It’s past time I thanked you, dear sixth grade teacher, for being there for me, during a time when my life was starting to spin out of control. You were my first male teacher, and boy, did I need a positive male role model in my life. You weren’t much to look at— big nose, receding hairline (a redhead) and you were OLD. I mean, my God, you were 36 and I was 11—too old to be my boyfriend, but not too old to be my father figure.
You didn’t play favorites–it wasn’t like I was your pet or anything—but you seemed to intuitively know to treat me a little differently. Like the phase we girls went through, signing our homework and our blackboard work with our boyfriends’ names, as if we were married to them. For instance, I was Mrs. Roger Cole. Now I’m sure that was news to Mr. Roger Cole. We had a “thing” in fourth grade, but I suspect he had moved on by the sixth grade. But I hadn’t, and he was the only husband I had. I had to keep up with the Jones’s—Mrs. Jones that is.
Well, you got tired of trying to figure out who Mrs. So-and-So was, so you told us girls we had to use our real names on the blackboard and on homework. No problem. The next time I used the blackboard, I wrote “Terri Sue Hickman.” My real name was Maureen Hickman, but I absolutely didn’t like, or own, any part of that name. Terri Sue was who I was. Of course, some of the other girls narced on me, pointing out I didn’t use my own name, but you spared me any further humiliation and let it stand. Fifty-four years later, I still remember that. You seemed to understand I couldn’t handle being myself.
Remember the time you praised me in front of the class? I’m not real clear on the details, but you commended me for getting one of the highest test scores or maybe report cards—can’t remember—doesn’t matter. Because you made me feel special when you pointed out that I had twice missed two weeks of school in as many consecutive six-week grading periods, and still managed to (fill in the blank.) The details are sketchy but I remember distinctly how I felt.
And that grammar contest I won. (You’d never believe it now!) It was a six-week period when you kept a chart of how many grammatical errors we made. I was a shoo-in, or so I thought. My mom had drilled proper grammar into my head from the day I was born. But I hadn’t factored in Joyce Stokes. Joyce had a much worse life than I did, and never talked, so how could I EVER catch her making a grammatical error?! I complained to you. It wasn’t fair, I said. I had one checkmark on the chart and Joyce had none. You smiled benignly, but didn’t discipline her for not talking more. Sigh. But I got her. I GOT her. I confronted her and asked her why she didn’t talk—probably told her it wasn’t fair. Well, here’s the best part! She said, “Because I don’t want to say any of them words.” She said “them”! Bingo! We were even! I rushed over to you and gleefully told you about Joyce’s error and you promptly put a checkmark by her name. Sweet! Joyce and I won some kind of pencil set, I believe. But it didn’t matter what the prize was—I won! You praised me. And that’s all that mattered.
Do you remember the time (or possibly times) when my cousin, Mark, and I threw dirt clods at you while you were gardening?! I was so excited to find out you were a neighbor to my aunt and uncle in Coffeen. You had a huge garden and we had to really hurl them far to hit you. Actually, I’m not sure we ever hit you, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought was I adored you and desperately wanted your attention, and if it took throwing dirt at you to get it, then by God, it was worth it. I suspect I annoyed you more than endeared myself to you, but you never let on.
So, even though there’s a good chance you’re dead, I hope you get this message—and know how you made a difference in my life. You probably didn’t even realize it. I’m sorry I waited so late to tell you. And I hope you forgive me for throwing dirt at you. You always dirt the one you love… (Forgive me for that also.)
Your favorite student,
Maureen
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Flying Household Appliances, Holes in the Wall, and Other Fun Stuff
(Marriage Part Deux – from “My Marriage” Series)
I knew from the get-go my ex had a temper. Oh, boy, did he have a temper! (And here I thought I’d blocked out all the unpleasant memories---hah!) I learned about his temper near the beginning of our courtship, when I attempted to step out with a gentleman caller I’d met at a weekend fallout shelter “retreat.” My ex and I had made no promises to each other—nothing in writing—but I had the good sense to know he might be pissed at the thought of my stepping out with another guy. So, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I didn’t have a phone back then, and since my ex never committed to the next date when we were together, I gambled and told Ray to come over on a Wednesday night (I think). As luck would have it, my ex showed up shortly before Ray and quickly picked up on the situation. The blood draining from my face, and my stammering and babbling must have cued him.
Long story short, I didn’t go out with Ray that night—probably just as well because the name Ray conjures up images of bowling leagues, tattoos, scratching and farting—you get the picture. In spite of a good deal of yelling and hollering, Ray managed to avoid a physical altercation with my ex. (Coincidentally, I never saw him again…) The wall in the hallway wasn’t so fortunate however; it got a fist through it, just for trying to give some structure to the building. But I digress. The point is, I knew about his temper and married him anyway. Sigh.
Fast forward to our first year of marriage. We lived in an efficiency apartment with a Murphy Bed. For you whippersnappers, that’s a bed that pulls out of the wall. Our refrigerator was an under-the-counter deal like you might find in a dorm room. Vinyl tile floor throughout. Luxury. But one of the bright spots was our black and white TV that we watched from bed (Do you know you can buy a Murphy Beds over the Internet??) Since the furniture came with the place, the TV was one of the few things we owned. (When you’re married in the courthouse, you don’t get a lot of nice stuff—something Will and Kate apparently figured out.) Toward the end of year one, we were splitsville and I moved into the YWCA (That’s a blog for another day!). When I returned three weeks later, I learned he’d thrown the TV off the balcony in a fit of anger. Not sure what the TV ever did to him, but whatever it was, it didn’t do it again.
Another fast forward. We now had a 3-year old daughter and were in our first house, which came with a stove. The stove wasn’t much--didn’t have a working oven, which didn’t bother him. But it irked him that the burners didn’t turn on right away—sometimes there was a delay. So, for nine months, I went without an oven. One sunny Saturday in June, I came home from my part-time job at the S & L to find I no longer had an oven or a stove. It seems the burners didn’t come on fast enough for him that day, so he threw the stove out the back door. (He was strong when he was angry!) As he tells it, the neighbors on both sides were talking across the fence to each other when the stove went flying out the back door. That must have been quite a sight — and sound; I’m sure the air was blue from swear words lingering in the air.
So, we — actually, I — went a month without a stove. I made do with a little outdoor grill, a crockpot, and an electric frying pan. What more could a gal want? Well, apparently I wanted a 1930’s model stove that he surprised me with one day. He liked it a lot. I’ll have to admit it was cool looking and a pretty color of green. The oven was about big enough to bake a TV dinner. It didn’t have any temperature markings on the dial—you just had to guess how hot it was. Fun!
He got custody of the stove when we divorced, as well as the house (he bought me out), and most of the contents. We’d never had a sofa (a cut-out bathtub was our sofa—his idea, of course) and I was hot to buy a waterbed and start my new life. So I left with the rocking chair I’d rocked my daughter in, the kitchen table and chairs, my daughter’s bed and dresser (that we’d paid $15 for), some burlap shelves and cement blocks, my clothes, and half of my six-year-old daughter.
So, what’s the point of telling you all this? I’m really not sure. So you’ll appreciate your lives/marriage more? Dunno. But I have come up with the perfect moral to the story: “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stoves.”
Bah dump!
I knew from the get-go my ex had a temper. Oh, boy, did he have a temper! (And here I thought I’d blocked out all the unpleasant memories---hah!) I learned about his temper near the beginning of our courtship, when I attempted to step out with a gentleman caller I’d met at a weekend fallout shelter “retreat.” My ex and I had made no promises to each other—nothing in writing—but I had the good sense to know he might be pissed at the thought of my stepping out with another guy. So, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I didn’t have a phone back then, and since my ex never committed to the next date when we were together, I gambled and told Ray to come over on a Wednesday night (I think). As luck would have it, my ex showed up shortly before Ray and quickly picked up on the situation. The blood draining from my face, and my stammering and babbling must have cued him.
Long story short, I didn’t go out with Ray that night—probably just as well because the name Ray conjures up images of bowling leagues, tattoos, scratching and farting—you get the picture. In spite of a good deal of yelling and hollering, Ray managed to avoid a physical altercation with my ex. (Coincidentally, I never saw him again…) The wall in the hallway wasn’t so fortunate however; it got a fist through it, just for trying to give some structure to the building. But I digress. The point is, I knew about his temper and married him anyway. Sigh.
Fast forward to our first year of marriage. We lived in an efficiency apartment with a Murphy Bed. For you whippersnappers, that’s a bed that pulls out of the wall. Our refrigerator was an under-the-counter deal like you might find in a dorm room. Vinyl tile floor throughout. Luxury. But one of the bright spots was our black and white TV that we watched from bed (Do you know you can buy a Murphy Beds over the Internet??) Since the furniture came with the place, the TV was one of the few things we owned. (When you’re married in the courthouse, you don’t get a lot of nice stuff—something Will and Kate apparently figured out.) Toward the end of year one, we were splitsville and I moved into the YWCA (That’s a blog for another day!). When I returned three weeks later, I learned he’d thrown the TV off the balcony in a fit of anger. Not sure what the TV ever did to him, but whatever it was, it didn’t do it again.
Another fast forward. We now had a 3-year old daughter and were in our first house, which came with a stove. The stove wasn’t much--didn’t have a working oven, which didn’t bother him. But it irked him that the burners didn’t turn on right away—sometimes there was a delay. So, for nine months, I went without an oven. One sunny Saturday in June, I came home from my part-time job at the S & L to find I no longer had an oven or a stove. It seems the burners didn’t come on fast enough for him that day, so he threw the stove out the back door. (He was strong when he was angry!) As he tells it, the neighbors on both sides were talking across the fence to each other when the stove went flying out the back door. That must have been quite a sight — and sound; I’m sure the air was blue from swear words lingering in the air.
So, we — actually, I — went a month without a stove. I made do with a little outdoor grill, a crockpot, and an electric frying pan. What more could a gal want? Well, apparently I wanted a 1930’s model stove that he surprised me with one day. He liked it a lot. I’ll have to admit it was cool looking and a pretty color of green. The oven was about big enough to bake a TV dinner. It didn’t have any temperature markings on the dial—you just had to guess how hot it was. Fun!
He got custody of the stove when we divorced, as well as the house (he bought me out), and most of the contents. We’d never had a sofa (a cut-out bathtub was our sofa—his idea, of course) and I was hot to buy a waterbed and start my new life. So I left with the rocking chair I’d rocked my daughter in, the kitchen table and chairs, my daughter’s bed and dresser (that we’d paid $15 for), some burlap shelves and cement blocks, my clothes, and half of my six-year-old daughter.
So, what’s the point of telling you all this? I’m really not sure. So you’ll appreciate your lives/marriage more? Dunno. But I have come up with the perfect moral to the story: “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stoves.”
Bah dump!
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