If you’re like me, memories of your school years frequently float in and out of your thoughts.

Lots of mine are about the Margaret Chase Smith School in Skowhegan, where I attended fifth and sixth grades, from 1966 to 1968. I enrolled there when I was 10 and left when I was 12.

The school was fairly new then, having been built in 1963 and named the next year for U.S. Sen. Smith, our homegrown, hometown politician who would often visit the school, stepping into every classroom.

Soon a wrecking ball will demolish the school, which now is 62 years old. A giant, new $75 million Margaret Chase Smith Community School is being built right next door and will serve elementary students from several towns, as well as preschoolers.

I stopped at the old school Tuesday, the last day there for Principal Christy Johnson and the teachers, who were busy packing and moving boxes out of the now dingy, aged structure that once gleamed with waxed floors and polished desks.

I took a final tour, stepping first into the cafeteria/gym where I sat some 57 years ago on the stage with a handful of other kids, competing in the annual spelling bee. I recalled the nervousness I felt then, being in the spotlight in front of an audience. I was given the word “earlier” and while I knew perfectly well how to spell it, spit out the letters “e-a-i,” well aware that that was my death knell.

It was the same gym where we 11- and-12-year-old girls were ushered in one day to learn from the school nurse about how female anatomy works. The boys had their own separate session. I still have the little pink instruction booklet the nurse directed us to take home to show our mothers.

Also in the gym that year, we students stood in line to be fingerprinted, one by one, by a law enforcement officer. It was all very official and serious, although I hardly understood what it meant and learned later that our parents were not informed of it ahead of time.

On Tuesday, I strolled down the main hallway and veered to a short alcove to the north, where long ago an ice cream machine held Fudgsicles, orange Creamsicles and vanilla ice cream on a stick dipped in chocolate crumbles. For a dime, we could buy what was my idea of  heaven during a school day.

I wandered into my old fifth-grade classroom, where the gray-haired and bespectacled Miss Chase (not sure if she was related to Margaret) taught us most everything, including how to read music from a songbook. She would start the session by blowing into a round disc I later learned was a pitch pipe. We sang everything from “Old Dan Tucker” to “High Betty Martin,” which starts with the lyrics “High Betty Martin, tiptoe, tiptoe, High Betty Martin, tiptoe fine. Never found a boy to suit her fancy, never found a boy to suit her fine …”

Miss Chase had to leave in the middle of the school year, after which we had substitutes, but finally we were presented with Miss Tuscan, a young, pretty teacher with poufy hair, pink lipstick and big hoop earrings. She was nice, and we liked her so much we pitched in to buy her some new earrings for her birthday. I baked her a cake and thought myself clever to have placed a nickel in the batter as a prize for whomever got the slice it contained. When I told her about it, Miss Tuscan was sick with worry that someone would choke on it.

At the end of the long hallway, I exited the school to the playground where we kids often congregated. I stood exactly where I was more than five decades ago when a bee stung me for the first time. It was a sunny day and I was chatting with friends when I felt the sting on my left chest, just below the collarbone.

I recall only one other unfortunate incident that occurred during my time at Margaret Chase. In fifth grade, I wore a special outfit my mother had bought for me because we both were so delighted with it — a short, blue cotton dress with tiny white polka dots and matching bloomers that went below the knee. I was so proud to wear such an unusual and fashionable ensemble to school.

However, Mr. McManus, our kindly and otherwise agreeable principal, apparently saw it differently — taking me aside to say it wasn’t appropriate school attire. I was embarrassed, deflated and sad. When I went home and told my mother, she had a word with him, but I never wore that outfit again.

I drove away from the school Tuesday in a drizzle, acknowledging the fact that nothing lasts forever. But the memories — oh yes, those memories.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 37 years. Her columns appear here Sundays. She is the author of the book, “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at [email protected]. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com.