It sticks in my mind like discount dental floss between teeth.

We were tragic figures. Weak pop flies to a third basemen. We were grade school students.

One of us — I won’t say who it was — had run his little finger into the pencil sharpener as proof that we were starved for entertainment.

We’d been going to school week after week, year after year, all morning. That’s hard duty for those whose brains still had training wheels.

Then it was time for recess. Each day, it came as a glorious surprise. It was the best arrow in our quiver.

Nobody ever complained, “You woke me up just for recess?”

No one said, “When it comes to recess, I can take it or leave it.”

We were too busy frolicking to comment. Plus, recess was priced attractively.

We headed outside to freedom. Games were played. We had no adults to guide us in our endeavors. Teachers seldom joined us during recess. They were happy to be rid of us. They preferred staying inside and doing happy dances until the bell rang that called us back to class.

There were no organized sports. There were disorganized sports. Yet, we seemed to know what we were doing. We played ball, tag and spent time on treacherous playground equipment that meant to do us harm, such as monkey bars and teeter-totter. Sidewalk-chalked hopscotch, swings and jump ropes entertained. Sometimes, we just ran around. One year a tractor tire appeared. No one got around to putting sand in it. There was no public outrage. The tire was fun because our imaginations had no reins.

We weren’t always on our best behavior or our worst behavior. We were on recess behavior. Things happened. Drama was in our blood. We didn’t always get along. Playing with other kids is how we determined what first names our future offspring would never have.

Winter recesses had a common theme — snow. We built snowmen and snow forts. We made snow angels and had snowball fights. It took half of our allotted recess time to put on our winter clothing. Boots, itchy stocking caps, mittens, scarves and coats. I insisted on putting on my mittens first, which slowed the process of getting dressed considerably. We came in after recess with runny noses, rosey cheeks and soaked clothing. We tossed our wet clothes on or near the heating radiator located along the windows. The radiator was meant to heat the room, but heated only itself and those seated in the row of desks nearest the radiator. It liked to keep the heat to itself. One year, my mother attended a big sale at Montgomery Ward. Monkey Ward had no small sales. She bought me a winter ensemble. It was a coat, hat and mittens covered in rubberized plastic. The hat was so ugly it broke numerous laws, but it wasn’t the problem. When I went outside for recess on a colder-than-it-needed-to-be day, the coat froze. It stiffened so that I moved about as if I were an arthritic Michelin Man. When recess ended, I struggled to remove my frozen coat. I needed the help of others to shed the garment. By habit, I tossed the coat onto the radiator. Then I got to work at my desk. I was in the group that remained awake after recess. The kids in the row adjoining the radiator were put to sleep by the heat. The rest of us were kept awake by the cold.

As I slaved away, cutting construction paper of varied colors into odd shapes with a blunt scissors, an odd smell hit my olfactory senses. It smelled like electrical wiring was burning. I assumed it was the smell of lunch coming from the cafeteria. Our cooks were excellent, but due for an off day.

Then one of the dozing kids woke up with an, “Eeeewwww!”

My coat was melting.

It was rescued. I wore it that winter and fortunately, outgrew it. With the burn marks, the hat was no longer the homeliest part of the outfit.

Kids brought things from home to share with others at recess — yo-yos and such. One boy brought his new shovel. We dug a hole with it.

Recess was splendid.

Everyone needs a recess. It’s good for the spirit and other things. That’s why the approval rating of Congress goes up each time it goes into recess.

We reveled in recess and we did it without taking a single selfie.

Gee-whiz!

 

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.