When it’s cold I remember Mrs. Carol. She drove the daycare
shuttle and watched over us older children at Timberbend academy—academy being
a bluff. She was a wideset, squatty woman. She had hips that were twice the
width of her shoulders and on occasion you heard the ruffle of her adult diaper
over the clomp of her cross-trainers. It’s a dark joke that old age plays on us,
slowly reverting us to children in small ways. She was not a pleasant woman,
but she was kind if that makes sense. Through the teeth that she did have after
her smoking years, her voice came out as a grumble and then shifted gears into
a gruffer hum over the course of her response. She wore fun socks and
scrunchies in her ashen, shoulder-length hair while storing extras on her
forearms. She made it her business to hand them out to the youngsters
who lost theirs at recess and what not.
Carol had patience to her that her yelling betrayed, but in the commutes it was more tangible. Sometimes she would open up and tell me about
her family: what her husband was like, how her children were doing and the headache
of house insurance.
It wasn’t long before my curiosity got the best of me and I
started spending more time around her instead of other kids. She was a tactful
judicator and was impartial in her swings of the gavel. I always appreciated
that. As much as she liked me, I was never above her code.
Each morning my mother would dress my brothers and me
between languid blinks, like lifeless dolls to be placed into a display case of
a build-a-bear. We hardly woke when we brushed our teeth on stepping stools and only came out of our stupor once we were sat in front of two cute
little black babies who made donuts look delicious every morning. I think they’re half the reason I love donuts to
this day. They’re a delicacy and I’m pretty sure I only share that adoration
for the “frosty roundies” with sit-com police officers and Homer Simpson. They each ate one glazed donut, some donut
holes and a pig-in-a-blanket. The table we shared was old, much like everything
else at Timberbend. It was one of those laminate, plastic-lined tables
that smelled of ham and cheese sandwiches and bubbled when the Texas summers
rolled around. Mrs. Carol prepared their napkin bibs and placemats before they
ate. Scary as she seemed, no child around her ever cried for long. Something
about her bouncing knee was magical it seems.
These days I sort of miss that woman out of appreciation.
I’m glad I was respectful to her, moodiness aside.
I had an
interesting relationship with a certain kid. He was a true friend to me though
I took him for granted at times. On my first day at the new school, I was pressed
through a threshold by my mother only to be met by blank stares and an outstretched
hand- but not my teacher’s. It was this lanky young boy. He was shaped a bit
like a pear, taking after his mother in most ways. He was wearing untied shoes,
baggy jeans and an unzipped hoodie. “You’re going to be my best friend” he
said, matter of fact. I wasn’t sure what to do with this unwanted attention or
the teacher pacing toward me to direct me to my seat, so I said nothing and let
her introduce me to the class 5 minutes before recess started. I ran from that
offered friendship at first, because other kids told me to steer clear, but we
hung out all the same. We walked home together. As it turns out, he was a
pretty nice guy. We would go on to have many days in the sweltering heat
together, as well as internments at
Timberbend Academy because the government decided that the age of latch-key
kids was no more.
And Mrs. Carol… Again, her hammer saw no color or creed, only
the code. Even with all my buddy’s troubles from home, she still cracked down
on him and it seems like only yesterday that he was huddled under the back
table in the fetal position, squeezing into his center away from the world like
a black hole and hurling out rebuttals. He never could say the mean things AND
maintain eye contact with people. Because to look them in the eye would lead
one to believe that he really meant it, and that didn’t sit right with him. It
never did. He was not a coward, no matter how much his wandering glances and
fits would imply. He was merciful in a way that doesn’t translate from one
child to another. He could feel truly wronged, but never commit to making
another feel that way too. He had a golden heart that somebody tried to spoil
at every turn.
But they never did.
All the same… I hope Mrs. Carol is okay these days. And that
if she has passed on, that it happened peacefully. She was a good woman and a
wonderful teacher. Keep it real in the clouds Mrs. C, your work here is done.
As for my old buddy, I’ll have you know that he came out
quite alright. It’s a true tragedy that for the rest of his schooling he was
written off as “less than”, but the hardships did not change him. On the other
hand, they chiseled and refined who he is. We played Yu-Gi-Oh past the
acceptable age, rode bikes through construction sites and evaded bullies. We
even doled out some dork-justice. His mother is remarried and happier now. His
step-father has become much more affable. A girl braved his defenses to find his
golden heart and his great mind has earned him certifications for jobs that
will sustain him. I’m proud of him, for everything. He has come out the chute
a good-looking, mindful, and kind man.
Wherever you are out there, I hope you see the work your
hardships, your heart and even Mrs. Carol put into you. That was her way of
saying she loves you… Much like my way is by saying hi and praying for you from
afar when memories of the past rush back.
-Cya bud
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