When flipping back through the album of childhood memories, sometimes a seemingly meaningless mental photograph gains focus.

With sudden clarity, your brain has an “Ah ha” moment recognizing how a small event significantly shaped your person.

Second grade looked promising: We would have a young new teacher, something I had never experienced. I loved school and couldn’t wait. Just thinking about it brings back snippets of details — the smell of the freshly waxed wooden floor, the minty taste of the white paste, and the small mud room where we hung our coats. While hauling our chairs to the third-grade classroom to watch “The Electric Company” may have been the day’s highlight. Penmanship was the bane of my existence. Left-handed and lacking in fine motor skills, I never perfected the girly smooth, plump loopiness of my classmates’ cursive. Slanted and skinny, my letters looked like they were skeletons marching into a headwind.

Cutting with scissors was no better. The lone pair of lefty blades were rounded and dull, and Miss Teacher was emphatic that they were the only ones I should use. By a month in, it was clear that my papers would never be proudly displayed on the bulletin board, and that I would never be asked to cut out classroom decorations.

At age 7, every day is a new day. I was perpetually hopeful that my teacher would recognize something good about me. So, when she mentioned a daily contest, I knew this was my chance to shine.

The contest related to personal housekeeping. Every day, during recess, Miss Teacher would inspect our desks. The cleanest, most organized desk would be awarded a gold foil star. As she announced this news, Miss Teacher held the coveted prize aloft.

“But,” her voice grew stern, “the worst desks, the ones so messy that you should be embarrassed, those desks will receive the black blob.” Ominously she produced a dull black paper cloud. The class grew quiet, imagining the shame that this dishonor would impart.

Books on one side, neatly stacked papers on the other. Pencils lined up neatly in front. Each day I left for recess hopeful that I would return to discover victory. Each day I dined on my disappointment when my desk was unadorned. By the end of the second week, I noted there were several repeat winners: those quiet girls with the perfect loopy handwriting.

Convinced that victory was unattainable, I didn’t try as hard the next day, and to my horror, a black blob was mounted on my desk. I responded by trying to clean up my act.

Rolf, my seatmate, received the dreaded blob the next day and the day after. He just laughed.

A few days later, in a rush to get to lunch, I quickly shoved my work into the desk cavity. Sure enough, a black blob awaited me when I returned.

Rolf grinned.

“We’re tied now.”

The gauntlet was thrown. Desk cleaning was a thing of the past. If there were only two awards and one was out of reach, we might as well compete for the other. What started as neglect quickly grew into an art form.

Unruly piles of school materials were soon joined by wadded-up paper, empty lunch wrappers, and ultimately uneaten food. Rolf and I were unabashedly neck and neck in our competition, and this lack of restraint was our downfall.

Inevitably, Miss Teacher confronted us. I don’t remember most of the rant, but I do remember her telling us that we “weren’t going to make a mockery of her.” Our punishment was to report to the library room for recess.

As we sat at the library table, she continued to yell. Finally, with a burst of rage, she slammed the door. Perhaps she wasn’t finished because she tried to reopen the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Through the window, we watched her face turn from red to white.

Quickly her tone changed. Soothingly she explained that she would need to call someone to fix the door, and we shouldn’t panic.

Panic? Free reign of the library and a chance to skip penmanship — this was the ultimate reward. After looking up the word “mockery” in Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, Rolf and I alternated between James Bond-worthy escape plans and pursuing our favorite books. It was well over an hour before we were released, and we relished every minute.

While this incident might have taught me that I’d never be the teacher’s pet or one of the golden children, it also taught me that sometimes the consequences are far better than the rewards. A lesson that, to my parents’ dismay, I took to heart.

Miss Teacher may have learned something too, because that was the end of the Clean Desk contest.