A Mayberry moment

In the past year at least two people have noted to us--proudly--that Manitou can be a bit small-town, cozy, Mayberry-esque. We'd noticed that ourselves and weren't entirely sure how we felt about it. Today we were sold.

Edith came bursting in the door from school just after 4 pm, trying to suppress a smile but looking important, as she breathlessly waved a couple of sheets of paper and a small goody bag in the air. The top sheet informed us that the school had held an art contest for the best Fire Safety posters, and Edith's poster of Sparky the Fire Dog had been awarded the prize for the first grade. One of the few reports I'd heard from her in the first week of school was that they were drawing fire safety pictures in art class, and Emily, a girl in her class, had admired Edith's fire dog drawing. Apparently a few grown-ups did, too.

The second sheet of paper was a slip for us to sign, granting Edith permission as one of the contest winners to be excused from school to eat lunch with the firefighters at the station on Friday, before riding on a fire truck in the town homecoming parade. Faithful readers will recall our surprise last September at learning that elementary school students are let out of class to watch the homecoming parade. This year, of course, we're shameless converts to the tradition. We'll be there with bells on.

(Meanwhile, to appreciate the total Mayberry-ness of it all, you should know that the overall winner of the contest, the fifth grader whose poster was judged best of all, will be picked up from school on the fire engine--it will make the 1 1/2 block trip just for him--and made honorary Fire Chief for the day.)

As Edith was telling us how the intercom had come on at the end of the school day to announce the winners, how surprised she had been to hear her name, and how her classmates had started giving her high-fives, our doorbell rang.

It was the three girls from across the street on their way home.

"We just wanted to tell Edith congratulations," they said. And then the protective third grader in the bunch, a second-generation Manitoid whose parents throw a huge homecoming party for all their old friends, assured us that she knew Edith was shy about some things, and  we should know that if she really didn't want to ride on the fire engine in the parade she didn't have to. But she probably would.

As this reassurance was being offered, another group of siblings passed on their way home from the bus stop and the oldest brother called out, "Congratulations, Edith! Good job!" Then he turned and told his dad that his very own neighbor had won a prize in the fire safety poster contest and would be riding on a fire engine in the parade on Friday. The boy's dad cheered and asked for her autograph, making her giggle.

It was great to see her feeling happy and confident around other kids. More heartwarming for me, though, was to see what genuinely nice children we're lucky to have all around us.

Earlier in the school day Edith had had a special moment, too: It was her turn for Show & Tell. Her class does Show & Tell every day but only one kid a day. A note comes home the night before announcing that the child's turn is the next day and that she should choose an object and practice what she wants to say about it.

Edith had surprised us with another sign of her maturing when she picked an item for Show & Tell that, from an adult perspective, seemed legitimately interesting. Instead of a randomly selected Matchbox car (Alice, last Friday) or teddy bear or dime-store trinket, Edith chose to bring in her collection of foreign money. She practiced reciting the list of where it came from: Haiti, Congo, Hungary (Mor-mor's orchestra tour), and Israel (Tom and I got stranded at the Tel Aviv Airport for a day on our return from Congo).

Apparently the presentation went well. One friend wanted to know how she'd gotten money from those particular places. Then another shouted out, "Wow, Edith--You're really rich, even if the tooth fairy did only leave you two dollars!"

Rich in all kinds of ways. And for a day, supremely happy too, in the best of small-town ways.