Where a Pecker Begins
He taught me in Sunday School the year I was seven. I even got to the place where I liked it, listening to him spin his stories and watching his big belly shake when he laughed at his own jokes.Watching him stand on a rickety chair and spread his arms like a bird to part the waters of the Red Sea? If all my teachers poured that much passion into learning, I might stand in a different place today.
Being a boy, I particularly liked his cowboy skit, the one where he sang off-key about a bowl of butter beans before he shot someone with a cap gun and sent them screaming behind a styrofoam tombstone in the great beyond. I can still hear the levity in his voice, an apology to accompany the pretend explosion.
See that fella over there?
The tall one with the yella hair?
He’s not tall as he seems.
He’s just full of good ole butter beans.
What I most liked, though, was getting him cornered after class. He didn’t have to spout the Company Line or put on airs, and sometimes he’d walk with me through the echoing hallways of painted cinder block and concrete. I’d ask him questions about himself that he ignored in favor of the yarns he wanted to tell me. Stuff about how my not having a father didn’t matter, because his dad was a drunk ole peckerwood who cheated on his mother, and he turned out all right in spite of it. You don’t have to grow up and be your parents, Son. You just hafta be somebody you can live with. Answer for your actions, and don’t concern yourself with the fool things all them peckerwoods get into out there in life.
I couldn’t stay in that class forever, but I still talked to him every chance I got. At least, until my mother moved us across the country. I lost track of him. Lost track of me, actually. Disruption begets disruption sometimes.
Doesn’t it?
Peckerwood is a series of fiction set off by my overactive imagination. To read the first post in the series, click here. In the comments, tell us: do you remember anyone from your childhood who tried to make a difference in your life?
I think my life was impacted the most as a kid by my Coach in High school. He coached me in both baseball and basketball and he was a fiery and compassionate Italian named Chickerella. He was demanding and fair and always played the guys that deserved to play and had no favorites. He also taught various courses, not phys ed so I had him in class as well.
I became a teacher and coach myself because of his example.
I love this revelation, Lou. I have often wondered who inspired you, because you inspire so many.
Beautifully written. Haven’t we all had that one particular teacher/professor/instructor that touched us (not in an oogie physical way) and inspired us? I know mine was my third grade teacher, her name was Mrs. Kirkendoll.
Thanks for that memory Andra.
Lori, what did Mrs. Kirkendoll do that was so memorable for you, that set her apart from the others?
She singled me out for praise. She was absolutely beautiful (breathtaking actually) and she gave me an outstanding for spelling, brought me forward, singled me out in a positive way – the very first time anyone ever held me up in a positive way. She made me feel special. That was the beginning of me becoming a spelling nazi.
Mrs. Bristor. I had her in 5th grade (a 4th/5th split class) and then had her again in 6th. She let us put our desks in a semi-circle, modeling the UN, each grade a different country and we talked about world issues as much as kids that age can. What it did was make me look at the bigger picture. She took us on field trips to Chinatown and the Oriental Institute on the University of Chicago campus when everyone else was going to the zoo. We designed our own bulletin boards and made grammar magazines. They came in handy as Mrs. Bristor also had a printing press in the classroom. I was the editor of the 6th Grade Blast. There was a job for everyone on the Blast, from printing the paper to selling it. We made our own passports and got to travel abroad, at our own pace, learning about geography, industry, agriculture in far-away countries, taking a test, individually, in order to have our passport stamped. She had a kiln in the room and let us discuss the Berlin Wall. This was in the early ’60s. She was the best teacher I ever had.
Thanks. I needed that.
Oh my gosh, Penny. That sounds like a wonderful experience. I’d go back to 6th grade right now if I could do that stuff and learn that way. There’s no better way to understand another person or culture than by experiencing it. Thanks so much for sharing your story about Mrs. Bristor. I’m glad the post today gave you something you needed for your day.
Having a school teacher for a mother had advantages, the best one being she was my favorite teacher. Oh I had other teachers, memorably Mrs. Joyce Childers in 2nd grade who let me read anything I wanted, but it was my mother who instilled in me a love of learning. I wish she could read this but alas, she doesn’t “do” internet (my brother and I are trying to change that). I will just have to tell her!
I’m sure she will love to hear it, Jill, straight from your mouth.
Your mom as your choice is just lovely to me.
Oh my – I think I see where this is heading, but I absolutely love the supportive relationship you’ve created for a young man on his way to feeling disruption himself.
We’ll see. I’m not really even sure where this is heading yet. I was going to make him a gang member, but then Steve Mitchell blew that out of the water with his affirmation about gangs in Maricopa County Jail yesterday. So, I’ve had to redirect and be more creative, which is a GREAT exercise for me right now.
Amazing character. Most of us have a teacher in our past we remember vividly. This evokes that kind so well.
I’m sure you’re that kind to many, Kate.
Oh, I love this, Andra. It still amazes me how you conceive all these story ideas, Andra. Well done–AGAIN!
Hugs,
Kathy
To me, this one is sort of wobbly, Kathy. But, thank you. Blogging every day means some are better than others, but it’s all working the muscle.
Off to a firm start, Andra. The teacher is fantastic.
Still pondering where to go from here. But thanks.
Teachers are some of the greatest powers on our youth. My daughter, who is studying to be a preschool teacher, finally realized that. She had sworn all of her life that she would never be a teacher like so many in our family, but then the lightbulb came on and she flipped her opinions.
I was lucky enough to have some fantastic teachers in my youth. Teachers who fostered my innate curiosity, odd interests, and compulsive nature to find out as much as I could about off the wall subjects. Some of them got as wrapped up in my quests as I did! Good teachers get as much out of good students as the students get from them. I have been on both side of the equation.
Obviously, my father has been an instrumental force in my storytelling. He is much better at it than me, though he absolutely prefers performing them. As you saw……
I am just amazed that this new series sprouted up so quickly, and from such an unusual word. You must also write in your sleep!
These characters are so relatable…that is today. I’ve grown to expect you to throw a curve ball! D
Beautiful write, Andra. I have teachers from the past that I’d like to corner today to say THANKS!
Nancy, I’m friends with some of mine on FB, and I still call them Miss This and Mrs. That.