front desk, she would call a taxi to take me to and from school. She would place a quarter in my mitten-clad hand, instructing me to give it to the cabbie as soon as he dropped me off at school. When the taxi brought me home from school, Mom would run outside to pay the cab driver before we dashed inside to the warmth of our first floor apartment.
Everyone went out for recess on all but the most frigid days. We built snowmen, had snowball fights, played Fox and Geese or Pom Pom Pull Away. Then, we all traipsed back inside, pulled off our wet overshoes, snow pants, coats and mittens, and hung them on the hooks in the coat closet. We put on our shoes and tied them or buckled them, maybe with help from the teacher or a more proficient classmate. Then, everyone gathered on the floor for story time, still smelling those damp woolens waiting in the closet until it was time to put them on again and head for home.
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