Mrs. Tubbs was my second grade teacher. She had a steel bolt reinforced refrigerator box that was painted mint green in the back of our classroom that was full of throw pillows. When we'd do well on our timed tests in the beginning of the week, she'd let us sit the tests out for the rest of the week and we had the option of sitting at our desks quietly or lounging about in the box. (One week - I stress, ONE week of my second grade career - I got 100% on the timed math test and got to sit in the box. Between not having to retake the test, and the "mystery" flavored Dum-Dum sucker I pulled out of the candy bowl as I went into the mint green, pillow-filled, haven from multiplication tables, that day was the highlight of that school year.)
Mrs. Tubbs was short. I mean, shooooooort. I mean, granted, I have always been tall, but no seven year old should be anywhere near as tall as her teacher. She had super curly hair, a gap between her front teeth, and I loved her with my whole heart.
She was sweet, and she was funny. She taught us patriotic songs and she let me stay after school to clean her erasers and help with bulletin boards.
Oh, and she stuffed EVERYTHING down the front of her shirt.
Need a dime? She'd pull one from her shirt. ... It was the most incredible magic trick I'd ever seen.
She was constantly stuffing and then pulling tissues out of her shirt. ... I'm pretty sure it took me half the school year to realize that she was using her bra to hold her money/tissues/keys, etc. (In her defense, it was the early 80's and polyester pants didn't come with pockets sewn into them. ... In mine, I was seven and hadn't really been aware of bosoms or bras to that point. I just thought her shirts had magical powers.)
Anyhoo... I just got up to throw away a thoroughly used up kleenex and... uh... threw not only that tissue out, but also a few more that I'd had stuffed into my bra for who even knows how long. (In my defense, all I'm wearing are either yoga pants and t-shirts or nightgowns, neither of which come with pockets sewn into them. ... And because I have to sleep in a bra - thanks to the port that has changed my life in so many ways - there's really no telling how long they'd been hanging out in there.)
I walked out of the pantry and told Judy she may as well start calling me Mrs. Tubbs right now, and, knowing my childhood fascination with Mrs. Tubbs' magical shirts, she asked how many wadded-up tissues I'd found in my bra... Four.
I'm telling you, the stuff you learn during those formative years really does stick with you.