Bucksport Years - A New School . . . Again

Of all the times I started in a new school, this time was probably my hardest. I really didn't want to be there. It was my senior year, but I wanted to be back in Skowhegan with my classmates who would entering into the excitement of their senior year.

Someone had offered to pay my way to a Christian school, but my father preferred that I not attend there. I knew it was right to obey and submit to him (and my Heavenly Father), but it didn't make things any easier to face the school year.

Since I had worked there, painting all summer, I knew the building, and I knew the custodians. I also knew a few young people, the ones who attended the Evangelical Baptist Church, but none of them were in my classes. I am thankful for the friendship of the Johnsons, the Loziers, the Clements, plus Pickles, Edith, and others who made me feel welcome.

I had acquired enough credits for high school, but I still needed to take another English and U. S. History. (which I never got, because they changed it to Civics instead) I was glad I didn't need anymore math or science, so I filled my schedule with "fun" subjects. I took civics, band, French (with Mrs. Norton), Journalism (with Mr. Dyer), and Black Literature (with Mr. Tardiff). Later, I took creative writing (with Mr. Harriman) and Am. Literature. (teacher?)

This school had rotating schedules. It took me such a long time to get used to it. You'd think by now I'd be able to adjust to new things quite easily. Band practice at 8:00 was the hardest - especially when the director didn't show up and you realized that you could have gotten some homework done during that time. I did like the privilege of going home early after lunch, if I didn't have anymore classes.

Sports didn't appeal to me, but I joined the French Club and the Future Teachers of America. I marched in the band during the football games and wrote a speech for Voice of America (and even went to a radio station to record it).

In Journalism class, Raphael Gonzales sat in front of me, an exchange student from Ecuador. He and I worked together on a magazine article, "Where Have All the Red Paints Gone?" which took us to the University of Maine to interview an archeologists.

There were pleasant memories of walking home with Kerry - well, we would walk to the church to say "hi" to her mother, working as the church secretary. Then often she would walk across the bridge with me to my house on Verona and visit until she had to go home.

So much happened that year that it will take a while to remember it and write it down. (and that doesn't include the things that happened at church and at home)