A few weeks ago, our kindergarten and Grade 1 classes worked together to complete an important task before winter snow covered the ground. We picked up trash and tidied the schoolyard.
Before heading out, the kids milled restlessly around the foyer as small shoes were tied, coats were zipped, and everyone was issued protective, blue rubber gloves. Then they received carefully enunciated instructions (that 85 per cent of them missed since they were too absorbed in applying the gloves). Once that was taken care of, we moved in a boisterous, energetic crowd to the door, with only one minor casualty. (You can’t get 20 kids out one exit without some sort of disaster). Amid wild cries of glee, they spread out across the playground, their teacher and I in hot pursuit. We grownups carried garbage bags, and opened them often; each time with quiet ceremony and earnest thanks.
We covered every inch of their playground that day, and I can cheerfully say that even the most minuscule scraps of paper were leapt upon with squeals of triumph and lifted on high to be proudly dropped in the bag. However, after a time, with so much enthusiastic searching, pickings slimmed and the troops commenced to bickering amongst themselves over who had found the biggest or “best” piece of garbage. A point system was instituted by one intrepid young fellow and, in a moment’s time, he became judge and jury for the masses. Fragments of crumbling chocolate wrappers were eagerly held next to shredded chip bag remains, and measurements taken. Defeat was felt keenly, as the losers turned away to search vainly for something “better” with which to win the judge’s approval. Suddenly I was inundated with the bark off a fir tree, handfuls of dry leaves, armloads of sticks and assorted stones.
“Hold it!” I hollered as an enterprising young girl puffed to my side with a ten-pound rock and struggled to heft it into the sack. “Stop!” I cried again as another little fellow labored toward me under the weight of a five-foot sapling. “Trees and boulders aren’t garbage.”
The disappointed crowd turned sorrowfully away, and casting dark looks back over their shoulders, scuffled dispiritedly at the earth. How could they win now? She had ruined everything.
Suddenly a small herd of boys rushed toward me from the sidelines. “Teacher!” they cried in full voice, “we got some GOOD garbage.”
“Holy smoke, what is it,” I muttered anxiously. They arrived, panting breathlessly and Johnny, with great pomp and circumstance, opened his cupped hands. There, its claws curled in death, beak open in a final, unuttered chirp, a small, grey sparrow lay cold and stiff upon the little blue gloves.
“Can I hold him?” the others began to clamour excitedly.
“In a word – no,” I said tonelessly. Opening the bag, I motioned, and the small bird suffered his last indignity on this good Earth as he was dropped sadly within.
Nonetheless, (although I’m sure the bird would not agree) this day was not a total loss. Johnny won.
Helen lives on the family farm near Marshall, Sask. where she is author, columnist and works in education. To contact her go to helentoews.com or write Box 55, Marshall, Sask. S0M1R0. There you can learn more about her humorous Prairie Wool Books, or newly released fantasy series, perfect for Christmas giving.
