Elementary School

The other day I was writing about the time, when I was six-ish, I took a pair of scissors to my bangs and cut out a one-inch square. And then I took a school photo. I used to have that photo, but apparently I lost it or left it behind when I moved sometime in the last 25 years, which was like 15 times. I’ve moved my piano probably eight or nine times, which is expensive because you have to call the piano movers every single time, unless you want to end up like a cartoon character who gets inadvertently flattened by a runaway piano because it’s heavier than you think and there’s always a hill. But somehow, that photo is gone. Or trapped in a book. But I doubt it.

So I called my elementary school. The woman could not have been nicer, even though she had to go into a dirty storage shed to get the binders with all the photos of every student ever. I ended up going down there and looking with her. Because I absolutely had to go down there and look with her. I am the most tenacious person you will ever meet. And I found every single school photo I ever took (and some of my brother), except one, which I suspect was there but was stuck in the wrong binder because they were all stuck in the wrong binder.

I looked on Facebook—nothing. I Googled the photographer—nothing. Next, I’ll go in our storage shed in the back yard and comb through everything I’ve got in there. At least I found one that I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Too bad it’s all blurry, because I had to take a picture of it with my shitty phone: