Her name was Mrs. Thompson and she had accepted the responsibility of shepherding the minute packages of burgeoning humanity onto the pathway of book learnin’. There was no kindergarten in those days, and her tall, somewhat angular form had greeted the first graders of Unified district 477 for more years than I had drawn breath, and she had no plans to lay down the mantle for years to come. She was skilled in her craft.

The venue in which she plied her expertise was on the south end of the building, down a long set of stairs, adjacent to the room which housed the second graders. To the north across a short hallway was the boiler room where Clovis clunked away with his pipe wrenches. He was janitor in this institute of higher learning, beloved by all, and reeked of his habit of burning tobacco.  There was a bank of windows to the south, hinged at the bottom and with a quarter-turn latch to secure them in the closed position. A steam radiator in the corner of the room drove the chill away of a winter morning, hot enough to sizzle if you happened to spit on it. Her desk occupied the west end, behind it was the green chalkboard, and beside it a low table, surrounded by little chairs, where smaller groups could be tutored as required.  On the other side of her desk was an American flag, to which, with hand placed over the heart, the class pledged allegiance every morning. Completing the décor was a small library on the east end allowing enrichment to the souls who were able to complete their assignments with time to spare. And this is what provided the ingredient for the debacle that follows.

Time has erased some of the less significant details, but, as I recall, it happened at the end of a warm day in the fall, before the shroud of proper decorum had settled completely on me. Mrs. Thompson was seated at the low table with six or seven students, listening to them read. This was done in stages with the twenty plus apprentices in the class allowing free time for those not involved. I and another lad, maybe more, were looking at library books with the intent, which was allowable, of taking one home for further enjoyment. The problem arose when my colleague and I both insisted on control of the same hardcover. We, with book in hand, approached the table where authority sat, each hoping to settle the dispute in his favor. We got her attention, and she listened to our clash while the current reader droned on with halting words. Much to my dismay, she awarded the artifact to my, at this time, opponent. And it surprises me to this day, that as we turned away, I insulted the dignity of my fellow student within earshot of the teacher in awfully salty terms. Where I had heard the term I do not know, but once said, it could not be recalled. Retribution was swift in coming, behind my back I heard a chair sliding on the tiled floor, swift moving steps, and I was rebuked on my head with the only weapon she carried, which was a reading book. And it was remarkable how justice was served, it caused an involuntary, and unwelcome dysfunction with my plumbing. I made my way dejectedly to my desk, and in misery reflected on the injustice that had assailed me. Not one, but three things—I was cheated out of the desired library book, suffered chastisement witnessed by the whole class, and I was warm from more than just embarrassment.

It must have been that I dried off on the bus ride home, and in the recital to my mom on the day’s activities, I elected to omit the occurrence at day’s end. But, to my knowledge, I have never referred to a member of my species in that manner since. I must give credit to Mrs. Thompson; she was successful in her application of ‘book learnin’.