The View from Down Under

Learning to write happens in many contexts throughout our lives. Writing is a skill that definitely requires learning by doing, but it is almost always informed by life’s experiences, by reading what others write, and by being inspired by a teacher and/or fellow writers in an instructional setting. During the pandemic, I was fortunate to be part of a writer’s group led by a talented woman named Flora Brown, an instructor who encouraged us to find themes in our lives that could serve as threads to begin weaving chapters for our memoirs. What follows is part of a longer piece that was inspired by the times in my past when I have been under a table (or desk).


When I was three years old, our family lived near Portage Park on the northwest side of Chicago. Mom, typically in a cotton housedress, stayed at home to take care of the family and the house. Dad, usually in his brown suit, went to work in the family car, a black Pontiac. That was the way things were in middle-class America of the 1940s and 50s. He was gone all day until suppertime. Before Dad got home, though, I liked to scramble under the maple kitchen table and sit there while Mother was busy cooking dinner. All I could see were her legs and feet, stepping back and forth from the stove to the table to the icebox and various cabinets. Father, after putting away his brown coat and fedora, would push open the kitchen’s swinging door and announce “I’m home!” Then, as part of his chat with my mother, he would ask, “Where’s Greta? I don’t see her. Where could she be?” Mom played along and would say, “Oh, my! She was here just a few minutes ago.” This would go on for a while, but—sure enough—I could sense that it was the right time to jump out from under the table and yell, “Here I am! I was right here, under the table! And that little drama would repeat, night after night.

I loved my under the table game and, looking back, my memory reminds me that some other very special moments in my life took place when I was beneath a table. The tiny tales I will share happened when I was spending time under a structure with four legs and a flat top. I was hiding—from somebody or something—and looking out at the world with different eyes.
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A few years later, when I was able to go to school at Portage Park School in Chicago, we sat at desks in my first-grade classroom. They were made of solid oak and were held up by wrought iron legs with swirly iron grillwork on the sides. All the desks were bolted to the floor in columns that faced the teacher’s desk. Each desk had a fold-down seat that was attached to the desk behind. That era, in the early 1950s, was “The Cold War,” when everyone was on alert for possible nuclear war against us in the U.S., and we had regular air raid drills. Thanks to a special film that President Truman had made for schools, we were taught to Duck and Cover. I learned to crouch down under my desk on my knees at the alarm. I had to make sure I rolled my shoulders over so my face was looking at the floor. Then I was supposed to clasp my hands behind my neck. In the event of the bright flash of a nuclear explosion, we had a way to stay safe. Little did we know, it was just a way to reassure us all.

When I was eight, Aunt Martha and Uncle Larry moved to Chicago and I was thrilled to have cousins near my age to play with. At their house on Catalpa Avenue, we loved to play Hide and Go Seek, a game that, for some reason, a game the kids in my own neighborhood never played. Summer meant playing outside, hiding behind trees and bushes and around corners as the sun went down and shadows made it even better. But playing inside the house was really my favorite. There were SO many places to hide—in closets and cabinets, behind doors and curtains. The best time, though, was when I curled up under the dining room table. The dishes were cleared, the grownups were in the living room, the lights were off, and the tablecloth dripped long on all sides. I sat right in the middle, ever so silent, stifling a giggle while the legs of the seeker who was “It” went walking by. They would look, but simply did not see me. One option was to run to home and yell “Oley oley ocean free (We did not say olly olly oxen free).” That was the way we would be declared “safe,” and not have to be the next It. But there was also a way to be a winner when the It would say “I give up. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” And out I crawled, jumping up and down to proclaim, “Hahaha! I was under there the WHOLE time!”

Years went by and I came to live in California as an adult. My under-the-table adventures became a thing of the past. However, I had become a teacher and had responsibilities for my class. I knew that part of being a good teacher was to model the sorts of behaviors I expected of my kids. If they had to write in their journals, so would I. If they had to be quiet during the assembly, I had to be silent and pay attention too. That is why I ended up under my teacher’s desk when we had an earthquake drill. Yes, I crouched under my desk, making sure I was doing the Drop, Cover, Hold. What a strange sensation to be in that dark place, out of view from my students and unable to see them. That separation was disconcerting, but I knew that when we’d discuss how the drill went, I would have authentic reflections to share from my own experience, hiding from the falling debris that could hurt me in a real quake. Under the desk.

I definitely have no aspirations to spend any more time under tables, but life has a funny way of presenting surprises. We shall see. In California, the “Big One” is always just around the corner. In the meantime, I find it interesting to look back on episodes in my life as punctuated by interesting times under a table.​

Greta Nagel