Growing up, I absolutely loved going to school. As a young girl, I encouraged all of my girlfriends to play school, as opposed to playing house. I grew up on a farm, in Western New York.
Adjacent to our cattle barn was a small playhouse. I set up an entire curriculum there, consisting of stations for lessons in geography, spelling, history, and science.
My school attendance was very regular. I was in good health during childhood, and I rarely needed to stayed home due to getting sick. A notable exception was when I developed chicken pox. One morning, I went to school, as though it were any other day of the week. I remember starting to feel feverish in the morning. I informed my homeroom teacher that I was not feeling well. As a result, I was sent to the school nurse. She promptly examined me, and quickly found the tell-tale signs of the chickenpox: red spots and blisters.
My mother was promptly phoned, and asked to pick me up early. I spent the rest of the day simply resting. The next morning, I started to get ready for school, as though it were any other day. My mother informed me that I wouldn’t be able to attend school for the rest of the week. I tried to console myself by reading a book.