I've also been thinking a lot about my childhood, and what a big baby I was back in the '60s. It was third grade, I think, where at least two of us spent recess messing with the fresh putty job that workers at my school--Neil E. Reid Elementary--had just completed. Yes, I was sticking my fingers in that goo, removing gobs of the stuff from the outside windows because it hadn't hardened yet. And I got caught. Of course, I named my brother Joe as co-conspirator--a really crappy thing to do. I am guessing that I just feared being in the principal's office without any support, and I finked on him (remember that word?) possibly because I was a timid snitch when it came to getting in trouble. While I can't remember if I cried or if I got the paddle at school--because corporal punishment was not uncommon back then--I was scared out of my wits.
There are two crying episodes that I recall from first or second grade. The first was when my bus had to take an alternate route going home on a day when I was looking forward to arriving at good old Pineridge Road. It went right by my street, and I burst into tears, rationalizing that I was being hauled away or something. Ridiculous, but I've had those streaks of childish behavior all though my life.
Now this one is funny: There was the day when my class was given forms for enlisting in the Boy or Girl Scouts, and I brought mine home. Never was a joiner, and when I got to my house...yes, the tears started flowing. Somehow I thought we were required to join!