Dances and Rhythms - 7

"Grammar school?" I repeated the question - another pause as Dad traveled back in time. "I went to the sixth grade in a one-room building," he said proudly.  "Back in those days we walked a mile to school and in the winter time when we got there, we took off our shoes and warmed our feet by the pot-bellied stove in the center of the room.  "Were there cloakrooms?" I asked. "There were two of them - one for girls and one for boys." I imagined my own elementary school cloakroom in the early 50's in Pennsylvania.  The memory was rich with smells of bologna, waxed paper, and apples in brown paper bags. Dad had brought his lunch in a lard can.  In the winter, he'd carry a hot potato to warm his hands during the mile-long walk to school.  When the bell rang, he'd place the potato on the stove to keep it warm and set his can in the cloakroom.  "Kids of all ages went to school together back then.  The older ones helped the younger," he said. "How many grades did they have?" I asked.  "Eight, but I quit after six to go work in the coal mines. We had to help Mother and Dad out. You know there were fifteen of us." Dad continued.  "My youngest sister Martha died at birth." "What a shame," I said, keeping emotions in check.  I'd learned the hard way that emotional display caused my father to withdraw and often made him angry.  Dad got up to retrieve his shoes from a back room.  His slippers were worn with the backs flattened like a pair of old moccasins.  A chill absorbed me as he pattered across the linoleum floor to his bedroom - a haunting sound from years before.  Brushing past with shoes in hand, Dad took a chair at the kitchen table.  His left elbow rested on a ring of grease from his breakfast plate.  A circle of crumbs clung to his elbow.  I looked away not wanting to call attention...