Miss Hickmott

While I was driving the backroads around Oneonta tonight, I passed Miss Hickmott’s house. She was my pre-k teacher, and she died just a couple of weeks ago.

As I was passing her house, I had a vivid memory of the time she took my class there. She lived near the lower reservoir dam on upper East Street, and she took us all out to look at the dam, explaining to us why it was there and how it worked. She didn’t let us get very close to it, which I thought was stupid, because it looked like just the sort of thing that would be fun to walk across. I was mad that she wouldn’t let me. I also recall that she had an apple – a large, red, plastic apple – in the room to the left at the top of the stairs, and if you put a penny in the right spot on the apple, a little motor inside would make a grinding noise (a grinding noise very like the machines at the circulation desk in the SUCO library made; the machines that would stamp the date on the return card in your book) - a nasal kind of mwaa-mwaa sound - and a little plastic worm would come out and grab the penny and pull it inside the apple. Maybe it was a sort of piggy bank; I don’t know. I just remember being fascinated by this apple, and concerned that there didn't seem to be any way to get the money back out once the worm took it.

Miss Hickmott was a wonderful teacher. I’m sure she was, though I don’t specifically remember how she taught. I just remember the atmosphere in the classroom. Very free, very informal; sort of like Malibu Crowd Days. Lots going on all over, and you could do whatever you wanted. Within reason. The only time I remember Miss Hickmott being upset with me was the time I spit in the sandbox to show my friends how the sand would ball up around the spit, like magic. She wasn’t happy with me that day.

She had funny hair; I remember it was a warm honey-brown, sort of flat on top, and then curled around her head in a pageboy style. I guess it wasn’t that odd really; just strangely flattened on top, like the grass underneath where you sat on your picnic blanket. And I remember her always in canvas tennis shoes and a cotton, button-down shirt, with a light cardigan over top. All pastels. I may be wrong about the shoes. In fact, I may be wrong about everything. Maybe she dressed up and wore heels. But I don’t think so.

I guess the other time she was angry with me was the day Jason Brown and I decided to run away. We hid in some bushes not too far from the playground. We didn’t really go very far. It was thrilling to know that nobody could find us; we listened to them calling, and kept very quiet. I’m not sure Miss Hickmott enjoyed the experience as much as Jason and I did.

One day she combined the morning class and the afternoon class, so I got to see my friend Carrie Stevens (who, appropriately, was the one who sent me the notice about her death). Carrie was in the other group, and so I was excited to finally share a class with her! We watched a filmstrip about dinosaurs, and had some sort of celebration; we all brought food and cake. Maybe it was Miss Hickmott's birthday; I don’t know.

Best of all, I loved driving around in the little pedal car they had there. Sometimes she let me take it up and down the hallway outside the room. See? I’ve always loved driving. The only frustrating thing I remember was that the outdoor sandbox (not the one I spit in; that was indoors) didn’t go very far down. You’d get a good depth going with your hoe, and then you’d hit the bottom and that was it. Irritating. And I got blisters from the wooden handle on that hoe. I’m surprised they let 4-year-olds use hoes. Maybe they didn’t. But that’s how I remember it.