The Story of Margaret Jones

Bass High School, Atlanta, Georgia

The place: Atlanta, Georgia. The Time: World War II

Margaret’s home was situated across the street from the local grammar school in Little Five Points. It was a cozy brick house with a splendid rear view of the football practice field of Bass High School.

My first memory of Margaret was during the school’s paper sale. We were preserving everything, from bottles and coat hangers to newspapers. Early one morning, the teacher stood up in front of the class and declared that if we had any papers that required delivery to the school yard, we should raise our hands. The teacher granted time away from class to Margaret, me, and some others.

We walked across the street and fetched a little red wagon to do the job. “Where are the papers?” I asked.

“You shall see,” she said, as we traversed the neighborhood, door-to-door, asking for old newspapers.

We returned to the school yard and emptied the wagon — a departure from school that had absorbed about three hours!

Margaret was one of the few 5th-graders who wore the new fashion of a sweater and a pleated woolen skirt. I caught a glimpse of the beautiful clothes hanging in the closet when invited to spend the night. That evening, Margaret’s older sister, a high schooler, invited herself into the conversation and offered her teenage advice.

High school was different. Sweaters, skirts, and loafers. That first year, a boy wore “blue jeans” to school and was sent home! Another specialty of teenage boys was “talking back to the teacher,” which often landed them in the teacher’s office. Yet, their presence at the blackboard clarified a genius reckoning in mathematical solutions.

One year, Margaret’s desk was next to mine in English class. The classroom was quietly respectful, with each person writing answers to a test. Suddenly, Margaret leaned over and asked me for a certain answer. The teacher saw her and gave us both a zero. I was mortified. English was my best subject!

Nearing the end of high school, Margaret enveigled a “double-date” for us with two unrecognizable fellows — not teenagers, and not from Bass. “Where did you meet them?” She ignored the question.

Margaret sat excitedly in the front seat of a 1940 Ford, her long red hair illuminated by traffic lights. Her endless chatter absolved me of the need to contribute to the conversation. Unimpressed, I sat bored.

Several years passed. I had secured a secretarial job downtown. One day, as I walked past Atlanta’s terminal bus station, I caught sight of Margaret’s bouncing red hair as she conversed with the exiting male passengers. Now, I knew where she got boyfriends!

From time to time, I wonder where Margaret is today.

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