My day, if not my whole week, was ruined.
Because of my mistake, I will not be eating a soft pretzel with everyone else or even waiting in line with them. I’m filling out a multiplication worksheet and absolutely seething with anger over forgetting to bring money to buy a soft pretzel for lunch. The hot sun was cut with a cool breeze that carried the smell of honeysuckle into the room. In the memory, I’m sitting by an open window in my third-grade classroom looking out at the street from two stories up.
REREADING BEVERLY CLEARY’S 1981 children’s novel Ramona Quimby, Age 8 reminded me of a moment I hadn’t thought about in decades.
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