Post a response to this discussion thread
I attended elementary school in Ruskin Florida. A small town on the east side of Tampa Bay. Many Canadians passed through that town during the 50s. Ruskin lies directly in the path of Highway 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail.
Ruskin Elementary had some of the finest sadists ever to earn their teaching certificates. There was Miss Roberts, who loved to whack kids over their backs with a ruler that had a pin pushed through it. Then there was Coach Morgan, a Marine Corp Sergeant who fought in Korea, and hadn't yet realized that the war was over.
Coach Morgan used to line all of us second graders up at the beginning of P.E. class, and stroll up and down our ranks, telling us how hot the sun was, and how it was boring into our heads. Eventually Coach Morgan left the school, after an irate father nearly killed him in the principal's office, because Morgan mistreated his little girl.
While in second grade my buddies and I used to go out to the Highway 41 overpass, which was adjacent to the school, and throw rocks at each other before classes began. It wasn't total chaos, we did have rules. We would choose up sides by doing that one potato, two potato thing. Then, after we were equally divided, one half of our group would take the high ground on the overpass, and the other half would take the low ground by the train tracks.
Now, the "train tracks" had a rock bed made up of granite chunks. That's what we threw at each other. The guys on the "train tracks" would toss granite rocks at the guys on the overpass, and they would toss the rocks we threw at them back at us.
One morning, while we were absorbed in our play, the guys on the overpass just stopped, and looked to their left. They were frozen by something that was more important than giving each other a brain concussion. When my group turned and looked, there was this little girl standing by the tracks, watching us. Her name was Linda Fowler. Later on in life she became the high school slut, getting pregnant in 10th grade.
Linda was about eight, dressed in a frilly one piece outfit. One of the boys from the overpass made his way down to her, drawn by some electric force. Then the rest of us walked over. We surrounded the silent young girl, and looked at her. Then someone raised her skirt, and someone else pulled down her panties. We all stood looking at that sweet space between her legs, not knowing what to do. Thank God the morning bell chimed out at that moment. All of us scurried back to the school grounds, and to our respective classes, leaving Linda to pull up her undies. Which--as it turned out--was good practice, since that's what she was doing mostly in high school.
Post a response to this discussion thread