Since my birthday was September 17, and since I got kicked out of the second grade for fabricating stories on "What I Did Over Saturday and Sunday," the egregious Monday morning exercise that was getting boring, I was at least one and mostly two years younger than my third grade classmates. So with those clues, find me in the picture. My sister Louise, third from right, top row, taught me to read before I went to school since she was a year ahead, so grade school was mostly coloring inside the lines and otherwise boring, boring. Today I would have been diagnosed with ADD and given pills to make me behave and calm me down. The love of my third grade life is in the second row in the dark patterned dress, but by seventh grade she betrayed me. My senior annual co-editor is on the far left, top row. We still stay in touch. My college freshman roommate at the sheep barn at the University of Wyoming stock farm is second from left, top row. We stay in touch. He became a Lt. Col. in the Army, while I flunked the physical during the Korean War. The girl who caused me embarrassment that lasted for ages is far left in the second row. She and others tied me to a tree during recess and then she kissed me. I never could wash that kiss off. I saw her many years later and asked if she remembered doing this infamous deed and, of course, she did (remember). Our teacher encouraged writing fantasies and make belief stuff, whereas my 100 year old second grade teacher frowned mightily on such invention and wanted the straight scoop on what we did over Saturday and Sunday. Such was my third grade education, having lasted in the second grade six weeks, which was a year too long.