Once upon a  time there was a first grade class at a certain school.

They had their up days.

They had their down days.

They were well-loved and adequately adored by a young, slightly-more-experienced-than-she-was-last-year teacher.

After what seemed like an impossibly unfortunate string of down days, there came today.



Where the papers were completed, marked, corrected, and put into their proper folders.

Where we giggled in assembly and giggled in our classroom as we discussed the assembly.

Where purple turtlenecks are worn with enthusiasm and significance.

Where devious suppositions as to why the “Thank you, God” poster was set up over our hooks, right in front of the mouse trap. (So that the mouse will nibble through the poster and walk right into the mouse trap on the other side. Of course.)

Where we have discussions in our reading circle about never giving up, just like Zeke the cat keeps trying to catch the flea (“I see the flea! It’s that tiny dot on Zeke!”) until he succeeds. Confessions such as “Sometimes I get mad at myself when I don’t understand something” are made.

Where we have history class.

Ah, yes. History class.


History was so wonderful.

A deep love of archaeology was recognized in each and every one of us, I believe. We never knew that we loved it so much, or were so fascinated by it.

Until today.

We discussed the discovery of King Tut’s tomb and treasure and mummy.

We talked about how Howard Carter dug in the Valley of the Kings for five years without finding anything. (It tied in rather nicely with the moral of “Zeke and the Flea”, the teacher proudly realized.)

We held our breaths as he uncovered the first steps leading down to the secret tomb.

We gasped with delight when he broke through the entrance and saw all the treasure.

We leaned forward and squinted to get a better glimpse of the pictures of the actual tomb.

Our eyes grew bright with possibility when we learned that there is at least one tomb that has not yet been discovered- that of King Tut’s father. (Unless it has been by now. But we hope that it hasn’t.)

“Maybe we should take a class trip to Egypt and visit the Valley of the Kings. See what we can find,” the teacher suggests, feeding off of the excitement and ambition and curiosity of her students. Hoping that they catch the teasing tone in her voice.

One of us volunteers his mother to take us all there.

Who knew that we all, all fourteen of us, felt such a strong desire to uncover the past? We would be an excellent archaeological team.

We pretend that we are reporters, and report on what has been found in the tomb.


It all felt very right.