Ok, so here is my last blog regarding those two years I spent getting educated at the Tripoli School.
My first grade teacher, Mrs. Cummings, was young and had a plastic hand. I found it fascinating, her hand molded into one constant shape, held for eternity as if she was reaching out to shake your hand. As a kid, I naturally had no idea what had happened to her real hand, or even how far up her arm the fake one went as she always wore long sleeves. Whenever we watched a movie – the ancient kind on those big metal reels – she would hold her hand over the reel just as the movie ended. As the film pulled out of its reel, it would snap her fake hand, twhak, twhak, twhak, until the projector came to a stop. Is that a disturbing memory?Tripoli School as it is today, no longer used as a school. You know what they say - you can never go home again, but I guess you can buy fireworks there.