Because I’m still unable to write a decent post this morning, let’s have a marathon of stories. I’m programming several to post during the day.

From the Relief Society Magazine, September 1955 –

Apple Polishing

By Frances C. Yost

It was the first day of school, and Martha Carlson had promised the children she would drive them to school today. “Please, Mamma, this first day!” was their oft-repeated plea, and it echoed and re-echoed in Martha’s ears.

Martha secretly longed to spend the day at school herself. Little Joey, the youngest, was beginning first grade, but there were the apples which needed picking.

As they walked down the path toward the family car, Martha’s four children clustered around her like mushrooms. Martha looked upon each of them with a degree of pride.

The children all had respectable names, names with meat to them, like the stalwart name her own parents had given her. But Martha never used their real names. A mother had special privileges, and she had a pet name for each of them. Priscilla, she called Prissy; Rebecca was Becky; William Junior was just Junie, and the fourth, the little shaver and the apple of her eye, though christened Joseph, was Joey.

Martha thought Joseph was the very nicest name a man could be given. So many great men were named Joseph, like Joseph of Nazareth, Joseph of Egypt, and Joseph Smith of latter days. Yes, Joseph was a good name, and she was glad her youngest had the name, but she affectionately called him Joey. Martha showered love and affection on her growing children, and they thrived upon it.

As she and the children walked under their favorite apple tree growing by the road, Martha looked up at the rosy red apples. “The apples hang heavily on the trees, they should be picked today,” she murmured.

Then to herself she mumbled, “But starting Joey properly in kindergarten is more important today. It’s a mother’s privilege to stay with her little one all the first day, and I’m going to do it, apples or no apples.”

“Can we take an apple to the teacher?” Becky asked, her brown eyes glowing with excitement and expectation. Becky would be in the fifth grade this year.

“It might put us in good standing with a new teacher!” Prissy said. “You know ‘an apple for the teacher.’ Get it?” Prissy was in junior high now, and had learned that it paid to do some apple polishing.

Everyone laughed, even Martha. “Yes,” Martha replied to Becky’s question, “there’s time for each of you to pick some apples. There’s tissue in the glove compartment, you can do your apple polishing right in the car.”

Martha shifted the car into drive, and sat back relaxed to enjoy the four-mile ride to town. The children were quietly polishing their apples. They had picked a few extra ones for special friends.

Martha was still in a quandary; the apples did need picking. Should she go right back home and pick the apples? It would mean quite a lot to the family if they were picked before the wind blew them from the trees. Or should she let her heart direct her, and visit school? A mother should spend the first day at school with her little one, Martha argued against her better judgment.

As the car glided swiftly along the paved highway, Martha’s thoughts shifted into reverse …

It was another beautiful September day, eight years before, but the sky and the atmosphere were identical. Martha felt the same sensational feeling of having her apron strings cut this day, as when it was her first-born who was starting off to school.

Martha couldn’t take Prissy, for they didn’t have a car. All they had was a pickup truck, and Steve had it in the fields where he was working.

Martha couldn’t even walk the familiar country lane with Prissy, and see her board the bus, because of the two little ones at home. But she watched the child swishing down the lane in her new red, white, and blue pin-stripe dress, with an air of importance for so shy a little girl.

Martha watched at the window until the bus stopped, and little Prissy climbed aboard. Prissy would know some of the children, but many faces would be strange to her. It was a long day for Martha, though the duties of home were much the same. There were four-year-old Becky and tiny Junie to occupy her every moment, but Prissy held her every thought. Junie and Becky were here beside her, she did not wonder about them.

The clock finally worked itself around to four o’clock, and Martha saw the approaching school bus. Her first impulse was to run up the lane to meet Prissy, but she checked herself and watched at the window. Prissy alighted from the bus, and walked, grownup like, up the lane, with never a backward look. The time of waiting seemed long to Martha, though little Prissy hurried to the house.

As she entered the doorway, it seemed that Prissy had grown up since morning. Gone was the inward fear of boarding a bus alone and meeting the world without Mother. Martha knew Prissy had accepted the challenge and proved herself. Inwardly, she had to admit that little six-year-old Prissy had been the bravest of the two of them that day.

Looking back through life, one can see the places of change, like great locks through which one glides on a flood wave, sometimes smoothly and sometimes with undercurrents.

Martha then saw in her mind’s eye, the day little Becky started for school. It wasn’t quite as hard to see her cut the apron strings. Becky was a dream child, dressed in a dainty pink linen frock.

Again Martha had no alternative but to see the children take the bus the first day of school. Still no family car, and still the pickup in use on the farm. Again, she was tied at home with two tiny children.

But the play pen was safe, so she could leave the little boys while she walked the short distance to the bus with the girls.

“It won’t be necessary, Mother,” Prissy said. Prissy was only a third grader, but caring for the children made her a responsible, miniature mother. “We’ll manage nicely alone. I’ll hold tiny Becky’s hand all the way, and take her directly to Miss Palmer’s room.”

The day proceeded much like other days, cleaning, baking, caring for the little children, but always wondering what was taking place in the halls of education four miles away. When late afternoon brought the yellow bus to the lane again, Martha saw the girls alight and skip down the familiar lane, with Prissy still clenching Becky’s hand.

As they entered the house, Prissy showed the drawings Becky had made at school, a church, and their own home. Martha knew, then, that although Becky would manage nicely out in the world, she would always lean just a little on her older sister Prissy.

Martha had read somewhere that life is not a tiled road leading to the pearly gates, but more like a pendulum swinging from a clock, sometimes toward misery, sometimes toward joy. The day Junie started school was mixed with misery and joy for Martha.

The Carlsons now had a beautiful blue sedan, which was ready and waiting for Martha’s use. Martha saw Junie that day in September of his sixth year, as plainly as if it were televised. June, as lean as the shoot of a willow, was an independent youngster who took responsibility. How many times had she told him, he was the oldest son? Yes, Junie could easily have made it alone, as Prissy had the first day, but Martha had the car, and Grandma would gladly tend baby Joey. Martha decided nothing would stop her from attending school this time.

As they alighted from the car Martha took Junie’s hand in hers. But he squirmed for release as they walked up the cement sidewalk toward the schoolhouse. Junie was wearing brown cords like the other beginners, but in his red cowboy shirt he stood out like a delicious apple among them.

It was not until Miss Mason had assigned him his seat, and he had taken his place, and Martha was sitting with the doting parents in the rear of the room, that the tears started rolling down her cheeks. Martha felt a twinge of guilt, but she could not control her tears. She looked around at the other mothers who had come for the first day. Susan Shields looked downright happy about it. Probably she was thinking of the money she would save now when afternoon parties came along, and she wouldn’t need to hire a sitter.

Martha looked at all the other mothers. Some were smothering luxurious laughter, which seemed to escape in short high peals in spite of themselves. She gave a sigh, which was half exasperation at herself. Why was it that she was the only mother who felt like crying? The others showed sparkling flashes of wit, but her vision was blurred.

Try as she would, Martha could not control the tears. Finally she arose from her chair, murmured an excuse to the other mothers about having to get home to prepare lunch. Miss Mason saw her and started to speak, but Martha, her vision much clearer and her thinking sharper, motioned that she just wanted to slip out unnoticed by Junie, and hurriedly left the room.

Outside the air was crystal clear under the September sky, and Martha did some shopping at the market, but her heart was not in it. She picked up baby Joey at Grandma’s, and hurried home to her ever waiting work …

And so it comes to now, Martha thought. It is all here to read except the final chapter. She knew she must not go into the school today, lest she be deluged with tears. She was glad she hadn’t promised Joey that she would visit his class. later on, but not this first day.

Martha drove up to the school curb where the buses unloaded. “Good luck in Junior High, Prissy. You look lovely in your new red plaid, Becky. Remember your handkerchief, Junie.” And to Joey she said, “You’re a big boy, Joey, run into your room, it’s the first one on the left inside the hall.”

Martha wanted to sweep this little fellow into her arms and tell him that she loved him, and that she would be thinking of him every single moment all day, but she mustn’t bring on the tears, until he was safely out of sight.

Martha watched Joey’s straight little body, clothed in new levis and plaid shirt, cut across the lawn. A thrill coursed along her veins at sight of him. Joey was a wiggle-worm, but he would be like a dry sponge absorbing every new idea at school. At the entrance of the school, Joey turned and waved, making a large arc with his little arm, and with the other hand he threw a tiny kiss that only a mother would recognize. Martha managed a smile and a little wave of her hanky in reply. Yes, Joey was little, but he could go it alone, as the others had.

Martha sat there in the car for a few minutes. A person shouldn’t try to drive while her eyes were full of tears. When the deluge was over, she turned the car around and started homeward.

As she drove into the lane, the house looked the same, but you couldn’t expect a house to know the heart had gone out of it. There would surely be a tense, heavy hush inside, with no children to make the rafters ring. She dreaded going inside.

Then Martha caught sight of the favorite apple tree. Every apple seemed to beckon to her. Suddenly, she felt an entirely new emotion. This was just the day to pick the apples. Tears, lots of tears would help to wash away the spray. Her tears would not be wasted while she picked and polished apples.