This particular story probably began on the second day of the
first grade. I was away from home (against my will) and among strangers. None
of the 15 or more kids on my block were Catholics and I hadn’t found a friendly
face during the first day I attended school.
Hoping my parents
would come to their senses in time to spare me the torment of being in such a
nasty place I managed to be late for the school bell. I knew better than to run
across the playground in a vain attempt to reach my class line as it began
entering the building. Running on school grounds without permission got you
paddled, publicly.
By the time I entered
the school the halls were empty and I was lost. I couldn’t remember my room
number so I hurried from closed door to closed door jumping to see through the
small windows hoping and dreading I’d recognize the horror that was my teacher.
In a panic I decided
it was better to leave the school and go home. I could come back the next day,
on time, and get in line as I should have that morning. I made for the exit
which was just beyond the principal’s office. I couldn’t get the miserable door
to open and was in tears when I heard the nun’s words, “Where do you belong?”
To this day I still
scream in my head “NOT HERE! NOT HERE!”
She took a paddle to
me, something that only my parents had done before that day. I was terrified,
humiliated and betrayed. For some odd reason it has been in my head ever since
that a child’s education shouldn’t begin that way.
“The Kids”
“My dad says you’re an idiot.”
Chuck raised his head and found himself
looking down at a skinny red haired girl maybe 8 or 9 years of age. He gave the
child a smile, shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to the flowerbed
he was setting daffodil bulbs in.
“You’re dad could be right.” He said as he deftly placed and covered the
bulbs.
“Dad says real men don’t play in the dirt. And
they never play in flowerbeds.” She went on.
Now Chuck rocked back off his knees to
sit comfortably on the grass.
Reaching behind him he grabbed a box
full of tulip bulbs and pulled it around in front of him. Glancing inside the
box he spied a “Rembrandt” tulip and held it up so the girl could see it.
“Hundreds of years ago people paid more
for a tulip bulb similar to this than anyone in Emmitsburg ever paid for the
houses they live in.” Chuck grinned at the girl’s expression of amazement. “Men
grew bulbs like these, thousands of them. They built special houses to grow the
bulbs in. They made millions of dollars off such bulbs.”
Chuck let go with a deep, mellow laugh.
“But they were idiots. They grew too many bulbs, demanded too much money
for them and eventually most of the men buying and growing the bulbs lost
everything they had.”
The girl frowned. “If the bulbs cost so
much how could the men loose their money? Why didn’t they sell the bulbs?”
“Because they loved money. They grew so many
tulips the bulbs became worthless to the buyers.” He held the bulb to his nose
and sniffed it. “I love the bulb because it makes a pretty flower. Some people
pay me to plant gardens for them. I plant tulips because they are pretty, not
because they will make me rich.”
The girl looked into the box of bulbs.
She surveyed the dark soil of the flowerbed and the grass Chuck was sitting on.
She frowned. “Mom says I’ll get sick if I sit on the ground when it’s cold out.
Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?”
Chuck smiled and patted the ground next
to himself. “There are people who
believe the Earth is their mother. They think all life comes out of the Earth.
I’m one of those people. Your mom is probably right in warning you not to sit
on cold ground or sidewalks and door stoops. You probably would get a cold from
doing that.”
“So should you.” The girl said.
Chuck nodded. “Maybe. But I’m bigger
than you so it takes longer for the cold to hurt me. And I ask the Earth, my
Mother, to protect me from the cold.”
“You do not.” The girl said, her face
not sure if it should express anger, or delight at such a strange statement.
“Sure I do.” Chuck shot back. “She
doesn’t necessarily do it though.”
Reaching behind him again Chuck found a
box, an empty one, and smashing it flat with his large hands he placed it so
the girl could sit down and view the bulbs with more comfort.
“Sometimes the Mother feels we should
be careful of our own selves. The box will protect you from the cold for a few
minutes. Me, I have to get back to work.”
He leaned forward and was on his knees
again surveying the flowerbed. “Could you hand me the bulbs labeled “pheasant’s
eye”? They’re not tulips by the way, they’re among the daffodils.”
The girl watched as he worked,
selecting a spot, adding some dirt from a bag next to him. Mixing a little soil
with it. Asking her for a specific bulb and quickly placing it just so before
covering it with soil.
After a bit the girl asked, “Does the
earth really protect you?”
Chuck didn’t look at her, he just kept
planting, but he did answer. “Yes. It does. But not the way you probably think.
The Mother provides me, all of us, with what we need to be healthy. She
provides food, stuff to make warm houses with- everything a body needs
actually.”
Glancing at the girl’s face he saw her
lower lip was between her teeth as she thought about what he was saying.
Rocking back into a seated position he stared at her across the nearly empty
bulb boxes.
“What are these boxes made of?” He
asked as he touched one.
The girl shrugged. “Cardboard? They are
cardboard boxes.” She grinned.
“And what is cardboard made from?”
Chuck was grinning too.
“Umm, paper?”
“Okay. What is paper made from?”
The girl scowled. “I don’t like all
these questions.”
Chuck rocked backward with a guffaw.
“Neither did the Athenians!”
“Who were the A… Ath… enians?” The
child asked glad to turn the table on this “idiot”. She really didn’t like him
asking so many questions.
“The Athenians? They were some of the
greatest thinkers and builders of their time. A time so long ago that much of
what they made is lost now.”
“If they were so smart why didn’t they
like questions?”
Chuck smiled and leaned toward the
child. “Why don’t you like questions?”
The girl jumped to her feet. “I just
don’t like them.” She snapped.
Chuck smiling nodded his shaggy head.
“Yeah. I know what you mean. Questions make me think and thinking is hard work.
Hard work even for smart people like you.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you
making fun of me?”
“Nope. I don’t make fun of kids.” He
rocked back onto his knees and quickly finished planting the last of the bulbs.
With a sigh he stood up and began
gathering the empty boxes. He held one out to the girl. His dirty finger pointing to a dark splinter
of wood on the surface of the cardboard.
“Ever run a splinter in your finger?”
The girl looked carefully at the mark
on the cardboard. She frowned then nodded. “Cardboard is made of wood?”
“And wood comes from trees which grow
from?” He asked grinning.
She whirled away from him and walked
briskly out of the yard.
“By the way,” he called after her. “The
Athenians killed Socrates.”
She stopped at the edge of the lawn and
looked back at him. “They did?”
Chuck nodded.
“Who’s Socrates?” she wanted to know.
Chuck laughed. “Ask your dad. I’m just
the village idiot.”
The straight edged garden spade cut
quickly through the sod as Chuck leaned most of his 250 pounds onto the tool.
He levered the handle back, lifted the bit of soil and grass, dumping it onto a
tarp next to the flowerbed he was beginning. He noticed the red haired girl was
tramping across the lawn with two other kids following; another girl, maybe 9
years old and a boy, possibly the new girl’s younger brother, both curly haired
blondes. The boy didn’t look as if he were following the girls willingly.
“Dad says I’m not supposed to talk to
you.” The red head said as she stopped her approach with the tarp between Chuck
and herself.
Another shovelful of sod and earth
dropped onto the trap.
“And good afternoon to you.” Chuck
grinned as the shovel sliced back into the ground. “And if your dad doesn’t
want you talking to me why are you?”
The red head shrugged. “Because Mom
wants to know who Socrates is.” The child smiled. “Mom wants you to plant some
flowers in our yard too.”
Chuck straightened from his labor, eyed
the ground before him for a moment then shook his head. “I’m booked through the
fall with gardens to build or rebuild. And it’s too late to get more spring
bulbs.” Turning to face the girl he
added, “You’ll have to figure out why Socrates was killed and explain it to
your mom since your dad doesn’t know.”
“What if we help you with the
flowerbeds, would you be able to make one for Mom?” The two girls eyed the
growing mound of grass and dirt skeptically. The boy looked as if he were
resisting an urge to leap into it.
“And who are “we?” Chuck asked studying
the new children.
The red head frowned. “My best friend
Mel and her little brother Bill. Bill is stupid.” She added, “His mom and dad
say so. The teachers at school can’t teach him anything either.”
Chuck drove the shovel deep into the
ground, leaning over it to get a closer look at the boy and asked. “Are you
stupid?”
The child shrugged. “I can’t read.”
Chuck snorted. “That doesn’t make you
stupid.”
“Mom and Dad thinks it does.” Mel piped
in. “Bill’s always getting punished because he flunks tests in school.”
Chuck growled not unlike a large dog
then looked at the red haired girl. “Reds, take Mel to the library and ask Miss
Linda for the Harvard Classic “Plato”. Tell her I sent you to find out why
Socrates was killed. Don’t let her tell you. You read the story yourself.”
Looking at Bill, Chuck nodded to the
pile of sod. “Would you like to help me with this?”
Grinning, the boy nodded his head.
“Will your parents get mad if you come
home dirty?”
“We always come home dirty when we’re
out with Reds!” Mel giggled as she
gave Reds a sidelong glance.
The red haired girl frowned and poked
Mel. “Come on Blondie. Let’s go see
who killed Socrates.”
The man and boy studied each other
across the tarp. Bill, a little uneasy in the big man’s company, Chuck
thoughtful in his consideration of how he was going to deal with this child.
With a grunt he pointed across the yard to a wooden compost box measuring 4
feet on a side.
“Tell you what Bill, how about you take
the grass clumps- shake as much dirt out of them as you can. Then take them
over to that box and lay them grass side down.”
Bill nodded eagerly and set to shaking
the clumps vigorously. Chuck went back to digging the flowerbed. It didn’t take
much time at all before Chuck set the shovel aside and joined the boy in
shaking dirt loose from the sod. They worked quietly for a few minutes before
Chuck asked the boy if he could recite the alphabet. Bill allowed he could and
Chuck asked him to do so.
When the boy had finished the singsong
recitation that Chuck remembered so well from his own first years in school
Chuck told the kid he had done a fair job of it. The boy blushed.
“Do you know which letters in the
alphabet are vowels?” Chuck asked while gathering an armful of shaken sod. Bill
trailed after with an armful of his own as they walked to the compost bin.
“Vowels?” The boy frowned.
“A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y.” Chuck
dropping his sod waited while the boy dropped his and began setting pieces
carefully upside down in the box.
“Oh yeah, I heard of those, but I don’t
know what they are. What they’re for I mean…” He was blushing with frustration.
“They’re part of a game, a puzzle Bill.
They control how words are spelled and spoken. You speak English well enough,
the letters of the alphabet let you read and write the sounds you use to make
the words you say.”
Bill frowned up at the grinning man.
“That isn’t what they teach me in school.”
Chuck frowned. “What sounds does the
letter A make?”
Bill shook his head confused.
“Say the letter A, Bill.”
Bill did. “A”
“Good, that’s the first sound of A. I
was taught the sound is “long”. A has a short sound. Do you know what that
sound is?”
Bill shook his head.
“Say bat.”
Bill said the word then stared
questioningly at the man.
“What sounds did you make?” Chuck led the boy
back to the flowerbed.
“Bat.” The boy replied feeling he was
missing something.
Chuck squatted at the edge of the newly
dug earth smoothing it with his hands. He drew the word “bat” in big letters in
the dirt.
“This is BAT.” He sounded the letters
out slowly. “The A in BAT is the short sound.”
Bill and Chuck were surveying their
handiwork when the two girls burst into the yard. Reds was frowning, Blondie
excited.
“The Athenians didn’t kill Socrates!”
Blondie called as she ran toward the gardeners. “He killed himself!”
Reds was shaking her head. “I don’t
think so. I think the Athenians did kill him.”
“But he drank the poison when he could
have run away!” Blondie argued.
“But he couldn’t run away. Athens was his life. He said
he couldn’t live outside the city.”
Bill, grinning hugely, motioned the
girls to a long narrow garden bed and pointed to the letters scratched in the
soil. With slow deliberation, and considerable pride, he read what was written
there.
“Bat bit fox. Fox bit cat. Cat bit dog.
Dog bit Bill. Bill got shots so’s not to get ill.”
“So’s not a word.” Reds said.
“Is so.” Bill said. “It’s a con… trac…
tion?” He glanced at Chuck who nodded.
“What’s a contraction?” Blondie asked.
Bill grinned. “A contraction is a new
word from two or more different words leaving out some of the letters. An a…
pos…trophe is used in place of missing letters.”
“I didn’t know that.” His sister said.
“I want to go home now.” Bill said. “I
want to read a book.”
Reds thoughtfully stared after her
friends as they disappeared down the street. She finally shifted her gaze to
Chuck who patiently waited for her next comment about Socrates.
“He didn’t kill himself even if he did
drink that poison.”
Chuck nodded. A slight smile just
beginning to curl his mustached lips.
“He really thought living outside of Athens would be as bad as
being dead. Maybe worse.” Reds chewed her lower lip. “I can’t think leaving Emmitsburg
and never coming back would be like dying.”
When she didn’t say anything else for a
moment Chuck asked, “Do you suppose Athens was like Emmitsburg?”
Reds frowned. “I have to go back to the
library don’t I?”
“Or you could ask your dad.”
Chuck wasn’t doing much garden building
by the end of November. He worked the shovel, did the heavy lifting and
carrying, but the troop of children who gathered around him were happily
amending the soil, planning the flower layouts, setting the various bulbs, covering
them over, spreading mulch and accepting with delight the bulk of what the
garden owners were paying Chuck for his
services. In the process some of them were learning to read, to spell, to add
and subtract, to multiple and divide. They were arguing philosophy and all of
them had become regulars at the library, much to Miss Linda’s delight.
When the first snow fell Chuck began
pruning trees about the yards of Emmitsburg. Little Bill was his only helper by
then. The boy would gather the fallen branches and twigs, carry them to compost
bins or heap them in a pushcart to be hauled to another yard with a bin. As the
pruning jobs were finished Chuck came into town less often. When he did it was
to sell jars of honey he bought from his neighbors in the countryside and
brought into town in his pushcart to sell to a few households.
Sometimes he brought potatoes for sale.
Potatoes he grew himself. Potatoes unlike anything the townspeople were used to
seeing in the markets. If asked about
the spuds he would explain there were hundreds of varieties of potatoes. He
didn’t want to grow what the stores sold so he grew a few “oddballs” for his
enjoyment. As he’d grown more than he needed he had thought to let his “town”
friends try them and make a few bucks at the same time. His taters and the
local honey seldom made the return trip from town.
As winter grew colder he came even less
often to town, once every two weeks if the snow hadn’t fallen too heavily on
the ground. The pack of kids would swarm from all parts of town to follow him
as he pushed his cart along the broken sidewalks of Main Street, stopping at various
houses to pass jars of honey or sacks of spuds to eager housewives. Sometimes
the kids would take the jars or sacks and run down side streets, or scatter up
and down Main if the snow and ice
were too much for the cart’s progress. They’d deliver the produce and collect
the money which Chuck insisted they keep half of for their efforts.
If the library was open the lot of them
would cram into the little building filling it with chatter and excitement.
Miss Linda tolerated their noise and usually managed to get Chuck into a less
busy corner to catch him up on the current gossip. A blustery late March
Saturday morning found the library so packed with chattering children that Miss
Linda couldn’t find a moment to speak to Chuck except to quickly ask him to
stay after the library closed. Then she was back to her station checking out
books for children who until only weeks before had never set foot into her
domain.
After the last child was ushered out
the door Miss Linda locked it and with a contented sigh turned to face the
cause of so much activity at the library.
“We have to talk Chuck. Take a chair.”
She watched as the big fellow folded
his long legs under the library’s one reading table. He dwarfed the table
designed to seat six comfortably. His long arms and big hands rested on its
top. His bearded face showing just a hint of a smile.
“What have I done?” He asked.
“Well.” Linda puffed out a long breath
as she sat opposite the man. “You’ve turned this place into a mad house on
Saturdays. I’ve been getting complaints from various patrons about they’re not
being able to get through the door on the only day they can find time to visit
the library. Some of the more… irritated have called the main library in Frederick and complained. One
even called a county commissioner.”
Chuck shrugged. “You want me to stop
coming in on Saturdays?”
“Good heavens no!” Linda laughed. “Most
of the kids come here even on the Saturdays you don’t make it into town! And
the Library Board is delighted Emmitsburg has so many children using the
facility. No other library in the county
has anything close to this happening, not even the main branch. But we do need
to workout some other arrangement so the adults that visit here on Saturdays
can get through the door!”
Chuck nodded, then shrugged. “Can the
town find a bigger area for the library?”
Linda shook her head. “It isn’t up to
the town anymore, not since we turned the library over to the county. A bigger
building would likely mean a higher rent, the expense of moving and all. It
just isn’t in the budget.”
Linda slapped the tabletop. “Here’s
what I think we can do. I’ll stay an hour after closing so the kids can have
that time to meet here. I wont be paid for the over-time, but I don’t mind. If
you can give your time to these kids I should blush that I can’t spare an hour
of my own.”
“Thank you Miss Linda. I’m sure the
kids will appreciate your offer, but with spring here I’m wondering how much
longer they’ll be interested in books.” He waved an arm to encompass the whole
of Emmitsburg. “I won’t be tending the gardens here very often. Some of the
troop will tag along, some will go off and work the gardens they’ve begun.
Others will get involved in their summer routines. I doubt you’ll have as many
of them in here once the sun warms their faces.”
Miss Linda locked eyes with the big man
slowly shaking her head. “Young man. You have no idea what you’ve started with
these kids. It isn’t just irritable library patrons who call here. Its parents,
teachers, the Library Board members and not just one town commissioner, but the
whole town board, mayor included. Everyone wants to know what you have done to
these kids.”
She huffed in exasperation. “Some of
the teachers are actually complaining that their students are learning more
hanging around you than they are in school. And the parents! I’ve taken phone
calls from parents who complain, complain,
that they can’t get their kid’s noses out of books!”
Sitting back in her chair she relaxed
and continued. “Now, on the plus side, I’ve had parents call asking when they
could bring their children to meet you. It seems your troopers are going to
school talking about ‘the giant who pays kids to garden while teaching them math.’
Some of these parents are a little anxious to get their kids into your sphere
of influence.”
She eyed him sharply for a reaction.
When he merely shrugged she went on. “There is talk, just talk mind you, of
forming a committee to decide what should be done with you.”
Chuck stretched and covered a yawn with
a hand. He settled comfortably in the chair, which creaked under his weight. He
didn’t speak.
Miss Linda frowned. “The town is
getting antsy about you Chuck. People are breaking into camps, some think what
you are doing is great- kids reading, getting better grades in school, working
together on these flower beds you started all over town. But others are
concerned that we don’t know who you are. You’re not from here. No one has been to your home. No one knows where you
live for that matter!”
Chuck nodded. “Miss Linda, I wont be in
town much this summer so everyone can relax. The biker club that owns the land
I live on will be visiting this summer and I have to tend to their wants and
needs. The kids are working things out for themselves now and as long as the
library can provide space, time and books I think they will go their merry way
without much more from me. Tell those fearful people I’ll stay out of town- for
the summer. Maybe through the fall as well. Depends on how the harvest goes and
what the bikers want from me.”
With that he got to his feet and
offered his callused hand. The woman stood and grasped his hand with both of
hers.
“Don’t let the fools run you off.” She
urged.
Chuck smiled at her. “They can’t. I was
told to come here and make this place ready for my teacher.” He winked
and left the library.
Miss Linda saw him rarely after that.
Usually very early in the morning he would appear in her backyard with
vegetables from his garden and books he’d borrowed from the library. She would
tell him the local gossip, mention how the kids were handling his absence, take
his request for new books and hand over any she had ready for him.
As far as the town was concerned Chuck
had pretty much disappeared.
It took the return of the school year
to give Reds some hope of tracking Chuck
down. As the children settled into the school routine Chuck’s kids began
talking to children they hadn’t seen since school’s end about what they had
done over the summer. All of the town’s kids knew about Chuck and his troop of
30 kids so it was the rural children who listened to talk of making money
tending gardens, of “stupid” kids learning to read and solving math problems.
Of course some of the bus-riding children wanted to get better grades in school
and most wanted to make money too. They quickly became part of the troop and
several of these new kids claimed to know where Chuck lived. Or at least they
thought they knew where he lived.
Chuck was known to walk all about the
north end of Frederick County. He was a noticeable
figure on the back roads as well as the highways that cut through the
countryside. Most locals knew him well enough to stop and offer him rides, some
of which he took, some he politely refused if he want a “walk” more than to get
somewhere. Because he did turn up in so many places about the area it was hard
for most casual observers to pinpoint just where his base might be.
But the people living along Harney Road saw him more often
than most and the kids along that road, who were fascinated by anything out of
the ordinary, took note of when and where they saw him. It was well known that
he fished Middle Creek that ran out of Pennsylvania and passed under Harney Road bridge just below
Kump’s dam. Retired Army Colonel MacGruder lived just below the bridge, owned
Kump’s dam along with the park that bordered the east side of the creek. His century
old brick house had once been a flourmill and a dam backed up the creek below
the house. He allowed the quiet giant access to the water along his banks. Chuck
shared whatever fish or turtles he managed to catch with the Colonel so he was
welcome on the property.
Between the town and Middle Creek-
below Kump’s dam- was a south sloping field bordered by trees along both the
east and west sides. The field was unfenced and open along Harney Road to the north and
along Maryland Route 140 to the south. In between the land rolled and dipped so
there were places that could not be seen from either road even though it
appeared otherwise. Smoke was often noticed as a thin trail against the sky
near the trees bordering the east end of the field. Someone lived there. The
kids were sure it was Chuck. They had heard their parents comment that there
was no house there and a motorcycle gang from “out West” owned the property. It
was rumored that Chuck had been in Vietnam for 3 years and many
people thought he must be mad to live by selling honey and potatoes! It was
believed he slept on the ground without a roof over his head just as he had in Vietnam.
Reds managed to wrangle an over-night
visit with a girl who lived along Harney Road. The bus dropped them
Friday after school at the end of the row of houses that lined the first half
mile of Harney Road. Saturday morning
Reds and her new friend walked to the edge of the bikers’ field and Reds saw
the trace of smoke across the expanse. She was off across the field on her own,
her new friend reluctantly promising not to tell anyone what she was about.
The rolling meadow stretched out summer
tanned before her. The girl could just make out a small herd of deer moving
through the grasses along the edge of a distant swell. They were moving to the
west, seeking protection of scrubby woods. To the east of where she stood on a
rise of Harney Road at the northwest corner of the field she could just make
out a thin stain of smoke in the morning sky about half way along the edge of
the wood. There was a mown tractor path
at her feet. It bordered the edge of the field and disappeared over a rise
after a hundred or so yards. Reds drew a breath and stepped onto the path.
Having lived all of her ten years in
Emmitsburg, Reds was familiar with its borders of fields and woods. There were
farms butting up against the edges of town and the children spent as much time
crossing the meadows and crop fields as they did playing in them. Still, she was surprised at the number of
squirrels and rabbits that raced ahead and around her as she strode along the
path. All manner of birds sang or called from the field and woods. Several
times she startled pheasants into flight, one exploding from the ground at her
feet. She stood, heart pounding, as the brilliantly colored cock flew at the
rising sun, turning itself into a living kaleidoscope of whirring feather and
sunbeam.
She watched a pair of Red-tailed hawks
cruise the over the field, obviously not hunting the pheasants she scared into
flight. The pair lazily rode the thermals, apparently circling their kingdom
for the shear pleasure of it. Or so Reds thought as she watched them. She
nearly missed the narrow footpath that cut to her left directly across the
meadow toward the smoke stain.
For a moment she stood wondering where
the tractor path led if not to the smoke. Perhaps it ran all the way to the
highway. Or maybe to the drainage ditch she could now see in the middle of the
field running diagonally from slightly north of west to south of east. As much
as she’d have enjoyed exploring along the tractor path, she had seen the deer
not much farther down the way it ran, she decided finding Chuck was more
important. She turned toward the smoke. It was then she noticed she couldn’t
see the road from the footpath. No wonder people said they had watched Chuck
amble down the tractor path then lose sight of him, never catching another
glimpse until he turned up somewhere distant from this field. The ground had
dropped below sight of Harney Road. A quick glance to
her right confirmed that Maryland Route 140 was also hidden by rising ground. A
mystery solved. Reds grinned as she quickened her pace.
In ten minutes Reds had crossed the
field and had the eastern tree line before her. The smoke was coming out of the
trees, maybe from a thinly grown area not much into the woods. She slowed as
she studied the area, trying to make out a shack or tent, any sign of a shelter
a man could survive a winter in. There was nothing like that to be seen as she
moved closer.
What was obvious were the garden beds
along the edge of the woods. Rows of beds! Beds full of late summer flowers and
vegetables! And beehives just inside the wood’s edge, maybe a dozen of the
white boxes- bees just visible in the slanting sun as it warmed the air enough
to make the nectar gatherers begin one of the season’s last hunts for the few
flowers that thrived in the cooling temperatures.
With her eyes locked on the thin trail
of smoke rising out of the trees Reds nearly missed the tarpaper shack a good
fifty feet south of the smoke. She stopped to study the shack, wondering why
the smoke wasn’t rising from it if Chuck lived in it. Eyes back to the smoke
she frowned. She was close enough now to see the smoke apparently come right
out of the ground. She stepped forward quickly now, determined to solve this
minor mystery.
Squirrels dashed madly through the last
of the season’s fallen leaves leaping with claws scratching onto tree trunks,
frantically scrambling into the upper branches where they chattered at her as
she entered their woods. Tiny birds flitted tree to tree around her as she
slowed, her eyes confusing her brain with the odd image they sent. The ground
rose several feet before her, maybe four feet above the place where she stood.
It sloped away to her right and left over a distance of maybe forty feet. Out
of the top of the mound the smoke lazily trickled. Reds couldn’t quite grasp
what she was seeing. Nothing in her experience was like this place.
She walked closer, moving toward the
south side of the mound as the ground gently sloped that direction. As she
rounded the west edge of the mound she was startled into motionlessness by the
discovery of a window in the side of the mound. A window rising out of the
ground, roofed with sod and even sporting closed curtains. Curtains? Reds began
to laugh aloud. Her child’s peeling laughter filled the mound clearing. The
curtains were whipped open and Chuck’s startled face was looking out at her.
“You live in the ground!” Reds laughed
as Chuck walked from behind the rise of earth. His grin was one of delight at
having been found out by one of his kids.
“And good morning to you.” He bowed
slightly. “What brings you to this place?”
Reds made an exaggerated bow in return,
grinning widely. “We wanted to talk to you, and we were curious to see where
and how you live. I was chosen to find you.”
“And why were you chosen?”
Reds shrugged. “I spoke to you first.
But I’m also the only one who was willing to cross the field. We are all told
to stay away from here because the bikers will get us.”
Chuck nodded. “Good advice. They got me
once.”
Reds eyes grew wide at this. “You’ve
seen the bikers?”
“Oh yeah.” Chuck grinned at her
expression. “About ten of them when we first met in Nevada. Here, I’ve seen
maybe forty of them. They own this field and woods, or their club does. “
He shook his head as if clearing it of
something and gestured to the mound. “I was just sitting down to breakfast. You
came here to see where I lived? You might as well join me.”
Reds was amazed by the mound. Chuck led
her around it to the east facing side where he opened a wooden door that seemed
to rise straight out of the clearing floor. On either side of the door were
windows with curtains pulled back to allow what morning sun filtered through
the trees to enter the mound. As they stepped through the door the mound
revealed a large, mostly circular room,
with four roof support pillars rising from the concrete floor. The
pillars were set so they bisected the compass quarters which were established
by the windows and door. A small, flat-topped chunk stove with frying pan and teakettle
stood centered between the pillars, its smoke stack shooting straight up
through the ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves filled with canned
goods, books, bottles and jars. Some
shelves held clothes, others firearms- pistols, rifles and shotguns and the
various tools, powders and shot that accompanied them.
“Turn the bacon.” Chuck said as he
stepped to the right of the door way, took a folding table from against the
wall and began pulling its legs into position so he could set it in front of
the east window. As Reds carefully forked the fatty strips onto their uncooked
sides Chuck retrieved two metal folding chairs from the wall and set them at
the table. From a nearby shelve he
snatched a glass vase with a single pink rose blossom sticking from it. He set
the vase on the table and turned to see how Reds was making out at the stove.
Satisfied she hadn’t managed to hurt
herself he turned to another shelf to select a small, thin loaf of free formed
bread which he sliced in half then cut so as to turn each half into a crude
sandwich. Next he selected a couple of early apples and set them on the table.
Then paper drinking cups into which he poured an amber liquid, one cup filled
nearly to the brim, the other only a quarter of the way then topped off with
water from a jug. Two heavy mugs were taken from a shelf and a jar of honey set
next to them. A box of Red Rose tea had two bags taken from it, each placed in
a mug. Two small glass jars were set next to the honey. One held ground
cinnamon, the other whole nutmeg and a small file for powdering the nutmeg.
“Bacon’s done.” Reds called over her
shoulder.
Chuck picked up the bread and stepped
to the stove touching the fingers of one hand to the stovetop seeking a cool
area to set the bread on. He quickly opened the halves, forked the bacon from
the pan and neatly laid the slices across the bread. Then he took the pan and
carefully poured its hot grease over the bacon so it soaked into the slices of
bread.
Setting the pan back on the stove he
carefully added water from the teapot to the pan and watched it come to a boil.
He moved the pan to a cool part of the stovetop and gestured to Reds to take
the bacon sandwiches to the table. Carrying the hissing teapot he moved to the
table and poured water into the mugs. He set the pot on the window’s stone sill
and surveyed the table.
With a motion of his hand he told Reds
to take a chair. As the girl sat down Chuck looked out the window and softly
said “Thank you Mother for this day, the food and drink you provide.”
Reds frowned at him as he sat down and
began adding a dollop of honey to his steaming mug of tea. “That wasn’t a
Christian prayer.”
Chuck smiled as he grated a touch of
nutmeg into his mug. “I’m not exactly a Christian.”
Reds cocked an eyebrow which brought a
laugh from deep within Chuck.
“I was born, baptized and raised Roman
Catholic. I did all the Catholic stuff right up until Conformation. At that
point I refused. I couldn’t pledge myself to the Church and its god.” He
stopped to take a huge bite from his bacon sandwich. As he chewed the crusty
bread his eyes closed and a look of delight came over his face.
Reds, having aped his actions with her
mug of tea, took up her sandwich studying it for a place she could bite without
having to open her mouth too wide. Finding no such spot she shrugged and bit down
quickly. The bread’s flavor startled her into releasing it from her mouth. Use
to soft white bread with little flavor she was amazed at the nutty, slightly
sour taste that flooded her mouth. The crust was thick and the crumb soft and
creamy against her tongue. The bacon grease oily, yet full of flavor, the bacon
salty and delicious. She bit into the bread with more determination. She closed
her eyes savoring the flavors.
Chuck was studying her face intently
when she finally opened her eyes.
“What?” she asked staring as intently
back at him.
“Eat.” He waved his sandwich at her.
“Drink, then we’ll talk.”
Reds made a valiant effort to finish
her sandwich but simply couldn’t. Chuck took it from her and casually finished
it himself. Then his apple and most of hers. The tea and watered mead she was
able to enjoy. The mead really surprised her.
“What was that?” She wanted to know
after drinking the liquid in a long slow sip. “It was like honey that burned.”
Chuck explained that mead was fermented
honey, honey wine. As one could easily get drunk on the stuff he had watered
her drink considerably. She allowed that it was burning her belly anyhow. She
giggled and hiccupped. Chuck poured her a glass of water and insisted she drink
it all before they began their talk.
Pushing her chair away from the table
Reds stood, wobbled, considered her sudden dizziness and drew a deep breath. As
the oxygen flooded her brain she studied the effect of the alcohol and decided
she could deal with it if she kept focused. She stepped confidently away from
the table and began a circuit of the room studying the books that lined the
wall. Occasionally she would pull one carefully from its place and skim a few
pages.
Having completed the tour she sat at
the table, took the second mug of tea Chuck pushed toward her and took a sip.
“Are you leading us to something?” She
took a second sip.
Chuck nodded.
Reds raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“I was told to come here. To this very
spot and prepare a place for a… teacher.”
“Where you supposed to teach me?”
Chuck shrugged. “I’m supposed to
prepare this place. Whatever else I do is my business. I didn’t teach you
anything though, I just pointed you where you needed to go.”
“Isn’t that what teachers do?”
Chuck smiled. “Do the teachers in your
school teach that way?”
Reds shook her head. “Not many.”
Getting to his feet Chuck motioned for
the girl to follow him. They went outside to find the sun higher in the trees.
The wood was alive with scampering squirrels, chipmunks, and too many birds to
name. A pair of does looked up from eating acorns, saw nothing to concern them
and went back to their browsing.
“They eat my garden down to nothing
sometimes so I take one of them to eat if I’m low on food.” He sighed. “I don’t
much care for killing them so I’ll have to put up a fence they can’t get
through. I’ll plant a second garden for them. Maybe next spring when the gang
passes through here.”
Chuck walked around the side of the
mound Reds hadn’t seen. It was much like the rest of the pile; windows and
grass, some late blooming flowers. When they were before the garden beds Chuck
wave an arm to encompass the whole of the field.
“Reds, there is a classroom for you.
Life and death, birth and growth, the stars at night, the sun during the day.
Plants, animals, insects, rain, sleet and snow. Drought and flood. Whatever you
want to learn it can probably be found in this field, or on the shelves in the
pile.”
The girl looked out onto the field and
shrugged. “What do you see Chuck?”
The giant chuckled. “I see a field.”
Then he pointed to the south. “I see a restaurant along the highway. I see a
pond the ditch runs into. I see orchards, cattle, and flocks of chickens,
gardens full of vegetables and flowers. I see… “
Chuck laughed at his own enthusiasm. “I see people
learning to live.”
In explanation:
I’ve been on a philosophy lecture kick
ever since I discovered a couple of series of college lectures the library
maintains. Coupling those talks with Thomas Moore’s “Soul” books I begin to
catch just the barest glimpse of how teachers may have taught their students 2
or 3 thousand years ago. Teaching has been an interest of mine ever since I
realized so few “professionals” are able to do it nowadays. (I was 6 years old
when I first noticed the inadequacies of formal schooling. Much of my 12 years
in school was spent being babysat, not learning.) Not that all teachers aren’t
capable of teaching, mostly they are fair at it. But the good ones are rare.
They are able to reach beyond the cookie cutter system of public schooling and
actually teach. And please understand that teaching (in my mind) is guiding,
inspiring! Not bullying and molding- no matter how tactfully such is done.
When I was told my son wasn’t keeping
up with his class when they were learning to read I was shocked. After trying
various reading exercises (some produced signs of slight improvement) I finally
sat down and considered how I was taught to read. It took a bit of doing to get
back through 30 plus years of junk in my head but I eventually recalled (in
painful detail) my reading classes in Holy Spirit Elementary School in Columbus Ohio. Bang! I was that
frightened kid standing in line as Sister came down the row calling out letters
and other children (sometimes frightened, sometimes eager) made the sounds each
letter represents. Some kids got the sounds right- some, like me, were so
afraid of Sister’s wrath and punishment that they blew it.
Ha! I exclaimed to our household. And
off to the library I went in search of a book that taught reading by way of
phonics. There was one slim paperback on the shelves. A much-ignored booklet
surrounded by more up-to-date hardcovers that offered lots of pages, pictures
and procedures for making any child a reader. I brought the booklet home and
read maybe 4 or 5 pages which brought back even more memories of Holy Spirit
and reading classes.
“Jack, get the dog leads. We’re taking
the mutts for a walk. I’ll teach you to read while we’re at it.” I yelled
through the house. I didn’t expect much enthusiasm and I didn’t get it. Wanda
got going about how I couldn’t teach reading while walking dogs and Jack wanted
to know how I could teach him to read without books.
“Who’s doing the teaching?” I bellowed
above the whining humans and excitedly barking dogs. “Let’s go!”
And so I walked with my kidlet and a
pair of unmannered canines down to the square and along West Main. Asking the boy if he
knew the alphabet I got a disgusted look and a surly “Yeeesss”. He recited the
letters more or less correctly and we argued about whether or not he’d missed
the R or maybe the S.
Nothing I was doing was planned. I was
attempting to introduce the boy to phonics. I surely didn’t want to verbally or
physically beat the lessons into his head as Sister had attempted to do to me
and 20 or so others. But I knew he’d “get it” if I could just figure out how to
present it to him. So I started teaching him the sounds each letter makes as we
were pulled along Main Street by the dogs. Like
Bill in the story, he got excited when it dawned on him just what I was
teaching. He asked if we could go home so he could read one of his schoolbooks.
Within two weeks he’d caught up to his
class and his teachers had a new reason to call us in for a conference. They
couldn’t get him to put down whatever book he was reading and participate in
the class activities. He’d rush through his tests and grab a book. He’d rush
through the class assignments and grab a book. Eventually he almost entirely
stopped participating in class activities
and sat in a corner reading a book. By the end of the six grade we had
to take him out of the school system as they were unable to make him fit their
mold and we were well aware of his frustration with some of his less able
teachers.
From the first day of his kindergarten
classes we were told we, the parents, were the children’s primary educators.
For me, it took two years for that to sink in. Then four or five years for
Wanda to finally accept that our kid was not getting what we had hoped for from
the schools we’d placed him in. By the time Wanda finally agreed to let me home
school Jack, he was so bitter about education that I had trouble figuring out
how to teach him myself.
We eventually compromised with his
being able to read, write (using a keyboard if not a pen and paper), do basic
math and prove to me he can locate whatever information I ask for using the
library at home or the county’s public system. I don’t care where he gets the
info, just so long as he can produce it. And I require he think about what I
ask for. He isn’t allowed to simply accept a source, he has to give thought to
who is presenting the info, and their reasons for offering what they present.
Of course he is now encountering a
prejudice we had been warned to expect. Without the scrap of paper claiming he
satisfactorily completed a state school program, or gotten his GED, he is
finding it difficult to get a job. Amusingly he has a number of Internet
friends who have graduated from various colleges who can’t write a complete
sentence, or form a coherent thought.
