the kids

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.