My First and Only “F"
Caroline Livermore
When I was in third grade we had an interesting assignment. Mrs. Terry, our teacher, wanted us to interview four relatives and ask them what they thought we should be when we grew up, and then write an essay on what we wanted to be when we grew up.
First, I asked my Mommy’s Mother, who I called Mimi, and she said “I should be a housewife.” My Mommy’s Father, who I called Pops, also thought I should be a housewife. Much to my surprise, my Mommy also thought I should be a housewife. My Daddy said, “You can be anything you want to be.”
I thought long and hard. I had no desire to be a housewife. Thinking who were the happiest people I knew, I realized my desire was to be a hobo. I loved to write, especially poems, but writing I was discouraged to do. My Daddy said, “Don’t be a writer, you will have to compete with everyone behind you and there is only one Shakespeare or Hemingway. The competition is too great and you can never be as good as the past writers.” I still wrote.
Plenty of hobos came to our house. Mommy always made them do a chore before she fed them. The really old or sick ones she had sweep the porch and front steps and said this was to protect their pride. I really didn’t know what Mommy meant by this, looking back. I was about eight years old, born in 1958 and now in 2022 my name is Caroline and am sixty-four years young.
I would sit on the steps with them as they ate and they told me great yarns of their adventures traveling the railroads. I was lonely because, when the weather was nice, my little sister was always reading on the platform she had made of old shutters in the big grapefruit tree in the backyard.
I decided to write my essay on why I wanted to be a hobo and worked very hard on that assignment. My parents never wanted to see our homework as it was our responsibility. I thought it was one of the best papers I had ever written. Unfortunately, I no longer have that paper. The essay had lots of what I had learned from hobos. One hobo showed me where our house was marked on a tree by the front of the house which was outside by our little white picket fence. It had a latch so anyone could let themselves in. A cat was carved on this tree, which meant a kind woman lives here. I was told of other marks that I remembered; a cross meant a meal after a sermon; a cross with a smiling face meant a doctor will treat you here for free; a triangle with hands sticking out of the side meant house with a gun; a horizontal zigzag meant a barking dog; a square missing the top line meant you could camp here; and a top hat surrounded by a triangle meant wealth. You can Google hobo hieroglyphics, and they are very interesting.
I found out recently that an anthropologist from California who studies graffiti discovered the most famous hobo, Leon Ray Robinson’s hobos dictionary signed and dated from 1914-1921 under a bridge in LA and it was also signed. It was the graffiti equivalent of discovering King Tuts’ tomb! Today rarely is graffiti signed or dated. Mr. Robinson’s dictionary is a large box with hobo symbols most of which he invented with what they meant written under them. You can see it on the internet. It’s a little miracle that Professor Phillips discovered it and that it had not been damaged by other graffiti. Today, hobos’ hieroglyphics are virtually extinct, but back to my story.
The hobos I met all seemed content, carefree and had lots of adventure in their lives. I polished my essay, thought it very well written and believed it would earn my usual A. When the teacher handed my paper back to me a few days later with a big red F on it, I almost started crying. I had never received an F in my life. I struggled to pay attention to the teacher’s lesson that day, and after what seemed to be an eternity, class was over. Mrs. Terry came to my desk and handed me a note. Upon opening it, she requested a meeting with me and my parents after school, and they were to pick a date, sign the note and I was to bring it back to her. I thought for sure it was about my failing grade.
I showed the note to my Mommy and started to cry. “What’s this all about?” “Mommy, I got an F on the paper I worked so hard on.” “Well, your Father won’t be happy about having to leave the ranch while the men are still working." I thought she might comfort me. But all she did was hand me a Kleenex. Rarely did I get affection from her. She was very kind to me only if I were sick, but I was usually, very healthy. If I wasn’t well, Mommy would hold my long hair when I threw up in the toilet. She put cold cloths on my forehead. She would buy me toys and new crayons with coloring books if she had to go to the pharmacy to get me medicine.
We were all discouraged from showing our emotions.
The day was Monday. When my Daddy came in, my Mommy told him about the note. I was so upset I almost got sick to my stomach. He showed such displeasure on his face and said he could go Thursday.
I read a draft of this story to a girlfriend who has teenage children and she told me “'hobo” is now a slur with young people. I find that very sad. Today, there are maybe a few hobos but now they are called homeless people. Unfortunately, there are far too many unhoused people in today’s world. It is almost impossible to get on trains now the way hobos did back in the old days. The Civil War and the Great Depression created the most hobos. It is estimated there were over four million during the Depression. Back to my story…
Thursday finally came. The ending bell rang and Mrs. Terry said, “Caroline you stay after class,” in front of all my classmates and it was embarrassing. Then everyone left and the teacher told me I could go to the bathroom. I almost threw up but drank some water from the faucet and tried to think of a happy time in my life. I thought of when I was a toddler and I kept my Daddy company when he had his bubble bath. He would make funny hairdos with the bubbles and beards and mustaches too. I spoke my first complicated sentence. “Daddy, your bathwater smells delicious!” He got so happy, and then he told me to turn around. I could hear him showering off the bubbles and putting on his navy terrycloth bathrobe. He picked me up and tossed me up and down. Daddy slipped on the peach tiles but he didn’t let me fall. Remembering the clean scent of Mr. Bubble always takes me back to childhood. He brought me to my Mommy and asked me to repeat the sentence. My Father said, “She’s a real person now.” Thinking of that always calmed me down. I walked back to the classroom.
I sat at my desk. “No,” the teacher said, “sit in front.” She had placed three chairs in front of her desk. Mrs. Terry started grading papers and then my parents arrived. My Mommy was in one of her prettiest day dresses with daisies on it. My Daddy’s hair was damp and I knew he had taken a bath after work. I was grateful he did because he always came home with dirt all over his face and clothing. Daddy smelled delicious. The teacher said, “ Your daughter got an F on her last assignment. You did read it didn’t you?”
Mommy said, “No we haven’t, we feel a child's homework is their responsibility and Caroline has always gotten straight A’s.”
My teacher said, “Let me read it out loud to you.” Mommy was frowning, and Daddy was smiling as she read my essay. Mrs. Terry said something like, “I am very concerned about your daughter’s total lack of self esteem and ambition. Caroline is one of the brightest students I have ever taught.”
My Daddy smiled again and said, “ I thought it a wonderful, expressive and wonderfully written essay which shows a lot of imagination. So let me understand, you gave her an F due to the content of the paper? I find it well written and, frankly, quite romantic.” I was glad my Daddy was sticking up for me and I was feeling much better even though Mrs. Terry was still scowling. My Mommy and the teacher were shaking their heads back and forth in the “no” fashion.
My Mom spoke and said, “My husband is a dreamer and so is my daughter.” Mrs. Terry told them if I rewrote the paper she would change the grade and cancel the F.
I wrote a new essay on why I wanted to be a writer. I got an A on it, realizing by being a writer, I could be anything, even a hobo!
First, I asked my Mommy’s Mother, who I called Mimi, and she said “I should be a housewife.” My Mommy’s Father, who I called Pops, also thought I should be a housewife. Much to my surprise, my Mommy also thought I should be a housewife. My Daddy said, “You can be anything you want to be.”
I thought long and hard. I had no desire to be a housewife. Thinking who were the happiest people I knew, I realized my desire was to be a hobo. I loved to write, especially poems, but writing I was discouraged to do. My Daddy said, “Don’t be a writer, you will have to compete with everyone behind you and there is only one Shakespeare or Hemingway. The competition is too great and you can never be as good as the past writers.” I still wrote.
Plenty of hobos came to our house. Mommy always made them do a chore before she fed them. The really old or sick ones she had sweep the porch and front steps and said this was to protect their pride. I really didn’t know what Mommy meant by this, looking back. I was about eight years old, born in 1958 and now in 2022 my name is Caroline and am sixty-four years young.
I would sit on the steps with them as they ate and they told me great yarns of their adventures traveling the railroads. I was lonely because, when the weather was nice, my little sister was always reading on the platform she had made of old shutters in the big grapefruit tree in the backyard.
I decided to write my essay on why I wanted to be a hobo and worked very hard on that assignment. My parents never wanted to see our homework as it was our responsibility. I thought it was one of the best papers I had ever written. Unfortunately, I no longer have that paper. The essay had lots of what I had learned from hobos. One hobo showed me where our house was marked on a tree by the front of the house which was outside by our little white picket fence. It had a latch so anyone could let themselves in. A cat was carved on this tree, which meant a kind woman lives here. I was told of other marks that I remembered; a cross meant a meal after a sermon; a cross with a smiling face meant a doctor will treat you here for free; a triangle with hands sticking out of the side meant house with a gun; a horizontal zigzag meant a barking dog; a square missing the top line meant you could camp here; and a top hat surrounded by a triangle meant wealth. You can Google hobo hieroglyphics, and they are very interesting.
I found out recently that an anthropologist from California who studies graffiti discovered the most famous hobo, Leon Ray Robinson’s hobos dictionary signed and dated from 1914-1921 under a bridge in LA and it was also signed. It was the graffiti equivalent of discovering King Tuts’ tomb! Today rarely is graffiti signed or dated. Mr. Robinson’s dictionary is a large box with hobo symbols most of which he invented with what they meant written under them. You can see it on the internet. It’s a little miracle that Professor Phillips discovered it and that it had not been damaged by other graffiti. Today, hobos’ hieroglyphics are virtually extinct, but back to my story.
The hobos I met all seemed content, carefree and had lots of adventure in their lives. I polished my essay, thought it very well written and believed it would earn my usual A. When the teacher handed my paper back to me a few days later with a big red F on it, I almost started crying. I had never received an F in my life. I struggled to pay attention to the teacher’s lesson that day, and after what seemed to be an eternity, class was over. Mrs. Terry came to my desk and handed me a note. Upon opening it, she requested a meeting with me and my parents after school, and they were to pick a date, sign the note and I was to bring it back to her. I thought for sure it was about my failing grade.
I showed the note to my Mommy and started to cry. “What’s this all about?” “Mommy, I got an F on the paper I worked so hard on.” “Well, your Father won’t be happy about having to leave the ranch while the men are still working." I thought she might comfort me. But all she did was hand me a Kleenex. Rarely did I get affection from her. She was very kind to me only if I were sick, but I was usually, very healthy. If I wasn’t well, Mommy would hold my long hair when I threw up in the toilet. She put cold cloths on my forehead. She would buy me toys and new crayons with coloring books if she had to go to the pharmacy to get me medicine.
We were all discouraged from showing our emotions.
The day was Monday. When my Daddy came in, my Mommy told him about the note. I was so upset I almost got sick to my stomach. He showed such displeasure on his face and said he could go Thursday.
I read a draft of this story to a girlfriend who has teenage children and she told me “'hobo” is now a slur with young people. I find that very sad. Today, there are maybe a few hobos but now they are called homeless people. Unfortunately, there are far too many unhoused people in today’s world. It is almost impossible to get on trains now the way hobos did back in the old days. The Civil War and the Great Depression created the most hobos. It is estimated there were over four million during the Depression. Back to my story…
Thursday finally came. The ending bell rang and Mrs. Terry said, “Caroline you stay after class,” in front of all my classmates and it was embarrassing. Then everyone left and the teacher told me I could go to the bathroom. I almost threw up but drank some water from the faucet and tried to think of a happy time in my life. I thought of when I was a toddler and I kept my Daddy company when he had his bubble bath. He would make funny hairdos with the bubbles and beards and mustaches too. I spoke my first complicated sentence. “Daddy, your bathwater smells delicious!” He got so happy, and then he told me to turn around. I could hear him showering off the bubbles and putting on his navy terrycloth bathrobe. He picked me up and tossed me up and down. Daddy slipped on the peach tiles but he didn’t let me fall. Remembering the clean scent of Mr. Bubble always takes me back to childhood. He brought me to my Mommy and asked me to repeat the sentence. My Father said, “She’s a real person now.” Thinking of that always calmed me down. I walked back to the classroom.
I sat at my desk. “No,” the teacher said, “sit in front.” She had placed three chairs in front of her desk. Mrs. Terry started grading papers and then my parents arrived. My Mommy was in one of her prettiest day dresses with daisies on it. My Daddy’s hair was damp and I knew he had taken a bath after work. I was grateful he did because he always came home with dirt all over his face and clothing. Daddy smelled delicious. The teacher said, “ Your daughter got an F on her last assignment. You did read it didn’t you?”
Mommy said, “No we haven’t, we feel a child's homework is their responsibility and Caroline has always gotten straight A’s.”
My teacher said, “Let me read it out loud to you.” Mommy was frowning, and Daddy was smiling as she read my essay. Mrs. Terry said something like, “I am very concerned about your daughter’s total lack of self esteem and ambition. Caroline is one of the brightest students I have ever taught.”
My Daddy smiled again and said, “ I thought it a wonderful, expressive and wonderfully written essay which shows a lot of imagination. So let me understand, you gave her an F due to the content of the paper? I find it well written and, frankly, quite romantic.” I was glad my Daddy was sticking up for me and I was feeling much better even though Mrs. Terry was still scowling. My Mommy and the teacher were shaking their heads back and forth in the “no” fashion.
My Mom spoke and said, “My husband is a dreamer and so is my daughter.” Mrs. Terry told them if I rewrote the paper she would change the grade and cancel the F.
I wrote a new essay on why I wanted to be a writer. I got an A on it, realizing by being a writer, I could be anything, even a hobo!
Caroline Livermore was born in Walnut Creek, California. She was raised on a working ranch, Called The Bishop Ranch, in San Ramon California. She has been published in the book Resilience and was a semi-finalist for her poem in Margie, The American Journal of Poetry. Her family has a working ranch on Mt. St. Helena, above Calistoga, CA. The author currently lives in St. Helena, California.
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