SNEAK PREVIEW: TATTLE TALE TEACHER

      Fresh out of college, my wife, Leena and I headed for Church Rock, New Mexico, where I would team up with Mike Stanley, my old missionary companion, and teach sixth grade at an all Navajo elementary school.

Church Rock Elementary School, Church Rock, New Mexico

      While going about our daily routine at Church Rock Elementary, Mike and I interacted with a lot of fine people. The principal, office staff, custodians, cooks, aides, and other teachers. They were all great to work with. But, there was this one female teacher from New York City who took a dislike to us right away. It was hard to determine if her disdain was just for us or for men in general. She was short, rather stout, and you might say she had a low center of gravity. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Seinfeld cast: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!"

      She was a freckle-faced woman who sprouted a curly stand of bright red hair which she tossed from side to side with vigor when she spoke. You could hear her complaining loudly in her high pitched, nasal, New York accent whenever she was within earshot. In an attempt to avoid her and protect his own sanity, Principal Hinman had placed her in an outside portable classroom at the far end of the playground, as far from his office as possible.

Portable metal classroom.

      Even at that she had blazed a trail through  the sand to his office. Back and forth, back and forth she went, usually with some complaint about Mr. Stanley or Mr. Rogers. “They are too loud at recess.” “They play too close to my classroom.” “Their kickballs bounce off my metal roof.” And on, and on. “They went ahead of my class at lunch.” “They were late for bus duty.” “And why do they get the nice indoor classrooms?” You get the point. An endless stream of being victimized! Of course we were innocent of any intentional harassment.

      One day in a moment of extreme duress she threatened to have her husband beat us bloody, tie us in knots, "take us to the mat for some ground and pound.” You know, tweak our noses! We secretly wondered, “Had she married an Olympic wrestler? Or maybe a linebacker for the New York Giants? Should we be concerned?”

Dick Butkus, New York Giants linebacker

      Then came the night of our faculty Christmas party, and her mystery hubby showed up. At first it was hard to get a good fix on him. He kept darting amid the crowd of party goers like a frightened animal, avoiding eye contact at all costs. All in all, I suppose he could have been described as a shorter, mousier version of Woody Allen. And he was going to do WHAT???

The great Woody Allen

       Winter was now in full swing and our playground was covered in deep snow. The temperature was just right for rolling huge snowballs and making snowmen. Off and on, at recess, a fun snowball fight would break out. Usually the teachers were being attacked by playful students. That’s when the portable classroom door would bang open and out leaped a bushy, bobbing redhead.

 

Rooster fight.

      No, a carrot-topped, fighting, screeching bantam rooster with red-painted nails like claws raking the air. It was difficult to tell just what the creature was trying to say through all the cackling and screeching. But I believe the general idea was that throwing snowballs is against the school rules. “If Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers won’t obey the school rules, I’m going to the principal!”

     Well, that called for a Sixth Grade Huddle. We would definitely explain our sixth grade rules to our students. First, we would each make two good sized snowballs. That would total about 100 snowballs. Second, on our whistle the first fifty snowballs would be released into the side and onto the roof of her tin portable classroom. Third, the second volley of snowballs would be released in the general direction of the Screecher as she came flying out the door. The sound was incredible as the first fifty snowballs landed, sounding much like kettle drums and gongs in a raging battle of cannon fire. BAM, BAM-BAM-BAM, BAM, BAM, BOOM!!!! KABOOM!!! BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM, BAM, BOOM!!!! All fifty snowballs hit their mark.

Mad as h**l!!!

      Sure enough the door flew open. But even before she could erupt the Screecher was covered by an avalanche of well-placed snowballs. The second whistle blew and with military precision we marched off, retreating to the safety of our warm, roomy, soundproof classrooms, followed close behind by an outburst of obscene curses and hand gestures the likes of which are rarely heard or seen except in the darkest back alleys of New York City. Her concert of curses is probably still echoing back and forth through the red cliff canyons surrounding Church Rock Elementary School.

End of a trying day!

      At the end of the day, following our regular school wide announcements, a special announcement was made: “Mr. Stanley and Mr. Rogers. Report to the Principal’s office!”

     

YOU'LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT or DAISY RED RIDER CHRISTMAS

 

        The movie "A Christmas Story" has always had a special place in my heart. Every boy growing

The movie, "A Christmas Story"- it's a family classic.

up can hardly wait for his first BB gun. It’s a rite of passage. But, we all faced the same obstacle. Mothers. “You’ll shoot your eye out!” I had just turned ten, and my father had finally prevailed.

        Very early Christmas morning, before any of the rest of the family was awake, I left my bedroom in stealth mode. I crept quietly up the basement steps, through the kitchen and into the living room to examine what booty Santa had left. No wrapped presents at our house. There in the soft glow of the Christmas lights on my assigned chair, right next to the stuffed stocking, lay a long thin box. Yes! It could only be one thing. Printed on the side was a magnificent picture of a Daisy Red Rider Lever-action BB gun. It had finally happened. I could hardly contain my joy. I'd be the envy of every kid in the neighborhood.

Ralphie trying out his new Daisy Red Rider.

       Hefting the box I made a shocking discovery. It was empty. What the heck! Was this some kind of sick joke? I frantically searched the room, in the closets, behind the curtains and under the couch, but no BB gun. With lingering questions and fading hope I headed back to bed.

        By sunrise the house was alive with the sounds of happy kids and parents enjoying the surprises of Christmas morning. “How do you like the present Santa brought you?” questioned Dad. “Oh, you mean the empty box?” I groaned. “Oh, it’s real alright and it's magnificent,” he chuckled. Dad left the room and returned with the real thing, the Daisy Red Rider. Together we read the instructions and danger warnings. Then, after swearing blood oaths, “cross you heart and hope to die,” and any other promises my parents could swear me to, the Daisy Red Rider was finally really mine.

Official Daisy Red Rider Lever-action BB gun

        The wood stock felt comfortable in my arms as I cradled it, lined up a shot and gently pulled the trigger. Wow! This is a beauty, I thought. Shooting at targets and stationary tin cans was fun, however I soon lost interest. After all, I was born to be a Backwoods Hunter, killer of wild animals just like my hero, Davy Crockett.

 

        Roaming the nearby hills, tracking down lizards and squirrels proved disappointing. They wouldn't sit still long enough to get off a good shot. It was in Stewart Grow’s orchard that I finally found my wild pray. Birds. They could be spotted flitting through the branches of the fruit trees. If I stalked quietly I might get close enough to squeeze off a winning shot. Sure enough, after several near misses, my BB found its mark. A small bird tumbled from branch to branch, finally coming to rest at the base of a peach tree. Hurrying over to examine my trophy I couldn’t wait. There in the grass lay a small beautiful bird. My shot had hit it, but it was still alive. Wounded mortally, peeping weakly, it was suffering a slow death. What I saw broke my heart. With tears in my eyes, I took careful aim and put the struggling little bird out of its misery. The great Hunter of Wild Beasts had lost all interest in killing.

My 93-year-old dad, R Max Rogers, with his new Daisy Red Rider BB gun.
My mom, Florence, has given in and is trying to be supportive.

        Fifty years later the roles were reversed. Again over the protests of my mom, I bought my 93 year old dad a Daisy Red Rider BB gun for his birthday. He needed it to scare away the neighborhood cats that were using his vegetable grow box as a community outhouse. We brought out the old targets and tin cans, then shot off a few rounds for old times sake. Dad's gone now, but I still have the Daisy Red Rider and a load of great memories.

PUPPY LOVE

   

Lady and the Tramp.

      There were rumors going around about sixth grade. Namely about the teacher, Mrs. Arrowsmith. “She’s an old biddy with a smile like a laughing donkey. She’s a strict, merciless General who eats little trouble makers for breakfast and spits out their bones!” Yup, that’s what they were saying. It all sounded pretty scary, but I’d judge for myself.

      I was growing up. I had just turned eleven and had parked my first home run in Little League. Maybe school was about to change for the better. It did, and her name was Olivia Smith. Up to this point in my life girls were nothing but pests out to get you in trouble every chance they got. But Olivia's deep brown eyes and golden hair gave her the look of an angel, an angel that melted away

The "new" Francis in sixth grade.

my wicked ways and nudged me down the road toward Sainthood. As Beverly Burrup so wisely put it, "She tamed the tiger!"

    The question became, not what Mrs. Arrowsmith wanted me to do, but what would Olivia want. Better handwriting, you got it! Turn in my assignments on time, you bet! Baths, clean teeth, nails, deodorant, the works! I even used Vaseline petroleum jelly to keep my porcupine hairdo looking sexy.

Jar of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly

    Up to this point, Olivia knew nothing about my newfound infatuation. But that was about to change. Occasional touching during the "allemande left and dosado,” or “swing your partners" during Square Dancing was egging me on. I had to ask her to a Saturday evening movie. The movie date was set up, and my mother drove us to the musical, "Oklahoma," at the Paramount Theater in Provo.  I wore my Sunday suit and my Converse sneakers, the ones with the big star on the side. We shared

1950s Converse sneakers with the big star.

buttery popcorn and even held hands now and then. Movie over, there was Mom waiting to deliver her safely home. Hand in hand I slowly walked her to the door, and gazed longingly into her big brown eyes when a jolting blast from the car horn snapped me out of my mesmerized state.

     I enjoyed spending time teaching Olivia and her younger brothers how to play baseball. I knew we were making progress when one of them pounded the baseball through our kitchen window. They were definitely getting better! Another time I took Olivia and her friend, Martha, to play tennis at the BYU courts. That was a mistake! First, I spent an hour chasing wayward balls and, second, three was a crowd. The best part of playing tennis was downing an ice cold mug of root beer across the street at Heaps of Pizza.

1950s Heaps of Pizza sign.

    At the end of sixth grade our class was preparing to wow parents and administrators alike by performing "Sleeping Beauty." The boys were making swords and putting together soldier uniforms, while the girls were practicing being beautiful sleepers. The question on all of our minds was who would be Sleeping Beauty, who would be Prince Charming, and would he really awake her with a kiss? When the cast was announced, it was Olivia who won the part of most beautiful sleeper,

The lovely Olivia Smith

and Kent Peterson would be the one to awaken her with a kiss. I was hoping for the part, but I guess Kent was the most Princely. He had the curly hair and lips for the job!

The princely Kent Peterson

        And what about Mrs. Arrowsmith you ask? She was as tough as nails and a stickler for rules. She was just what I needed. I memorized some character building poems, some lines of which I can still remember. Underneath it all she had a soft heart and really cared about her students. 

        Summer finally arrived and it turned out to be the best ever. My neighborhood pals all enrolled at BY Junior High, a private school run by Brigham Young University, and Olivia ended up at Central Junior High on the other side of town. Well, that was that! On to new friends and more charming young ladies. 

 

NEIGHBORHOOD SPORTS and GAMES

       There were a couple of basketball hoops in our neighborhood. The Allens next door had one above their garage, and on the other side the Smiths had a small court out back with a regulation height standard. We would most often play HORSE or “Twenty-one.” I’m sure games on both courts contributed to our Wasatch Wildcats winning the 5^th Grade Championship.

        Our backyard was set up for a variety of games. Volleyball, badminton, croquet, ping pong, tether ball, a swing set with pullup bars, and it also served as an imaginary big time football field.

        When we played in Phil Swenson’s backyard, our dads (Max Rogers, Ab Swensen and Wilford Smith) would watch from the patio balcony and critique our football skills. Em Smith was the best at rushing, Phil Swensen was the best running back, and I was pretty darn good at catching passes over my shoulder.

Willow Tree Line Backer

    Ash Avenue in Provo was the football capital of the world for young boys dreaming of BYU Cougar stardom. No touch- or flag football for us. That was sissy stuff. It was tackle or nothing! Between birthdays and Christmas we had all collected a variety of pads, jerseys, and helmets. Once suited up we felt we were invincible. Nothing felt better than hitting and smacking each other at full tilt. The sound of helmets and pads cracking was music to our ears.

    My helmet was a beauty to look at, white with a block Y insignia on the sides and a blue stripe from front to back. Unfortunately it was a toy, not really made for protection. But to me it was the real thing.

    There were three back yards big enough for imaginary stadiums and ours was one of them. We practiced hard, knocking each other around, and even challenged other neighborhoods, sometimes charging admission. There was an obstacle, however, a large willow tree in the end zone at one end of our backyard. 

     During an intense knockdown, drag out game I was the running back. Fourth down and a few short yards for the winning touchdown. With head down, ball tucked securely, and legs pumping, nothing was going to stop me from scoring, except the immovable object, the willow tree linebacker. I was "in the zone" and didn't even see it. Another bump on the head, and a splitting headache. It was obvious my equipment needed to be upgraded!

Francis in upgraded football equipment

Other Neighborhood Games

       One of our favorite made up games was “Annie-I-Over.” Each team would start out with an equal number of players. They would flip a coin to see who went first. The winner could choose either the front yard or the back yard to start. We’d yell “Annie-I-Over”

and throw a tennis ball over the roof to the kids on the other side. If your team could catch the ball before it hit the ground you would attack by running around the house. Anyone you could hit with the ball before they made it safely to the other side was now on your team. In the end the team with the most players was the winner.

         “Kick the Can” was our favorite night game. We could have played all night, but our parents would eventually drag us home kicking and screaming.

Marbles

        At Wasatch School playing marbles was a big deal, an early introduction to gambling I suppose.

“Pots” was my favorite. It was like golf in a way. Taking turns each player would shoot his best marble into a series of holes in the ground. The last hole contained the “jackpot,” a collection of ten or twelve marbles anteed up by the players. Winner take all! The first to shoot his taw into the final hole took home the jackpot. “Snudgees,” in other words thrusting the marble forward with your hand, was a gross violation of the rules. Sometimes the game became so intense that we had to assign a referee to keep fights from breaking out!