I am often amazed at the memory and what it keeps or kicks out of the retrieval  bank.  I’ve heard older people tell me all the time how they remember things from way back but can’t seem to recall what they had for supper last night.  

I’m starting to relate to that, folks.

In any case, I’m thankful for a memory of the past.  At least sometimes. There are things that come back to me that are, for the most part, pleasant and detailed memories.

I’m pretty sure the first PTA Fall Carnival I ever went to was around 1973 when I was in first grade.  This was the year I really started school: no more half-day kindergarten or snack time or what have you.  This was full blown, 8-3 school with riding the bus and opening my own milk at lunch and homework. Learning to read, copying sentences from the board, and doing math – hardcore stuff.

That year, there was talk of a PTA carnival that would take place on a Friday or Saturday night in the school gym. It apparently was a big deal, and excitement was drummed up for weeks. We all caught wind of some type of PTA prince and princess contest, and Gina Simpson told me all about it – as she had her sights set on being the princess. 

I didn’t even know how one could achieve royal status with the PTA, but when I asked my mother, a realist, if she thought I might be crowned PTA prince, she said it would probably go to some kid from a rich family in town.  

She was probably right.  I was always glad to get the truth, even at age 6.

But I still remember who the royal couple was:  Roger and Angie. Two kids who weren’t necessarily wealthy, popular, or from the leading families in town. Later, I found out the title usually went to the kids whose moms sold the most PTA fundraiser stuff or something.

So, there you go.  Roger and Angie’s moms were fundraiser champions.

The prince and princess contest wasn’t at all the highlight of that night for me, though.

Our gym, which doubled as a cafeteria, had been transformed into a carnival where one could buy tickets and play all sorts of games and such. There was a fishing game with string and clothespins, and when you cast your fishing pole over the wall, someone on the other side would clip a prize to it. There was a plastic swimming pool with floating ducks that had numbers attached to the bottom.  Picking a duck and then getting your number to pop up on a wheel was the way to get a stuffed animal or something.

I can remember looking at various art projects the older kids had made and marveling at all of the cool things I’d be allowed to do when I moved up a grade level or two. I’m pretty sure there were some ring toss games or something that involved balloons, and by the end of the night, I had a few prizes I was pretty proud of.

I remember that it was weird being at my school at night, and seeing all of my classmates and their parents living normal lives out of the normal school routine.

But perhaps the biggest highlight of the evening was seeing my teacher, Miss Smysor, whom I had a crush on.  She was young and pretty, and could draw pictures on the board with colored chalk. She was also a karate instructor on the side. I thought she was the coolest. Seeing her that night, giving a shy wave and getting a greeting back from her was better than being the PTA prince in my book.

Later that year, I would be scandalized when Miss Smysor became Mrs. Sullivan, and we had to start calling her by a different last name.  

But in the meantime, I was glad to see her at the carnival.

I think we also had an evening Halloween parade or something at school, and we had many other community functions like that.  

Those days are long gone, with families too busy to commit to putting on such events. Those were definitely more innocent times, when families could get by on dad’s salary and parents had more time to volunteer and construct a fishing game with clothespins – something that might not be that fun in this day and age of video game magic.

I will admit, even though I can see the gym and all the displays and games in my mind’s eye, they have a bit of a fuzzy glow over them:  sort of an aura or whatever you call it. I think it’s the same coating we see over many memories – the same coating that allows us to remember the good and not the bad.  

Maybe it’s akin to the rose-colored glasses we speak of sometimes.

But I sure remember Miss Smysor. What a lady!