Old School Logic

Juanita Harvey was her name, and she was my sixth grade teacher, but if she taught school today, she’d be looking for work as an ex-teacher. She was a wonderful teacher, and you always knew where you stood academically because at the end of each six week period you were seated according to your grade average. Those who worked hard and made the grade were assigned seats to the right of class beginning with the student with the top average. Those not performing well enough were assigned accordingly in seats to the left. I got off the last row to the left once with a seventy-seven average and was ecstatic. Mr. Cochran, our principal, who was years ahead of his peers and one of the most admirable school administrators I’ve ever known, visited on occasion and always found twenty-five students “on task”. That’s a term we use today to signify students are busy with academic work and not using cell phones to twitter and text or verbally assaulting another student.

Mrs. Harvey was a large woman, dark hair and tall, but not over weight, big enough to intimidate us sixth graders physically and intelligent enough to let us know she knew a whole lot more than we did intellectually. When you entered her room there was something in the air that said, “Do your work, pay attention and learn, and you will survive”. It wasn’t a slogan on the wall somewhere; it was a feeling she projected the moment you came under her umbrella of influence. I came within a “U” of not making it to seventh grade but it was the best year of my educational life.

Because of this seating arrangement and the fact that she would “get on to you” when you didn’t perform to your capabilities, Mrs. Harvey would probably not be employed in today’s market. She would actually say in a loud voice, “I know you can do better than this!” After that a report card would go home with the appropriate number of “unsatisfactory” or U’s on it, and if it were I, there would be accounting to be done at home with two people who were convinced I was normal but perhaps distracted and in fact could do better and it was probably either their fault or mine if I didn’t. Today there’s a different philosophy out there that seems to be saying, “Mrs. Harvey, what’s your problem and why is my “disadvantaged” son unable to read?” No, Mrs. Harvey would not have survived because she believed the responsibility for the education of the child fell first on the parent and second on Mrs. Harvey. So she would have said, “Your son can’t read because you didn’t read to him, preferring instead to watch reality television and soaps. We have math, science, English, and geography, among other subjects to teach your sixth grade child which means reading is a ways down on the list. What have you been doing for twelve years?” Or perhaps in a last ditch effort to reach the parent she might have used the soaps and done it this way.

“You need to be more of a Guiding Light for your child so they can see the way in which The World Turns. Remember, they only have One Life to Live and you need to be there in their Search For Tomorrow. Set the proper example by becoming a reader yourself and develop a Love of Life, not just a love of reality television, you can pass on to your child. As The World Turns, The Days of Our Lives run out and so must your time as a parent. Today’s children are Young and Restless and require commitment and guidance from you, the parent, or they will soon find themselves in Another World, a world of constantly being behind The Bold and Beautiful people, who learned how to read, study, and pursue excellence.” Yes, that’s what Mrs. Harvey would have said as she packed her books, pencils, and paper and bid a fond farewell to parents who didn’t deserve her in the first place.

She Was There

I suppose we all have a special place, a place where, when we visit, life’s memories can be called up by the simple act of standing quietly for a moment and waiting…waiting to hear from people, pets and times that made us who we became. Maybe you’d call it home. I took a trip back to Knoxville, Tennessee, this past week and visited with an old friend I consider to be home. She just happens to be a house, but she’s still standing and still giving off that biblical look that seems to say, “Come unto me all ye who labor and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest.” And although my loved ones were no longer there, she gave up her memories as I stood in the old driveway and looked up at windows that had peered out on eighty years of dreams lost and found, loved ones in a Normandy grave, marriages lasting sixty years, children gone too soon, and Papa Jack, an old Kentuckian and my grandfather. She was his house, built on a hill, and surrounded by hundred year oak trees with acorns and leaves in the fall and plenty of shade for summers. She gave shelter and love for many years to those who lived there, which is why, I suppose, she’s still standing. Two stories with an attic full of bedtime stories waiting to be read by loving aunts, a staircase that creaked and moaned and a grandfather clock chiming the hour to signal the arrival of various “ghosts” heard late in the night. She heard the news December seventh, 1941 when one of her “sons” realized his life would never be the same. She was there on November 22, 1963 when our country “grew up” and again on April fourth, 1968 when we realized we had not grown enough. She saw pets and people come and go, like old Chipper, the sweet, golden cocker spaniel, whose ears shared the food bowl each time he ate and my cousin's dog Spike, who roamed the woods out back until a car caught up with him on Sharp’s Ridge. She heard Santa's bells on Christmas Eve as he drove his sleigh through her woods, and always stopped whether we were naughty or nice. And she watched as Aunt Jo beat the batter of chocolate into homemade fudge. We had quite a visit as she reminded me of those Fatima cigarettes Papa Jack would smoke. They were, “the most powerful draw of tobacco made and would take your head clean off” (Dirty Harry). He lit those Fatimas with a bona fide, long stick, strike anywhere, sulfur match, the smell of which never left the house and in fact is probably still there today, floating high in the rafters. We listened to baseball on the front porch by radio and Papa Jack could make you think you were behind the dugout with a bag of peanuts. I swear it was as real as going to Turner Field and not near as pricey. I have no idea how many more times I’ll be seeing my old friend. No doubt she will out live me and when she goes a century of memories go with her. But in her brick and mortar will lay the bits and pieces of who I am today, a grateful son for all the people who lived in that old house. I’m grateful for the morning devotionals, the unconditional love and charity shown each day by those who lived there and Papa Jack, my grandfather. Most of us have a place, someplace really special, where we can stand and wait …wait for the memories to come... the memories that tell us who we are. Dorothy was right you know, “There’s no place like home.” I hope you’ve found yours.

I Wonder About the Five

Five young men standing on the side of the road waiting on a school bus and holding nothing, not even a bookbag. Where were their books? We always carried books home when I rode the bus back in the “dark ages.” In fact not having a book on the bus could lead someone to believe you could neither read nor write.
Most of my schoolmates also carried something called a notebook, used to write down things learned at school. Then there was something called “homework” which was left over school work or assignments we had to do at home. Some kids’ parents made them do their homework before they could go out and play, and in fact, checked to see that it had been done. I suppose there’s no need for that today with most kids playing indoors with televisions and computers.

Carrying a book was a great way to meet girls and usually the ones that carried books were the ones you wanted to meet (you would carry theirs).
The ones not carrying books usually smoked, had bad breath, and sat in the back of the bus. I don’t know how today’s’ kids meet each other when no one seems to be carrying any books.
Taking a book home also meant that you might be prepared for the discussion the teacher expected from the class. I very seldom said anything in class.
The first thing the teacher would do when class began was go over your homework. If you were a fast writer you could do the homework as she went over the answers, but I wasn’t very fast with a pencil and often turned in what the teacher referred to as “substandard” work.
Pencils were very popular back then. I suppose they would still be used today, but having a pointed object would classify them as contraband and too dangerous to bring to school.
Using a pencil was a great way to learn how to write because it had an eraser in case you made a mistake. I made lots of mistakes.
I wondered about a lot of things when I saw those five young men waiting on the bus. I wondered if their parents felt it strange that they had brought home no books or if they even cared. Do teachers still give homework?
Most of the successful people I know who carried books home seemed to get more than just the written word out of the books. It may have been the discipline required to open the book, or maybe, just an opportunity to spend time with what someone called, “a good friend.”
We used to consider the ability to read very important. Reading required training and effort in the early grades and you also had to have someone with a lot of patience willing to teach you how to read. I still remember how excited I was to learn a new word from Mrs. Mott, my first grade teacher, as she put the word on a portable chalk board in front of our group and then pronounced it.
I would take that word home and repeat it to mom who would find it in a children’s book and read it again. What a special time that was and what a gift they both were to me. I wonder if anyone was home when those five were in the first grade to tell them about a “friend” waiting to be discovered in a book. Or show them a new exciting word that would help them understand other words. I wonder if those five can read. There is the possibility they can’t, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

Guilty Saturdays Lead to Potential Wasp Attacks

Dear Editor,

Do you ever wonder what happened to those lazy Saturdays when, as a kid, you probably spent time fishing, playing ball, or watching cartoons? On a recent Saturday morning I thought I’d do something really stupid so I ask my wife if she needed me to do anything around the house. I was going to be gone the next weekend and I suppose it was a case of the “guilts”. “Well, I need to clean out my closet, would you mind emptying it for me”? “And we’re getting ready to open the windows for fall, why don’t you clean them”? That old Kristopherson song played in my head. “Why me Lord, what have I ever done…” Would I mind? Why don’t I clean? An answer would not come and so... trancelike I found myself outside staring up at the kitchen window. The spiders had been partying for months and a smorgasbord of fine bugs had collected on the sill. Dirt dobbers were everywhere and you could write your name in the mildew. To make matters worse, these were storm windows placed there by the previous owners who were so cheap they had put only one electrical outlet in each of the bedrooms. These windows were to remain intact until “the second coming” as I found screws every six inches or so around the frame. No problem, I rush inside to get my trusty battery powered screwdriver and find it dead as a hammer lying beside the charger. Sensing I was going to throw something my hairless Yorkie, Deuce, crawled under the couch.

Clorox works wonders on mildew and the lining of your lungs. I got one of those cute little flower sprayers from the basement, put some clorox in it and began to fill it with water. An acidic like smell rose up in my face…the kind that seems to say…breathe and you’re dead…and so, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I quickly twisted the top on to the sprayer…then coughed my way to the window. We have this rickety ladder I like to use to make getting up high more exciting and just as I was mounting, I noticed a huge wasp nest in the window corner. I retrieve this can of wasp spray and climb up to get a really good shot. I love killing wasps but realize there’s probably some law protecting them from crazies like me. Three were on the nest and their heads swung around to see this crazed, guilt -ridden husband approaching with what, I’m sure to them, looked like a weapon of mass destruction. I placed my hand on the top of the can…being careful not to make any unnecessary moves that might tip them off and then, making a huge miscalculation as to the amount of spray left in the can, pressed the red button. A gob of spit spewed forth eliciting an angry, irritated look from the guys on the nest. They swung their heads around and looked down as if to say, “look, an old fool on a rickety ladder is trying to have an accident”. With that I did the only thing I could…I threw the can, fell off the ladder and went inside to safely clean out a closet. Saturdays just aren’t the same.