Anyone who has been reading my story probably came to the conclusion some time back that most of my interests in school had little to do with the subjects taught in the standard educational curriculum. Some might even question whether I bothered to show up to class, but let me assure you my attendance record throughout my years as a student was nothing short of excellent. Occasionally, I would even pay attention. When we studied the different states in fifth grade and started to learn about the branches of government my curiosity was sated. A few experiments and projects like making a salt map or simulating a lava flow, and anything dealing with reproduction, such as pistils and stamens, captured my imagination. But, for the most part most of the academic lineup created little desire or hunger for learning and had my parents allowed me to use the most precise word to describe my level of interest it would have had to have been boring. By the time I left Grantosa Drive there was no basic arithmetic problem that posed a challenge. Yet, for some reason the counselors at Muir and Morse placed several more gifted mathematicians and me in a remedial class. As noted before, there were some outstanding teachers at Samuel Morse Junior High, but as you might expect there were some exceptions. A kind and gentle soul with wavy silver hair my belief to this day is Mr. Gray never intended to intentionally harm anyone. My other assumption is he suffered from a condition which many teachers contract after years of giving their best only to be rewarded with dismal results. This condition may have not had a name during my years as a student, but as a teacher I knew it as burnout. To cope, everyday he would go over homework, introduce the next assignment, ask one of the students to mark down any misbehavior, and then leave the room for twenty minutes. While he was out we passed around spiral notebooks known as slam books. Inside was a page you signed up and took a number. This page was torn out if you were caught with your slam book. Then you used your number on each page to answer important questions like: What is your favorite song? Who is your favorite group? Who do you like? Are you going steady? Along with numerous other important statistics. When Mr. Gray returned smelling of smoke and so shaky you worried that breathing on him too hard may cause him to fall over, all the slam books disappeared and assignments were front and center on our desks. Naturally, we all passed but had to take yet another remedial math class with Mr. Brown. Now, don’t ask me why I absolutely abhorred being in this class, perhaps it was the complete repetition of the same work we completed the previous semester, or that Mr. Brown was so rotund his mass completely hid his chair from view, or that he never got off the chair to demonstrate, help, or instruct in any way. In order to relieve the tedium several of us took to playing cards at the rear of the classroom. Imagine my shock when after two weeks of our uninterrupted game Mr. Brown reached down and grabbed my cards from me. My immediate reaction was to reach up for the cards, and as I got up from my seat my hand smacked across his face. Whatever words were exchanged at that point in time escape my memory, but it seems like an infinitesimal amount of time passed before my father arrived and found me sitting in the guidance counselor’s office. When the counselor said, “It’s good to see you, Abe,” and Dad responded with, “Good to see you too, Art,” I knew my days on earth were numbered. I was reassigned to Mr. Grotbeck’s math class, and he helped me get ready for algebra. For some reason I don’t remember what punishment was involved but I always treaded softly when I went past the office or saw Mr. Dirksen in the hall.
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