When the roles for our kindergarten classes interpretation of “The First Thanksgiving” were handed out, I was over the moon with the discovery of being chosen as a Wampanoag warrior along with my best buddies.
The following week, the doors at Ellsworth Elementary School flew open as the kids from the two morning kindergarten classes poured out of the building and onto the sidewalk.
That’s when Mom saw me walking out of the large red brick structure with David Hoffman, my classmate and carpool companion, trailing behind picking up a paper which fell to the ground.
The minister’s wife sprang from the station wagon and called out us to hurry along as we rushed down the steps and into the car to get out of the fierce wind brought on by the cold snap.
The whole way home, I was a little chatterbox with my mouth going a mile a minute concerning the impending play at school the next week.
“Mrs. Cole said we need to bring a coffee can to school by Thursday,” I declared while fumbling with the school papers in my hands. “We’re going to make a drum in art class; so we can use it in the play.”
“We also need to make a costume as well as a headdress,” I added with an exasperated sigh.
“Not to worry son,” remarked the dark brunette smiling to herself as she turned down Oliver Avenue across from Marshalek’s. “I have everything we need waiting for us at home.”
“We’re going to get everything done this afternoon,” she added.
After dropping off my companion in the back seat, we arrived back at the house before the mother of three rushed around to gather all the needed supplies to make the props for the school play.
While I quietly ate my lunch at the kitchen table, Mom busied herself with the laundry in the utility room. She traipsed back and forth twice while taking baskets of clean clothes to the bedrooms.
As soon as the I shoved the last bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich into my mouth, the two of us sprang into the dining room, which doubled as an art studio for the next couple hours.
All the art supplies and other necessities were laid out on the dining table waiting for me to convert them into an astounding work of art.
After making a few intricate cuts with the scissors at the closed end of a white pillowcase, Mom had me stand on the chair as she slipped the makeshift toga over my head.
Pleased with her seamstress capabilities, the preacher’s wife gave me a once-over before removing it; so I could begin my imaginative work on the unique garment.
Mom reached across the table to retrieve a pack of colored magic markers which she purchased the previous week at Gee Bee’s department store in Belle Vernon and handed them over to me.
Then the mother of three opened up the book, which we had checked out of the public library, to the marked page displaying typical Native American symbols.
I carefully looked at the hieroglyphics in the bookmarked pages before deciding which designs to use for my one of a kind outfit.
As this kindergartner began drawing the unique designs on my ensemble for next week’s dramatic interpretation of “The First Thanksgiving,” Mom scurried into the kitchen.
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Upon her return, the tall slender woman brought back an empty Folgers coffee tin can holding it up into the air like a prize.
“My drum,” I exclaimed while tapping on the coffee can lid with a couple of magic markers and gyrating my head to and fro.
After finishing with the designs on my costume, Mom helped with the scissors to cut the open end of the pillow covering into strips to create fringe, an ornamental border of threads.
“So what are the other boys doing for their costumes,” Mom quizzed her youngest son as she helped me try on the finished product.
“Jimmy Nuccetelli was Chief Massasoit for Halloween,” I noted while poking my head through the top of the converted pillowcase. “so he has a store bought costume.”
“And Bobby Paul’s family went to Cherokee, NC last summer,” I continued sticking my hands into the arm sleeves. “He has a head dress, tomahawk and bow and arrow.”
“But Johnny Puskarich and Larry Kotchman are making their own costumes like me,” I added with a broad smile.
Then this collaborative pair began to make a Native American headdress with a manila file folder Mom obtained from Dad’s church office.
After the minister’s wife designed the head band and feathers, I carefully cut them out moving the scissors along the lines.
Then this youngster used the magic markers to color the feathers as well as make hieroglyphic designs on the headband.
After finishing with the imaginative designs on the headband, Mom wrapped it around my head to see where to put the glue; so it would be form fitting to my head.
The young mother let me use the Elmer’s to glue the headband and feathers together, after which she placed it on my noggin.
“Mom, can I try everything on together?” I queried while looking into my mother’s eyes with hope. “So I can see what it looks like?”
“I don’t see why not my brave little warrior,” commented the tall slender woman as she removed the headdress before putting the costume back on her son.
Then we marched off to the bathroom where Mom helped me step up onto a stool to take a gander at myself in the mirror attached to the front of the medicine cabinet.
Mom smiled back at my gleeful reflection in the looking glass and stated, “Wow! You look very authentic if I do say so myself.”
After stepping down from the step stool, I danced around in a circle shouting for joy.
Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.