MadMup.com

Years: 1980-1981
Teacher: Mrs. Lingle

In another of those twist-of-fate things that happens in a small town that has a Christian school and a Christian college that are closely tied together, my third grade teacher was the wife of a man who would be my boss in 20+ years. At this time, though, I believe he worked for a scrap metal company – we either took a field trip there or he came into class once, I’m not entirely sure.

Third grade is the earliest memory I have of appalling one of my teachers. Though I tried to make it a regular practice in later years, this first instance was completely by accident. Somewhere along the line, I heard someone use the word “heck,” and it must have been someone I knew and trusted, because I thought it would be a fine word to use. The dictionary says that “heck” is “used as an intensive,” a way to make something be something a little bit more. I understood that meaning from this unremembered person’s use, but I didn’t know that the dictionary also says that “heck” is “used as a mild oath.”

Apparently – and you might sock this information away for future use yourself – Christian school teachers object to their students (especially third grade students) using mild oaths in their classrooms.

We were doing work in class, and anyone with a question was to go to the teacher’s desk and ask for help there. I must have been particularly stumped, because when I approached the desk I said, “I don’t know what the heck this means.” Not only did my teacher’s eyes widen in shock, but the next student in line, Mark B., mirrored her look and expanded on it with a hand to his mouth. It’s another one of those “I’ll never forget it as long as my brain works” things – those looks are permanently branded in my brain. If you’ve ever watched a mystery movie or TV show when the female protagonist realizes that not only is her new boyfriend the killer but he’s right behind her with a knife the size of a Buick, you’ve seen these looks, too. I was quickly disabused of the notion that “heck” was an okay word for me to be using, and life went on. I’m pretty sure Mark B. spread the tale of my being a pottymouth, but what can you do? There was no denying it.

There was a commercial on TV around this time, I think for International House of Pancakes, that had a fellow singing the line, “Another hectic weekday, with deadlines I must meet.” (I think the solution was to go eat pancakes, but I’m not sure.) I didn’t see much TV since, with few exceptions, my brother and I weren’t allowed to watch TV, so I must have seen this commercial while my mom was watching the news or something. I couldn’t believe he was allowed to sing the word “hectic” on TV. I though “heck” and “hectic” were related words, you see. The problem was the tune was catchy and I would sometimes sing it…and then promptly feel bad about singing the word “hectic.”

My hometown church was about 25 miles away from school and it provided a bus to take a whole pile of us to school and back every day. Third grade was the first time I remember snow affecting my school day. One day there came an announcement over the PA that all students riding the bus from Fort Atkinson were to be let out at noon because the snow was getting bad and was only getting worse. I’ll never be a king, but I know what being a king feels like. Every kid in the classroom was immediately jealous and a little bit awestruck. The whisperings and looks were the actions of a subjugated people yearning for the freedom of a half-day of school, and for a brief moment I was able to hold my head high. It didn’t last long, of course. When I returned to school I learned about the concept of “make-up work,” the Iron Mask worn by all pretenders to the throne.

I have a memory that I couldn’t place in a particular year, but judging by the years I was in third grade, it had to have happened then. I was young and naïve and didn’t understand politics. I knew we had a President and I knew there was some sort of contest going on to see who was going to be the next one. Everyone around me was talking about Ronald Reagan and hoping he was going to win. I distinctly remember feeling bad for Jimmy Carter, the current President. My pity was based on the fact that he was already President, so he should stay President. Besides, he liked peanuts and seemed nice enough. I got made fun of a lot when I was a kid – I was a weird kid, so it was mostly deserved – but I really got made fun of for this particular viewpoint. It wasn’t until I was older and more politically savvy that I realized that jelly beans trump peanuts any day of the week and the American people had made a wise choice.

Third Grade was fine, but Fourth Grade was the top of the bottom heap of elementary school, and I couldn’t wait to get there.

Years: 1979-1980
Teacher: Mrs. Osborne

My second grade year got off to a bad start. During first grade, I somehow became aware of Mrs. Hershberger, the second grade teacher. She was always really nice and I couldn’t wait to have her as a teacher. She would always say “hi” to me in the hallway and I remember saying things to her about being in her class the next year.

Alas, when I showed up for school in second grade, she wasn’t there. I’m not sure where she went, but as she is to this day teaching at the college in that town, I’d guess she left to go teach at the college. Regardless, it was a grand disappointment.

I don’t remember much about the teacher we did have, other than I don’t remember her being very happy. It might just be that time has faded all but the most distinctive memories, but I have this mental image of her sitting at her desk, glaring.

Aside from that, I only have one stand-out memory from second grade, but it’s in what I would call the “character-defining” category: I remember having my first sarcastic (or “smart-aleck” if you prefer) thought. It’s possible I had some before this time, but this is the earliest one I can recall.

We went on a field trip for the day to a dairy farm. I don’t know where you go on field trips in other states, but in Wisconsin, a dairy farm is pretty standard. Now that I think about it, though, it seems odd. It’s a pretty fair bet that several kids in our class grew up on dairy farms, so why take them to one on a field trip? Anyway, it was a chance to get out of school, which is what field trips are all about, right?

We’d poked around the farm for the morning, and it was time for lunch. We’d all brought lunches from home, but I’m pretty sure the milk was provided for us — and I’m also pretty sure it was in cartons, not from the storage tank in the next building over. Before lunch, though, we all had to wash our hands. There was some kind of large sink that allowed several kids at once, so it went fairly quickly.

I distinctly remember the farmer telling all of us, “When you’re done washing your hands, wave them up and down to air-dry them. That’s the farmer way to dry your hands!”

And I distinctly remember thinking, “Yeah, right. You just don’t want us to use up all your paper towels.” I didn’t say it out loud, as I still had a healthy fear of getting in trouble, but I think that one thought amused me enough to spur other similar thoughts, which eventually started getting said out loud, which eventually got me here: still making remarks that amuse me, and if it gets an audience, so much the better.

That’s pretty much all I got for second grade. Third grade was a smidgeon more exciting.

Years: 1978-1979
Teacher: Miss Carpenter

This was the first year of the new school building, so it must have been strange for everyone. Rather than the here-and-there classrooms in the church building, it was an actual school with actual classrooms. Grades 1-8 were all housed in one building. The Main Office was smack in the middle of the building, right where the main entrance was, so there was a kind of natural split. First through Fifth grades were to the left, and Sixth through Eighth and all the “extras” like the library, the art room and the music room were to the right. Kindergarten was still held at the church several miles away, and I’d guess it was partly because Mrs. Reid was accustomed to it, partly because of space, and partly because it seems a natural break. As a First Grader, the other end of the building might as well have been in Kansas. Even our recesses took place in a different area out back, and two natural hierarchies developed: First through Fourth grades and Fifth through Eighth.

Two physical characteristics of my teacher that year stand out in my memory: eyes and fingernails. Miss Carpenter had these seemingly huge eyes that she would roll in your direction in such a way that you knew you were in trouble. In my mind they seem almost caricatures now, but I remember the way she would do it and it did a good job of stopping whatever it was you were doing to have earned it. Also, if you didn’t stop it, you might get the next step: the fingernails. They probably weren’t as long as they felt, but they were strong and they felt pointy, especially in the soft tissues around the bones in your shoulder. She was trained in the ninja arts, I’m sure of it – you wouldn’t be aware of her approach and then BAM. Fingernails.

For a lesson one day, Miss Carpenter brought in Miss Appling, the seventh grade teacher, who was about six feet tall. Jesse R. was the shortest and smallest kid in our class and he was made to stand next to her in front of the class as some sort of example about size. I don’t remember the lesson, but I do remember the way Jesse looked up at her. It was like one of those slow camera pans you see in movies that illustrate just how big the bouncer/robot/Godzilla is. At the end of it, his head was looking almost straight up.

I received my first in-school spanking in First Grade and, oddly enough, I didn’t deserve it. “Suuuuuure you didn’t,” you’re probably saying. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I’ll go on to say that, over the years, I received plenty that I did deserve, and missed out on several that I should have gotten, but this first one, I didn’t deserve.

We were lining up after gym class, and I was towards the middle of the line. The boy at the back of the line was asked to go hold the doors for us, as was the routine. Knowing he was coming up my side, I stuck my foot out as if I were going to trip him, but giggled and pulled my foot back almost immediately. Unfortunately, David S. was a bigger fooler-arounder than I, so when he got to me, he tripped himself and laid the blame on me. To quote Jasper from The Simpsons, in his role as substitute teacher, “That’s a paddlin’.” Now, I shouldn’t have been fooling around in the first place, I’ll agree, but the spanking was for tripping, and I didn’t deserve it. I think it set me down a path of tomfoolery, as I might have thought, “I’ll get in trouble whether or not I do stuff, so I might as well do stuff.” I don’t know that for sure, but it’s a theory I’ve oft entertained. It should be noted that this was also the day I learned about the “if you get a spanking at school you get one at home” rule.

One of my friends in First Grade was named Birch C. Yep. “Birch.” His family was from Maine, so I assume a love of trees was involved. One day we were lined up at the water fountain after recess and Birch was wearing what people these days call a “trucker hat,” one of those with the plastic snaps in the back for adjusting the size. I thought it might be harmless fun to unsnap the snaps. I thought wrong. In the process of unsnapping them all at once, some of the snaps broke off rather than unsnapping, and his hat was worthless after that. I felt really bad about it, but to this day I think I still owe him five bucks. I saw him a few years ago (like, 12), but I don’t remember if I paid him then or not. Next time I see him, I’ll do it, I swear.

Another lasting memory I have from First Grade is the dreaded penmanship tests. We were full-on into the business of writing letters and I wasn’t very neat about it, apparently. My worst grades were those in penmanship. My parents, as an incentive, told me that if I got an “A” in penmanship, we’d have pizza for dinner. As this was a rare treat back then, I tried my very hardest and managed to pull it off some how. We had the pizza, but the only thing that stuck with me from that experience is my love of pizza, I’m afraid. If this blog were hand-written, none of you would come back. It has been suggested that my signature looks like an EKG reading.

First Grade is also the earliest I can remember meeting Dave O., even though we didn’t become friends until much later. He was in the class ahead of me, so we didn’t mingle much except for at recess. Still, I count him a good friend to this day and we regularly correspond, so I thought it was worth mentioning.

Second Grade wasn’t nearly as exciting.