Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Eve of Desk-struction
(From a group I am in where you post memories keyed by a Word of the Day--which today was Desk.)
Decades ago, when I was in fifth grade, schools weren't any better financed than they are now; the "make it do, make it last, use it up" philosophy was darn near Holy Writ. Even though the ball-point pen HAD been accepted into popular use for some time, desks with a built-in hole for the ink bottle were still common.
One day we had a substitute teacher for music, and she was the most boring excuse for an educator I had ever encountered in my short life. Usually, in music class? We sang. This person was bound and determined to TEACH us mindless heathens something, and as I recall started diagramming musical scoring on the board. Not that I recall much, because it was hideously, brain-cell-explodingly boring, and I stopped listening pretty quickly. Purely in self-defense, of course.
Somehow, I got to wondering about that hole in my desk. Would my hand fit in it? THROUGH it? Hmmmm.
Short answer: If I patiently worked at it, pulling my fingers and thumb in turn, yes, it would. Now--could I get my hand OUT again?
Um. Not so much.
Thus I bravely, with no thought for my own safety or comfort, rescued my classmates from death by tedium. The music lesson pretty much ground to a halt as the sub, the other students, and gradually a crowd of advisors gathered around to consider the problem of how to send me home at the end of the day without a largish piece of school property dangling off my arm like a very impractical, and not especially charming, charm bracelet.
In the end, the janitor had to saw off the corner of the desk to set me free. He kindly gave me the piece of wood, which eventually got lost in one of our many moves. But of course the memory remains.
This sort of thing is why my mom was always "Mrs. Crites" to all my siblings' teachers, but "Oh, SUSAN'S mother!" to mine.
Decades ago, when I was in fifth grade, schools weren't any better financed than they are now; the "make it do, make it last, use it up" philosophy was darn near Holy Writ. Even though the ball-point pen HAD been accepted into popular use for some time, desks with a built-in hole for the ink bottle were still common.
One day we had a substitute teacher for music, and she was the most boring excuse for an educator I had ever encountered in my short life. Usually, in music class? We sang. This person was bound and determined to TEACH us mindless heathens something, and as I recall started diagramming musical scoring on the board. Not that I recall much, because it was hideously, brain-cell-explodingly boring, and I stopped listening pretty quickly. Purely in self-defense, of course.
Somehow, I got to wondering about that hole in my desk. Would my hand fit in it? THROUGH it? Hmmmm.
Short answer: If I patiently worked at it, pulling my fingers and thumb in turn, yes, it would. Now--could I get my hand OUT again?
Um. Not so much.
Thus I bravely, with no thought for my own safety or comfort, rescued my classmates from death by tedium. The music lesson pretty much ground to a halt as the sub, the other students, and gradually a crowd of advisors gathered around to consider the problem of how to send me home at the end of the day without a largish piece of school property dangling off my arm like a very impractical, and not especially charming, charm bracelet.
In the end, the janitor had to saw off the corner of the desk to set me free. He kindly gave me the piece of wood, which eventually got lost in one of our many moves. But of course the memory remains.
This sort of thing is why my mom was always "Mrs. Crites" to all my siblings' teachers, but "Oh, SUSAN'S mother!" to mine.
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