Ornery is as ornery does

Our mother is probably one of the most orneriest people I have ever known. To say she is stubborn is a complete understatement. On her first day of school the bell rang for the children to line up and go inside. She was stunned when the children all ran and obeyed. She tried to convince them that there were more of them than there were teachers and they should all just stay outside and play, what could they do? But everyone else got into line and finally, when she couldn't convince anyone to stay and play, she did, too. But she didn't like it.

While I was growing up I thought I was entirely different than my mother. I would have been HORRIFIED to try to convince the children to rebel against the bell! And yet, my mother reminds me, she got a phone call from a mother who said I was no longer to talk to her son. Now, you are probably snickering. Was I boy crazy? Was I pestering the young lad? We were in second grade. I wasn't allowed to talk to him any longer because he was a Jehovah's Witness and he was supposed to go to the library while the rest of the class had their halloween party.

I was shocked that he had to leave while the rest of us had our party, and he was so sad! I convinced the poor child that it was no different than any other moment in a classroom of laughing children, because it was what you believed in your heart. If he didn't BELIEVE it was a religious holiday, if he just thought of it as having fun with his friends, it wasn't really "celebrating" a pagan holiday. So, he stayed. And, he brought home his halloween candy. Obviously, he didn't use my argument very effectively with his mother! My mother informed me that while I didn't do something wrong, I really didn't do something right. I should not come between a child and the parents' beliefs.

I do wonder what would have happened if my mother hadn't been the type to try to organize playground rebellions.

A few years later I had a teacher that still used the paddle to not only discipline but supposedly as a learning "encouragement" tool. If you didn't memorize a poem by the day set for reciting you were "hacked". There was one boy in class that was "hacked" every single day for not memorizing something, or for not using some social grace, or for being last to get in line. I began getting ulcers in the fifth grade. This man made me physically ill. Every single "class party" day he would make this boy go to the neighboring class room and miss it for some imagined slight.

Our Christmas party my mother was the "homeroom" mom. She brought the treats and helped disperse and clean up. I was the room monitor in coordination with my mom. My mother brought a store bought sheet cake from Home Bakery, just the very best thing! The teacher asked me to bring a piece of cake to each of the other fifth grade teachers with some punch. I delivered the cake slices with punch, one at a time and as I came into the classroom with the boy who had been banished from our class he looked up and said, "OH! Is that for me?" so hopefully, that to this day my heartaches. I replied, "No, but I'll be right back with yours" and brought the teacher up her piece.

I then went back into the classroom and up to my mother and told her what had happened. She cut the biggest piece and handed it to me on a plate. I picked up the cup of juice and started across the room and out the door when my teacher called to me. "Where are you going? Didn't you already take cake to all the fifth grade teachers?"

"I am bringing this to Jeff," I replied. "Oh, I don't know about that!" he said. I was trembling as he stomped towards me. And suddenly my mother was standing there. "But I do," she said quietly, "I told her it was the right thing to do, don't you agree?" The teacher stood there looking at my mother and she at him. "Of course I agree, I was just going to do it myself," he said and reached for the plate. My mom gave me a shove, "No, let her," and out I hustled.

The look on Jeff's face was pure joy! The next day winter break began. I hope life wasn't harder when we got back from break. I hope the teacher didn't bear grudges. I really don't remember. I know it didn't get better. I know my mom was startled years later when I told her how much a truly, truly, truly hated fifth grade. Although I do know Abou Ben Adam may his tribe increase ..., and Four Score and seven years ago our father brought forth on this continent a new nation ... it took me years later to enjoy and understand them.

It is odd, though, how that fifth grade class prepared me for things in my later life. I really hate confrontations, and I don't go out looking for them, but neither do I allow them to side step me from doing what is right. And, if I can't convince anyone to join me, I can always decide to get in line or leave the playground.