SAFETY PATROL

 I made a quick run through Facebook this afternoon, and in one post, someone had placed a photo of an orange plastic mesh belt and a metal piece pinned to it. Do you know what it is? If you do, you’re probably an older person. I doubt that schools still allow students the privilege to serve as members of the safety patrol, at least the way we did in the 60’s.  

Had Ball Camp School had a patrol of which every student wanted to be a member. However, eighth graders were given preference. It was a matter of seniority or a pecking order. Although good grades in classes and in conduct (yes, we had a conduct grade.) in some way factored into the equation, and believe it or not, I had both. Those on patrol had ranks, although I don’t remember what mine was.  

The most precious thing in my possession was that safety patrol belt and badge. It gave anyone who wore that neon strip a feeling of power. More to the point, students on the “force” were released from class early each day. They donned their uniforms and moved toward their stations. We would never again feel so close to being superheroes than when that time came in the morning and afternoon. 

I remember that my station was at the entrance of the school. There the new building had been opened just that year. It replaced the portion of the old school that burned in 1963. Two of us waved buses into the parking area. At times, we walked out into the middle of Ball Camp Pike and held out the flags.  we’d been assigned. All cars in both lanes stopped. Oh, the power of that flag was intoxicating. With things at a standstill, children could cross the road and go into Silvey Brothers Store, and to the dismay of irate drivers, several buses left the school to begin the routine of stopping every half minute or so to let young’uns off. Cursing under their breaths, drivers knew that their journeys would be slow and time-consuming.  

At times, we faced some dangers. The only yellow raincoat I ever wore belonged to the school. I wore it when the weather was damp and raw. Patrol officers never thought much about cars sliding on slick streets and banging into one another or into one of them. On one occasion, the rain fell in buckets, and the ditch in front of the school failed to carry the runoff. Before long, the water backed up into the street, and my concern shifted from traffic to my survival from a raging river of ditch water.  

Are safety patrol officers from the schools still around? I seriously doubt that overly protective schools of today would allow children to stand at the intersection of a school and step out to stop cars or to allow students to cross the road. I feel sorry for kids of today because they have no idea how exhilarating it is to play that kind of real-life game. Besides, not as many buses are needed since nearly every child has a personal chauffeur to take them to school and pick them up.  

Maybe a section in the elementary school history book should be devoted to safety patrol members who served bravely during the 1940’s-60’s. On second thought, that might not be wise since such a chapter might offend some folks. The patrol members from back in the day will remain unnamed heroes to school zones across the country.  

DUMB STUNTS

 It’s a safe bet that all of us have done plenty of dumb things in our lives. Regardless of age, sex, or religion, we all have committed bone-headed things. Past experiences should help us, but for some reason, most of us are slow learners and continue to commit those goofy acts. They sometimes leave marks on our bodies so that we don’t ever forget the scene and circumstances of those moments. 

Summers when we were young were long. Mother was going to school to earn her degree. As we were a bit older, we boys were left on our own when Daddy worked the day shift. Just like most children, we found ways to get in trouble or to have plenty of mishaps. On one occasion, Jim and I had a knife to play stretch. The game involved throwing a knife to the ground. If it stuck, the opponent had to keep on foot still and move the other to the knife. The winner was the one who outstretched the other. We finished one game, and I reached to pull the knife from the ground. Jim made the same move, and he got to the handle before I did. The blade raked across my wrist and left a gash. On this day, Mother had completed her classes and had decided to take a nap before cooking supper. I was most afraid to tell her I had cut my wrist and needed to go to the doctor. She was less than happy with our games and the resulting injuries.  

On another summer day, the Cheek boys had come to the house, and we began playing ball. Steve Cheek was catching, and I think Jim was batting with a stick used to tie up beans in the garden. Jim tried to hit the ball but missed, and when he looked behind, he saw a bloody hole in the middle of Steve’s forehead. The game was postponed while he made his way to the doctor for stitches.  

Jim and I were still young and didn’t have bikes of our own. My older brother and Mike Cheek would sit us on the bar and ride us around the yard. I was on Mike’s bike and when he made a turn, my bare foot caught in the spokes of the front wheel. Torn toenails and scratches had me screaming as if I were dying.  

We boys tried smoking at an early age. Jim and I were 6-7 when Dal walked to the store and purchased a pack of Camels. We sneaked cigarettes from our parents’ packs, but one day, Daddy caught us. He flogged us with a belt and told us that we better never smoke again. Dal had a pack of Pall Mall red, and after Daddy went to work, he walked us to the neighbor’s barn and divided the pack up. He said we were going to smoke all in our position. Like most goofy kids, I obeyed my big brother and began puffing away. After the third one, I was dizzy and nauseated. I made it home, threw up a couple of times, and spent the rest of the day and night in bed. At breakfast the next morning, my mother sarcastically asked if I had recovered from my smoking sickness. Not much sympathy was spared for the results of a foolish act.  

Those above incidents cover only a couple of years. Later, more stitches would close wounds, Clorox baths would dry up terrible cases of poison ivy, and glue, nails, and screws would repair furniture and other items we broke during horse playing or fighting in the house. My poor mother said we broke everything she had. Even to this day, Jim and I perform some amazingly bone-headed stunts. I suppose it comes from some place deep inside our DNA. I just hope we survive our dumb stunts at this stage in life.  

TWO GET TOGETHERS

 With much sadness, I’ve begun reading obituaries of former students. The one that hit hard recently was for Toby Hyke. He was a student of mine and played on the football team of which I was an assistant coach. Toby had orange hair and a smile that brightened even the saddest folks’ lives. I didn’t see him again after graduation; the obituary indicated that he ran a successful business in south Knoxville and that all people loved him.  

Since Toby’s passing, I’ve thought of those students who passed through the door of my classroom at Doyle High School. I began my teaching career there and loved most of the hours that I spent with students and the school. Other people made my staying on the job impossible. However, after a venture into the real world, I realized that the classroom was where I was destined to be. To my good fortune, a job became available, and I restarted my teaching career on November 5, 1985. At Karns High School I found more students who have made my life full and happy. I ended my stint as a teacher at the end of a school year when a student stood up in the middle of the classroom and announced that he’d “whip my a$$. I left, not for fear but the chances that taking on a student would land me in jail or in a lawsuit.  

If I could figure out how to accomplish it, I’d announce to those former students and players at Doyle High that on a certain date I would be at some location. All would be invited to stop by for a while. Of course, all would need to wear a name tag with names and graduation years on them. We could sit and talk about old times, the good and bad ones. Some of the tales we’d share would be shaded by 50 years that have passed. I’d like to see what’s happened to those guys who sat in desks or lined up for football drills.  

On another date, I do the same thing with the graduates from Karns High. More folks might be at this gathering since I spent over twenty years at Karns. I have seen some students who still live in the community, and I’ve even taught some of their children. The stories we would share might be of interest to their children and/or grandchildren.  

Teachers seem to fade into the past. We share our knowledge of our subjects and sometimes offer up unsolicited advice. My wife says a gaggle of teachers are always louder and more argumentative than any other group. She swears that it’s because we are used to always being right. I used to argue with her but now understand. We had to be right in our classrooms. When the doors closed, we looked upon a world of our own. We made the rules and ultimately decided what subject material should be covered.  

If such an event occurred, I would warn those who might attend that I might not remember them. One reason is my mind isn’t as sharp as it was when I was 22 years old. The other is that none of them will look the same as they did at 18. Of course, neither do I. Former students also should remember that they only have one face and person to remember; I have thousands. 

Yep, I’d like to have such a get-together with both groups. This would not be a reunion; instead, we’d call it a time to remember. It would be much more fun to relive the past, or at least our versions of it. Most people do this kind of thing at the funeral home. If that’s my fate, so be it. Maybe I can hear the stories from former students from above or below. At any rate, I promise that I remember many of the good times and funny things that occurred. I’m thankful to have taken part in a part of your stories.

TWIN DELIGHT

 Church, like all things, can sometimes be a bit boring. That’s when folks can be seen nodding off or fidgeting in their seats. With that said, I must say the Beaver Ridge United Methodist Church is as lively as any place come Sunday morning. Twin girls always make me smile when they arrive at church.  

The girls come in with mom and dad in tow. Sometimes they run down the aisle to their front row pew. Today, the twins had paper and crayons or markers with them. I almost laughed out loud when their parents separated them, putting a parent between the tykes. My parents did the same thing with my twin brother and me when we were that age. When twins are allowed to sit together, trouble begins brewing. Tickle boxes get turned upside down, and squirming bottoms slide across the pew.  

Just as the service began, the mother rose with one twin in the front yanking her toward the hallway and the other one holding mom’s hand and hurrying to keep up. I shook my head and laughed. If my mother had left the sanctuary with us in such a manner, the congregation might well have heard the wails of two boys being switched for some form of misbehavior. 

Before long the twins zipped across the front of the sanctuary and to their pew. An exasperated mom walked behind the girls. They might have been back, but neither girl was ready to sit down. Instead, they ran around pews for a couple of circuits. Children’s Church dismissed soon, and the girls were first out the door.  

Adults wore a variety of expressions. Some, like me, smiled or even chuckled at the life, the spirit, and the joy of those two little girls spread through the sanctuary. Others looked surprised at what they witnessed; some sat red-faced with embarrassment as they empathized with the parents. Sadly, some individuals scowled at the running children. They disapproved of the girls’ actions and considered them inappropriate; more than likely, they thought that the parents should have more harshly dealt with such actions.  

I remember always being afraid of adults in church. I felt that the choir members were staring at me with laser-focused eyes. To keep them from putting evil eyes on us, Jim and I scooted low on the pew to use the back of the seat in front of us as a shield. Of course, our parents assumed that we were misbehaving and grabbed us and roughly set us up correctly.  

I sympathize for the parents of those twins. Like our parents, they sometimes looked furious and exhausted at our behavior. Jim and I didn’t always mean to cause trouble, but our movements, giggles, or loud whispers drew unwelcome attention. Those little girls bring joy to our church family. I look forward to seeing them each week. I would tell those who look unfavorably at the children that the younger people of the church are its future. We who are older have found an extended family there, and we must allow children to be themselves and to contribute to worship in their unique ways. The “big guy” above must have smiled and been pleased that two little ones were expressing delight in their experiences in His house. This world could be a better place if we all lightened up a little and enjoyed our communion with God and His creations, including an adorable set of twin girls.