Our school sat at the end of our little neighborhood, crouching upon a steep incline, great for sliding down faster than the speed of light. and on other occasions, you've already been privy to, pretending we couldn’t get up that tall hill so we might be legally late for school even though the teacher was yelling out the window telling us to go around the other way.

   

We didn’t go around the other way that night. Step by step, we inched toward the mysterious glowing. It seemed to be moving higher and yet at the same time falling toward us.  What could it mean?  The tension of the group had reached its height as we stared at the holographic image of the extraterrestrial, right where our teacher had stood to urge us up that icy hill.

 

And what was that dull clanging sound? Its cadence puzzled us, drawing us ever closer. Was there a message hidden for someone beyond our little skull-encased brains?  With our necks crooked upward in a cramped position, we took our last steps.  At first, we couldn’t tell if it were emanating from one of our classrooms inside the school, or weakly reflected in a window.
        
Some of us banged right into it. How could I have forgotten it was there? Didn’t I remember the weird feeling we always had walking up toward it and thinking it was falling on us?  Benny used to cry, it scared him so. How could I have forgotten our school flag pole? Hoisted up by its cord was a lighted red ising glass lantern.

 

Kids were always tying things to that cord.  Sometimes as a practical joke, they’d tie the runner of the sled so when the kid ran with the sled in their hands to get a good headstart, they would experience a sudden jerk and find themselves going to the ground headed downward without their sled. Some especially favored hooking the rope onto the runners of a traverse, a long sled on runners. They enjoyed laughing hilariously as several piled on and then flew off.

 

I don't know if we were hoping for more excitement for our little town as we shuffled back home. Some held midnight kitchen conversations with those who didn't risk the investigation or who weren't that interested in it.  Others went to bed hoping tomorrow would greet them with the promise of a more suspenseful day.

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As our years increased the patterns of fighting in the neighborhood had cultivated to become well established with all of us defending Benny, the slow kid, whom the bullies down the street relished beating.  The one close connection I had with my father was the few occasions he taught me how to box. This followed me right into 7th grade when Cindy and I got into a quarrel over Timmy. I slid her whole body right out of her desk onto the floor and we went at it on the dusty wooden classroom floor.

 

As in many stories of jealousy, we became great friends later, realizing he wasn’t worth it.  This was the first of many fights, the rest of them taking place with rulers inside or fists outside, against boys. After seeing the male teacher line most of the boys up against the chalkboard and proceed to go down the line giving each a hard whack with a narrow thick board, you’d think I would always want to be on my best behavior.

 

Only a few were spared, mostly my friends.  One of the boys and I who got in frequent ruler fights were caught by our sadistic teacher who told us to go into the cloakroom, an enclosed area where people hung their coats. He said, "I want to hear you slapping each other hard."

 

When we got in there it became clear that Wayne did not want to get into any harming, hurting behavior. He struck his own hand and we both made sounds like we were being hurt. That pain-loving teacher must have gloried in it. It makes me wonder if maybe he was not whaled or belted as a child. We grinned with glee for outsmarting the teacher, him, believing we'd learned our lesson.

 

Following that incident, I took my squabbling out beyond the classroom boundaries. I consider the situation. Was I wasting my recess time skirmishing with Wayne? There must have been something gratifying as I traded that for playing softball. Observing us, someone might think that Wayne and I were deadly enemies. We did have an unusual relationship, a bit of a like/despise, stance.

 

One of the things that brought us together was the dances at the Town Hall. I don't know how I learned or how it unfolded, but I became the most popular jitterbugger of any girls who attended. There was always a line of boys waiting to ask me to dance. I watched a lot of American Bandstand to learn how to jitterbug.

 

I had time to run up to the store to get my Pepsi. Sitting on my couch drinking my Pepsi I learned how to dance the Bristol Stomp, the Locomotive and the Twist.

Wayne was a great dancer. We enjoyed many of the Jitterbug rhythm dances or calmly walzed.

 

I am saddened as I recently received word Wayne has passed. I smile to think of all the things we did, our playful jousting as we went at each other fisticuff and our classroom ruler sword fights. He hopefully is in a good new adventure.

 

At English grammar time the teacher never called on me saying, “You can keep your hand down because I'm not going to call on you.  I know you know the answers. You know all the answers.”

 

In retrospect, I'm not sure if that was a backhanded compliment but at the time it felt good to have a teacher recognize and acknowledge in front of the class that I was intelligent.

 

This was going to be quite a contrast to the 8th grade teaching Principal who gave great evidence he despised and avoided English and loved of all subjects...you guessed it...math.