Floyd hired me as a junior high teacher in Plainwell in 1969. He was my first principal, a fine man nearing the end of his career. His replacement was Burton, an up and coming leader. One was nearing the end, and the second was just starting his climb to the top. I got along with both by doing as I was told.
When Burton learned I was planning to seek my masters degree in education leadership, he encouraged me to attend Eastern Michigan University. My bachelors was from Western. He offered up, “Having a degree from two different universities will look better on your resume.” Then he said, “I’m finishing my specialist degree there so we can ride to class together.” I followed his advice. I applied to Eastern, was interviewed, accepted, and we rode to class together my first two semesters.
We talked shop during our drives. He offered up stories from his past. He was originally from Oklahoma, met and fell in love with a girl from Plainwell, (we had that in common), and was now working there with a staff from cities and towns throughout Michigan. He spiced up our conversations with Southern sayings like, “Nervous as a long tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
Two of his stories are locked in my brain. One day he was running off copies in a small workroom in Plainwell’s Cooper Elementary. It was late afternoon and he assumed everyone had gone for the day. During his run, he reached behind himself to retrieve another ream of paper. Instead of latching on to the solid ream, he grasped something else. Startled, he turned, and found he was still holding the boob of one of his matronly staff members. He offered up a moral, “Bob, always be aware of your surroundings, even if you think you’re all alone.”
The second dealt with a student. He had a second grader that was sent to him several times. No matter what he did to help change the young man’s demeaner, the boy’s teacher sent him to the office. One day, rather than report to the office, the boy ran and hid in a neighboring field. A staff member had seen him run, enter the field, and reported the fleeing seven-year-old to Burton.
Burton went after the lad. He couldn’t see him, but he did find a track where the tall grass was trampled. He assumed the boy entered near that spot. He tracked him slowly and deliberate. His eyes were focused out over the field, hoping to see some moving grass, and locate the boy. About two dozen careful steps into the field, the boy grabbed Burton’s leg and clamped down hard with his teeth. He bit him so hard he broke the skin through his pantleg. He finished his story with, “Bob, if they run, let em go.”
About three or four years after hearing those tales, I landed my job in Addison. Mark P. was a student in our “pre-first” classroom. This was a transitional program for students that had completed kindergarten but weren’t ready for first grade. The teacher, Mrs. T, was elderly. She looked more like a grandma than a mom, and Mark said he was “afraid” of her. He didn’t want to come to school, so his dad walked with him every day from the other side of town to insure his arrival. Mark protested and cried, but his dad was tough enough to just walk away.
About four days into the new school year, Mark’s dad dropped him off as usual. Mark’s classroom was directly across the hall from my office. Mark and the other kids hung around in the hallway as they did most mornings. When the final bell rang, Mark bolted. He ran out the front door, down the steps, across the street, and made a bee-line for home.
I didn’t see him run but Mrs. T reported him immediately. I started in hot pursuit about the time he crossed the street. He was six going on seven, and I was thirty hoping to catch him within a couple hundred yards. I didn’t.
In the first block Mark passed the Upper Elementary, then Dr. Rollin’s house. In the second block he passed the drug store and the grocery store. I was gaining on him by the time we reached Decker Insurance and Walt’s Barber Shop. It wasn’t really a fair race because he was wearing tennis shoes, and I had my not quite broken in two-tone dress shoes. My tie flapped in the wind like the wipers on my car, making my eyes water.
We crossed the mill creek bridge, ran by the Pirates Cove, a couple trinket shops, and then Red’s Gas Station. Mark blew through the light at the corner of Addison Road and U.S. 127 without looking both ways. I glanced left then right and almost had him. His house was the fourth one from the corner and as he turned for the back door, I reached out, grabbed for his shoulder, and he fell head first into one of the largest mud puddles I’d ever seen. His trajectory threw a rooster tail of water as he skidded through the puddle.
I stopped. He jumped up and ran into the house. He was dripping wet from stem to stern. I waved my hand to bid him farewell, turned around, and headed back. I turned left when I reached 127 and walked two blocks to the restaurant where I knew Mark’s dad was having breakfast. I caught Mr. P with a mouthful of food, explained what happened while he chewed, then turned and walked back to school.
The run to Mark’s house was all downhill. I took my time walking back and savored each step. I vowed as I walked that I’d never chase another kid. If they ran, I’d “let em go” as Burton advised. And from that day forward, all forty-three years, “I’m aware of my surroundings, even if I think I’m all alone”, because you never know when you might grab some woman’s boob by mistake.