#what with grading homework and lesson planning and classroom upkeep | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

When “GIF” was named word of the year in 2012, Oxford Dictionaries U.S.A. credited Tumblr for pushing the word.

#what with grading homework and lesson planning and classroom upkeep

sudsybear · 7 years

Text

Tasting Freedom

School started and I still kept busy. This time with school spirit. I was into the whole “senior” thing, enjoying the perks of being a senior, like late arrival and early dismissal. For me that meant no more Saturday Studies! Once again I was a teen counselor; teamed with Erin and Tommy, we talked to our fifth grade classes about having fun without doing drugs. I was once again in Triple Trio with Julie, Liz & Shari - we harmonized well. I continued voice lessons, and still participated in Corral and AFS events.

David and Moj joined a program at the high school, “WHY” Wider Horizons for Youth. Both my brothers had participated years before. They called it the “WHY go to school?” program. Those who participated essentially did high school co-op programs, attending only the required classes at the high school just part of the day. The rest of their time was spent in business and industry learning hands on about how business runs and what jobs are available in different fields. David set himself up at the local public television station, learning about video and camera work. Moj got a programming job, one of his first paying jobs. With the money he earned he bought his first car, a green Triumph TR-7.

Victor arrived home from boot camp, two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than when he left. That slim wiry frame filled out into an impressive masculine “T.” His white blonde mane was cropped short, and he looked almost bald. To celebrate Victor’s return from boot camp, David and his buddies prepared an “Apparatus Salute.” One salute went errant and nailed Victor in the back of the head. Julie and I drove injured Victor down to Kroger’s to get some burn treatment first aid. We stood in the aisle of Kroger’s and sprayed the back of Victor’s head and neck with burn ointment until the sting was gone. Welcome home Victor!

My parents allowed the Senior homecoming float to be built in our driveway. I helped build it of course, as did David and Moj and scores of others. Weeks in the making, we first voted for the theme, then drew up and approved the design, and finally arranged for the acquisition of materials. To go along with Reagan’s Star Wars defense plan and the NASA space program, we dreamed up a rocket theme with one large rocket and ten smaller model rockets around the side. All the rockets were actual working models that were to be launched at the football field after the parade. At all hours, classmates banged two by fours together, rigged the model rockets, figured out a detonation system, stapled chicken wire, and stuffed pom-poms. We won the contest for best float that year. And David was awarded “Student of the Month” for his efforts on the project.

Our beloved Buick died that Fall. It broke down on I-75 between Galbraith Road and downtown. Erin and I were headed to buy supplies for the float. In the breakdown lane on the highway with the top down, singing camp songs while the traffic whizzed by us. I was exhilarated, enjoying the slight danger of the speed of the cars around us. Erin was terrified. David happened by in his Datsun and rescued us, taking us home. But the car was dead. Dad arranged to have it towed to the repair shop. The U-joint was gone and Dad wasn’t willing to put any more money into the car. The body rust was pretty bad, the radiator needed to be replaced, the engine needed to be re-built, gashes in the ragtop needed to be repaired. It just wasn’t worth the upkeep. Victor wanted to buy it, but Dad wouldn’t sell it to him. I loved that car…as did my brothers before me. We’d each love to have another one someday, as would Victor.

Soon after the Buick’s demise Dad took me with him on a Saturday afternoon to look at cars. He eyed a used AMC Pacer, one of those “fishbowl” cars of the late ‘70s. He asked the salesman about the car, its history. I panicked at the prospect – a Pacer? What a completely un-cool car! When we got home, I explained quietly to Mom (out of Dad’s earshot) what Dad was considering. She rallied to my cause, and we put Dad on a less embarrassing car chase. We ended up with a used Volvo station wagon for Mom. “Boxy but Safe” (from the movie, Crazy People with Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah). The wagon had a ton of miles on it, but was the car that fit our needs at the time, and was a far more tolerable alternative to the Pacers he’d been eyeing.

The Volvo was forest green with tan leather interior. I only drove it a few times. Instead I drove Dad’s old commuter vehicle, a 1979 standard transmission (4 speed) powder blue Pinto hatchback. It was easier to park, got better gas mileage, and you could carry anything in that hatchback - an all-around practical vehicle. It had powder blue interior with vinyl seats, and just like the Buick, when the weather got hot, you’d burn yourself sitting down, and stick to the seats when you tried to climb out. There was a crack in the oilcase, but that was easily managed – I just added a quart of oil with every fill-up. Sure, the engine smoked and you could smell burning oil. But overall, it was a sound vehicle.

Dad taught me to drive the standard transmission. Painful and not pretty, we managed without killing each other. The look on his face when I ground the gears was enough to make me want to avoid it. He had me drive up the steepest hill with a stoplight at the top. I sat through three light cycles and pissed off I don’t know how many drivers behind us before I managed to get the hang of it, and proceed through the intersection. I mastered it finally…and Ford clutches are nightmares! I discovered later how much variation there is in clutches…our Nissan clutch was spongy and soft, and the Mitsubishi hydraulic clutch had a weird sweet spot that took a couple turns around the block to get used to.

Erin inherited her Mom’s old Pinto and named it “Nellie.” (I’ve never named my cars – I just remember their stats.) It was on its last legs when she got it, but it was wheels. Her powder blue Nellie and my powder blue Pinto-mobile were often parked side-by-side in friends’ driveways, or in the school parking lot. She and I differed greatly on driving styles. She claims I ride the clutch…I maintain that you can leave your foot on the clutch so long as the gearshift is in neutral. I’ve never had to replace a clutch, so I can’t ride it too badly. Her Pinto had a black interior and a trunk. That intrigued me…what’s the point of a trunk on a Pinto? With a hatchback and a fold-down back seat your storage capabilities are infinite…but a Pinto with a trunk? What’s up with that? You can carry a couple of six-packs in the back, but not much else.

Moj had his new-to-him Triumph, British Racing Green, of course. It complemented Christopher’s Fiat Spider. But wait! Christopher’s dad invested in a bright red Datsun 300Zx. That was the vehicle to envy. They still had the Fiat for driving around town, but the new Datsun was a temptation. I was embarrassingly demoted from a big engine, lots-of-room-for-passengers convertible to the two-door squeeze-in-the-back-seat Pinto. I traded in coolness for fuel efficiency and practicality. Did I have a choice?

I filled out college applications – Ohio State, Northwestern, Tufts, Augustana College (where Kenny Anderson attended to school – quarterback of the then-winning Cincinnati Bengals), and the University of Rochester. Between the application forms, the entrance essays, and the paperwork to get transcripts sent, there was a lot to do. I had homework, and I still babysat for spending money. I stopped writing letters – I had too much else to do. Besides, Ross was out of my league and didn’t even answer my letters last year. If the experience was so horrible, why did he go back? What would be the point in writing? A typical teenager, I was fickle.

Out of the blue, this arrived:

Postmarked 24 Oct 1984. Canton, OH

Dear Susan,

Okay, I’ll write first this time.

How are ya kiddo? School sucks, but that’s to be expected. Do you have Mr. Parker this year? I hope so; I love seein people suffer.

No, but seriously. (as I can be, which is not very)

Utopia is a great band! Aren’t all these colors great?

How’s Klebby?

I heard you guys broke up, but if its none of my bus, that’s cool.

____________________________________________________________

Have a fun, productive, sexual, innocent, sweet wonderful year and write back soon.

Ross

No, I didn’t have Mr. Parker that year. In middle school I was offered the opportunity to join both the accelerated English and Math programs, but the school recommended that students not do both. I chose English, and shortly thereafter regretted my decision. So the summer after eighth grade, I took algebra in summer school in order to join my friends in the accelerated math program. It quickly became apparent that my summer school algebra was not enough to keep up in the accelerated math program, so instead I moved into the regular math series, but a year ahead of my classmates. As a junior, I had been in a classroom full of seniors.

I already suffered through Mr. Parker’s trig class the previous year. Yes, I had to sit in the front row because my grades sucked. He loved assigning seats based on grades. After every major test, he had us stand up, line up around the walls of the room, and re-assigned our seats based on our new averages. What kind of sick mind enjoys that? I passed Trigonometry with a respectable “C” and barely passed Functions – I scraped by with a “D” despite losing my temper and walking out of his classroom. But he and I came to an understanding at the end. The man enjoyed bullying his students. He hadn’t gambled on me badgering back.

Senior year I had Mrs. Grandstaff. A group of us, who, for whatever reason still needed a math course; we weren’t taking AP Calculus but had already taken Mr. Parker’s Trig class. The Math Department invented “Discrete Math” for the fifteen or so of us. Somebody re-named the class GRAPES – an acronym for something obscure and irrelevant - and it stuck. I guess we learned some math, statistics is what I remember, something about Standard Deviation. That and ten factorial: 10! = 10x9x8x7x6x5x4x3x2x1 whatever you do with that.

And yes, since Ross asked, David and I finally broke up. As friends having fun together, we chided each other when one of us goofed up, we were free to enjoy each others’ relationships with others, we rejoiced in the fun we shared together. But once we were dubbed boyfriend/girlfriend, expectations changed. We had to be jealous, we had to behave a certain way toward each other, we had to do certain things for or to each other because “that’s what boyfriends/girlfriends do.” We didn’t have the language to communicate our expectations; we couldn’t live up to what others expected of us; and we lacked maturity that allows us to ignore our peers and be content with our own way of doing things.

To this day we still keep in contact. Erratically. I’ll shoot off an e-mail, he might or might not answer. He’ll send me a postcard every once in a while. I try to see him when I get back to Cincinnati, but it doesn’t always work out. I lost him for eight years. We needed to grow separately I suppose. When I started this project, I asked David about our break-up. He remembered his own version until I dug out an old letter he kept. He had the right issue on which we had different anticipations, just not the accurate perspective. We had great times together, but our intimacy ran its course. But we were just seventeen, and at that age hearts heal as quickly as they are injured. Or do they?

I dream that he and I will reunite in the sunset of our lives. Each of our spouses long gone for whatever reasons, our children grown, we stay in the same retirement village, enjoying each others' company. Two old farts finally having some fun together.

Just a freshman, Beth’s younger sister Mandy invited David to the fall SubDeb formal. At the time I was probably privately devastated, but put on a public face of bravado. If I didn’t babysit that evening, I likely made arrangements to go out with other girlfriends, taking in a movie or some such.

Liz and I became better pals that fall. Neither of us had boyfriends at the moment and we reveled in “hubba-hubba hunting” – scoping out handsome hunks at public festivals. Like everyone else, Liz and I had known each other since elementary school. Like David and me, she has two older siblings – ten and twelve years older. She was yet another “last” child in our circle of friends. Liz has a phenomenal musical gift. With a BFA from Peabody Institute, today, she plays cello professionally. Back then her life was rehearsals, lessons, and performances. By senior year, she had struggled through and succeeded against several medical challenges – enduring wearing a back brace to correct scoliosis and working through hospitalization and therapy to manage anorexia. And at seventeen, a senior in high school, she was fit to party, and we had fun together. Because of her musical talent, she took lessons at the local music college, the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. She made several friends who were enrolled, and they jokingly invited her to events on campus. We were bold, a tantalizing twosome, heading down to UC and crashing the frat parties more than once. (No we didn’t drink – we were too scared). How we stayed out of real trouble is beyond me.

Since David and I went our separate ways, I was unattached, unfettered, and went out with whomever asked. I saw “The Graduate” with one guy. (Not a good “date” movie. I think I scared him sitting in the dark watching a young Dustin Hoffman be seduced by Mrs. Robinson.) I attended Corral functions by myself or with girlfriends.

Victor drove home from Ohio State for a weekend and took me to see Pink Flamingos by John Waters. It was showing at the theater downtown – re-released for a limited showing. Victor called me up and invited me to go see it. It was the midnight (okay, so eleven o’clock) showing, and I had to ask my parents for special permission. They said, “Sure, if you want to.” Obviously they knew nothing of John Waters or Divine, much less Pink Flamingos. Whew! What a movie, “cult classic,” I guess. Totally and completely gross and disgusting, it is the loose story of trailer-park trash competing for the unlikely crown of filthiest people alive. With explicit references to incest, rape, drug use and abuse, shoplifting, the movie is Rated NC-17 today, and even Roger Ebert writes, “It should be considered not as a film but as a fact, or perhaps as an object.” Victor and I walked out of that movie a little dazed.

I saw The Killing Fields five times that fall and winter. Liz, Erin, Shari, Valli, and Victor – all wanted to go to the movies, and after I saw the movie the first time, I was enthralled with the story. In the midst of Cambodia’s civil war, Dith Pran befriends Sydney Schanberg, an American reporter for the NYTimes. The movie is a testament to friendship, commitment and survival. I found it an inspiring story of the triumph of the human spirit. With serendipity, resourcefulness, and dedicated friends, a person’s will to live can survive anything. The movie fit with other survival stories I’ve encountered – Alive, the story of the soccer team that resorted to cannibalism to survive a plane crash in the Andes, any one of a number of Holocaust survivor stories, and later, Terry Anderson’s memoirs of his captivity in Lebanon. I didn’t mind seeing it the fifth time with Victor. He was annoyed with me, but I thought he should see it.

�z�P

0 notes