Spelling has never come easy for me, but that is no excuse. At the end of the 2nd grade year, I had a typical spelling test. You remember the type, Monday pretest, Wednesday practice test, and my favorite Friday the final test. I studied for these tests with the help of my mother,a third grade teacher. Monday night, after the pretest, I wrote each word I missed ten times. There was always twenty words on the test, since I missed every word, I wrote two-hundred words. Wednesday night, after the practice test I again wrote each word that I missed ten times, since I again missed every word, I wrote a total of two-hundred words. With all that writing you would think my handwriting would at least be better, but it is worse then my spelling. Friday night, after the final test, after again missing twenty words, I did not have to write any more words.
By the end of 2nd grade I had not only failed every Friday final test, I had not yet gotten one word correct, not one word! At this point I had no concern of passing a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday spelling test, I only wanted to get one word right, just one word.
It was April or May the afternoon sun filtered through the windows. The teacher slowly walked up and down between the aisles making sure we where ready for the Friday final test. The room was silent except for a few nervous doodlers to my right. My head was already sunk. I was prepared to once again feel that heavy weight of disappointment, my stomach had that slight ache, as I again prepared to do my best on something that I knew would turn out embarrassing.As I looked over and saw the girls who got all twenty words right on the Monday pretest or the Wednesday practice test eating Popsicles, I was thinking how I would have to hide my score from my friends and my parents, and I was just hoping that the teacher would not read the scores a loud again. She walked past my desk checking that my pencil was sharpened, and my paper was clean. It was. I listened to her feet clunk across the floor to the front of room to begin reading the test.
As the teacher went through the words, my head sank lower and lower. I spelled word after word, I would even spell them three different ways and circle the one I thought looked right. She was on word fifteen. Math. "We will have math after spelling." I wrote down M and then I woke up. It most have been the straightest I ever sat in my desk during a spelling test. I began to smile. For the first time in my life I had the chance to get a word right on the Friday final spelling test. I gripped my pencil a little tighter. I hunched over my desk getting my chest close to my paper. I peered down to look at my math book. There it was just laying there a capital M staring me in the face. I did not think of it as cheating. It was coping. It was surviving. I slowly swung my body in my desk to hide my eyes from the teacher. I quickly glanced down and grabbed with my mind one letter at a time. I swiped my forearm against my brow, sweat glistened off my arm. Finally I was done. I looked over the word; it did not look right, but in my experience that did not mean much. I looked up at the teacher, as she said, "number 19 clock." Number 19 I missed three words. No problem, I thought; I had the words memorized in the right order, I just could not spell them right. I quickly scribbled down the words I knew to be numbers 16, 17 and 18, and finished the test with the rest of the class.
I turned in the test beaming. We got the test returned by the end of the day. Mercifully she did not say the scores aloud. She turned the test upside down on my desk. I quickly turned it over. On top of the page in round, bubble numbers was a - 20, (she stopped putting an F on my paper months ago.) I could not believe it. I scanned down the page to number 15 and saw a giant red slash next to the word MATHEMATICS.
Homeroom Story number 18: My one moment of fame or it rings truth
I have been told that everyone has their one moment of fame, mine came to me in 9th grade, a time when the teenage mind is at its most impressionable, most confused, most invincible state. A time when popularity is as predictable as a teens mood.
A little background: I went to school, in at the time, was the biggest Jr. high in the state. I was a nobody. I was a little shy and very awkward: messy hair, braces, glasses and chubby. I just went through my routine of the school day from one class to the next. It was a good day if I talked to anyone, and I did not get teased. By talking to anyone I mean boys, talking to girls was out of the question.
It was metal shop class, and we were creating rings. Of course the teacher went over safety rules first, with such basics as the machinery and the tools, and, of course, don't put your ring on until it is finished. A funny thing about the teenage brain is its idea that the teenage body is invincible and that not all rules apply to them. So due to this notion planted in my brain of invincibility and the teenage need to belong, when a girl began talking to me I became a little dumber. After I got over the fact that a girl was talking to me, I began to understand what she was trying to tell me. She suggested that I try the ring on as she slid her own ring on and off her finger to prove the absurdness of the safety rule, of course, I did not hesitate to try my own ring on. She said it looked nice, I beamed. Maybe it was the beaming that got me in trouble, extra blood going to my finger, or maybe my knuckles are big and odd shaped and a little awkward like the rest of me, or maybe it was just my time in history to become famous, but for what ever reason the ring stuck. My first move was to panic and pull harder, of course, that made it worse. Then the girl grabbed my hand, increasing blood flow to my finger, and began to pull, making it much worse. We twisted it, shock it,and pulled and pulled at it. We ran to the sink and put soap and water on it; it did not work. At this point from all the pulling of the unfinished metal of the ring; it began to cut through my flesh and bleed. This caused my new friend to panic, and she did something I will never understand, but I am sure it has something to do with that unreliable teenage brain. She ran to tell the teacher what had happened. I was dumbfounded. He examined my finger like a doctor, saying things like hmmmm and ahhhhh, until he suggested I lay under the table with my finger in a vise as he cut the ring off. So I laid under the table, face up as he sawed the ring ; the vise squeezing my finger. All I could see was the bottom of the table and wads of pink gum stuck to the underside. The room was completely silent except of the grinding of the saw. The teacher went slow either to be careful not to cut me or to relish the moment. When he finally cut through the ring and unwound the vise I slowly slid the ring off my finger before standing up from under the table. As I slid from under the table I began to hear the murmurings and giggles of classmates. But as I stood up I could see it was not just my classmates; it was the entire school and I was famous. All eyes where on me for one instant, wide eyes and open mouths that spelled the letter O. An applause rose, cheers could be heard throughout the room and down the hallways and screams of, "he got it off," made it through the Jr. high grapevine like a a wildfire. All to fast, the girl slid into the crowd and the teacher sent everyone to their next class. I got pats on the back and, "way to go" from complete strangers. For the rest of that day I was thy most popular kid in school. My moment of fame.
A little background: I went to school, in at the time, was the biggest Jr. high in the state. I was a nobody. I was a little shy and very awkward: messy hair, braces, glasses and chubby. I just went through my routine of the school day from one class to the next. It was a good day if I talked to anyone, and I did not get teased. By talking to anyone I mean boys, talking to girls was out of the question.
It was metal shop class, and we were creating rings. Of course the teacher went over safety rules first, with such basics as the machinery and the tools, and, of course, don't put your ring on until it is finished. A funny thing about the teenage brain is its idea that the teenage body is invincible and that not all rules apply to them. So due to this notion planted in my brain of invincibility and the teenage need to belong, when a girl began talking to me I became a little dumber. After I got over the fact that a girl was talking to me, I began to understand what she was trying to tell me. She suggested that I try the ring on as she slid her own ring on and off her finger to prove the absurdness of the safety rule, of course, I did not hesitate to try my own ring on. She said it looked nice, I beamed. Maybe it was the beaming that got me in trouble, extra blood going to my finger, or maybe my knuckles are big and odd shaped and a little awkward like the rest of me, or maybe it was just my time in history to become famous, but for what ever reason the ring stuck. My first move was to panic and pull harder, of course, that made it worse. Then the girl grabbed my hand, increasing blood flow to my finger, and began to pull, making it much worse. We twisted it, shock it,and pulled and pulled at it. We ran to the sink and put soap and water on it; it did not work. At this point from all the pulling of the unfinished metal of the ring; it began to cut through my flesh and bleed. This caused my new friend to panic, and she did something I will never understand, but I am sure it has something to do with that unreliable teenage brain. She ran to tell the teacher what had happened. I was dumbfounded. He examined my finger like a doctor, saying things like hmmmm and ahhhhh, until he suggested I lay under the table with my finger in a vise as he cut the ring off. So I laid under the table, face up as he sawed the ring ; the vise squeezing my finger. All I could see was the bottom of the table and wads of pink gum stuck to the underside. The room was completely silent except of the grinding of the saw. The teacher went slow either to be careful not to cut me or to relish the moment. When he finally cut through the ring and unwound the vise I slowly slid the ring off my finger before standing up from under the table. As I slid from under the table I began to hear the murmurings and giggles of classmates. But as I stood up I could see it was not just my classmates; it was the entire school and I was famous. All eyes where on me for one instant, wide eyes and open mouths that spelled the letter O. An applause rose, cheers could be heard throughout the room and down the hallways and screams of, "he got it off," made it through the Jr. high grapevine like a a wildfire. All to fast, the girl slid into the crowd and the teacher sent everyone to their next class. I got pats on the back and, "way to go" from complete strangers. For the rest of that day I was thy most popular kid in school. My moment of fame.
Homeroom Story number 36 - Dad locks child in car or peek-a-boo more then just a child's game
I went to the Summit with Kandence who was 2 years old at the time. I only needed to drop by to deliver something of no concscoincce to my wife. I regrettably pulled the blue sedan in directly in front of the gym and ran in, delivered what ever it was I needed to deliver and ran out, a 15 second job, however as returning to my car I realized that I locked the car doors with the keys in the ignition and a 2 year old, who was wide awake, in the backseat. Here I did what most parents, I believe, would do in the situation. I panicked. I ran into the lobby and called 911. I know that seems a bit drastic now, but that is what I did.
While waiting for the police officer to show up I entertained the 2 year old strapped in the back seat by playing peek-a-boo. I would crouch down, sneak around the car, pop up and yell peek-a-boo. Every dad has played this game with a two year old at some point, however, most have not played this game directly outside a busy gym right after work. As patrons came out of the Summit doors they would see me crouching around my car and popping up and yelling peek-a-boo into the closed window. Some of these patrons I knew. As theses patrons came out the doors they would say things like, "Luke, I just saw your wife do you want me to go get her?" I would have to interrupt my peek-a-boo game to tell my friend to, in fact," not get my wife under any circumstances."
After having 4 or so such interruptions the police officer came. He was a big man who looked bigger wearing 23 pounds of hardware. He sauntered up to the window carrying a long, black bar used to break into such cars. He grasped my hand with a firm shake and preceded to jam the bar into the car. I watched as Kandence's eyes got big. She had that look that every two year old gets right before they start to cry. To ease Kadence's mind I put my arm around the big man's shoulders and smiled at Kadence. Kadence held her breath, I held mine and if I remember correctly the officer held his. Kadence did not cry but she still had that just-about-to-cry look. Again, I did what I think most fathers would have done in this situation. I asked the police officer to play peek-a-boo around the car.
Here we were, two grown men, directly in front of the busiest establishment, at the busiest time of the day walking around, crouching below the windows, taking turns popping up and yelling through a closed window "peek-a-boo." Some people stopped to watch, some asked to help, some pretended not to see us and others (my favorite type of people) asked if they could play.
As soon as Kadence seemed reassured the officer began to again try to break into my car to no avail, while I continued to play peek-a-boo. After about 20 minutes, a knight in shiny armor, (Carharts and a loose flannel) riding a white horse, (white pick-up truck stamped with LOCKSMITH on the side) drove up to the car. He dismounted armed with courage, intelligence, strength and a thin wire with a hook. In a flash, he unsheathed his weapon, slid it between the window and the door, twisted and opened the door with his other hand. All faster then it takes to tell. As the door opened he gave a wink and a smile toward Kadence, then turned to leave. As he mounted his trusty stead he looked over his shoulder and said, "my job here is done." And as fast as he came, he left with only the fumes from his exhaust pipe to prove that he ever existed. The officer looked at me and shrugged as he too walked to his car. I entered the car and looked at Kadence whose three simple words said it all, "Peek-a-boo?"
While waiting for the police officer to show up I entertained the 2 year old strapped in the back seat by playing peek-a-boo. I would crouch down, sneak around the car, pop up and yell peek-a-boo. Every dad has played this game with a two year old at some point, however, most have not played this game directly outside a busy gym right after work. As patrons came out of the Summit doors they would see me crouching around my car and popping up and yelling peek-a-boo into the closed window. Some of these patrons I knew. As theses patrons came out the doors they would say things like, "Luke, I just saw your wife do you want me to go get her?" I would have to interrupt my peek-a-boo game to tell my friend to, in fact," not get my wife under any circumstances."
After having 4 or so such interruptions the police officer came. He was a big man who looked bigger wearing 23 pounds of hardware. He sauntered up to the window carrying a long, black bar used to break into such cars. He grasped my hand with a firm shake and preceded to jam the bar into the car. I watched as Kandence's eyes got big. She had that look that every two year old gets right before they start to cry. To ease Kadence's mind I put my arm around the big man's shoulders and smiled at Kadence. Kadence held her breath, I held mine and if I remember correctly the officer held his. Kadence did not cry but she still had that just-about-to-cry look. Again, I did what I think most fathers would have done in this situation. I asked the police officer to play peek-a-boo around the car.
Here we were, two grown men, directly in front of the busiest establishment, at the busiest time of the day walking around, crouching below the windows, taking turns popping up and yelling through a closed window "peek-a-boo." Some people stopped to watch, some asked to help, some pretended not to see us and others (my favorite type of people) asked if they could play.
As soon as Kadence seemed reassured the officer began to again try to break into my car to no avail, while I continued to play peek-a-boo. After about 20 minutes, a knight in shiny armor, (Carharts and a loose flannel) riding a white horse, (white pick-up truck stamped with LOCKSMITH on the side) drove up to the car. He dismounted armed with courage, intelligence, strength and a thin wire with a hook. In a flash, he unsheathed his weapon, slid it between the window and the door, twisted and opened the door with his other hand. All faster then it takes to tell. As the door opened he gave a wink and a smile toward Kadence, then turned to leave. As he mounted his trusty stead he looked over his shoulder and said, "my job here is done." And as fast as he came, he left with only the fumes from his exhaust pipe to prove that he ever existed. The officer looked at me and shrugged as he too walked to his car. I entered the car and looked at Kadence whose three simple words said it all, "Peek-a-boo?"
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