It’s been a pretty good stretch of time since I’ve had much to do with anything on the grade school level. It was a joyous day in the Marchant household when the last of our kids finished his last day at Oakley Elementary School. Truthfully, it was probably a joyous day in the classrooms of several members of the OES faculty as well.
My joy and the joy of those long-suffering educators, however, sprang from different sources. Though the teachers no doubt appreciated my youngest son and his talents, just as they appreciated every student, I’m sure they were happy to see his demon side move up the road to the junior/senior high school. I, on the other hand, was most happy to see the annual grade school carnival, with all its parental obligations, solidly in my rearview mirror.
I treasure a wholesome community event as much as the next beleaguered parent, but for some reason, the racket and the headaches and the duties and responsibilities that accompanied the shrill and obnoxious shrieks of every 6- to 12-year-old kid in the valley frazzled my nerves, and I haven’t missed it one bit in the last dozen or so years.
All this blissful reminiscing takes me back a few decades to my own school days. I don’t know how they do it now but, back in the day, if your birthday fell on a school day, it was kind of expected you’d bring treats to school – enough for everyone in the class. Some kids would bring cupcakes, while others would bring a box or two of candy bars. It didn’t really matter, the treats and the extra 10 minutes away from actual schoolwork was always a welcome respite.
Joey was, for the most part, a pretty good kid. As a matter of fact, he turned into a darned good and productive citizen in his adult life. He probably does as much as anyone I know to further the goodwill message of agriculture in the West. But when he was a kid, he was that kid. If there was some mischief to be had, Joey was probably in the middle of it. At the very least, he was behind it.
On Joey’s ninth birthday, he could hardly contain himself until the end of the school day when he could pass out treats to his classmates. I still don’t know how he dared do it considering every-teacher-ever’s utter disdain of the stuff, but his treat of choice, to be passed out to every kid in the class, was a pack of Bubblicious bubble gum.
Remember that stuff? Big, pink and nasty sweet, it was the best and the worst all at once, wrapped up in one big square sugary glob. Some of the super-cool kids could shove two pieces in their mouths at once, attacking the formidable pink beast at first with slow, laborious chewing motions that tested the very limits of their jaw muscles. Eventually, the huge, malleable mass would surrender to the tenacity of the adolescent’s super willpower, manifested through lion-strong jaws and sugar-coated teeth, at which time it became a bubble-making wonder.
I think Joey was well aware of the wonders of Bubblicious, hence he chose to gift a whole pack to every kid in his class. Against her better judgment, Mrs. Smith (we’ll protect her identity) allowed her charges to open their prizes a couple of minutes prior to the dismissal bell. Joey wasn’t content with just blowing behemoth bubbles. No. He discovered that if he wrapped the sticky mass around his finger, it would stretch for miles. That led to the discovery of the bubble gum riata, which he could swing around his head with skill reminiscent of the handiest vaquero, armed with his own rawhide cow catcher.
It only took a couple swings for him to also discover that a Bubblicious riata will pick up the hair on a 9-year-old hellion’s head quicker than a Junior Nogueira heel loop can scoop up a pair of heels in the Las Vegas arena sand.
With a wad of gum firmly entrenched in his messy locks, Joey had little choice but to finally beg his teacher for help. While he readily offered the information to her that someone was throwing gum, he was unable to identify the gum chucker. Since it was the end of the school day, Mrs. Smith dismissed the class, but not before informing them that they were going to give up the identity of the gum thrower before any more recess time was to be had.
After a crude haircut from his mom, Joey didn’t get much sleep that night, his mind full of worry and trepidation as to how he was going to deal with the unfolding drama that would surely blossom like a wicked scotch thistle plant the next day at school.
Sure enough and true to her word, Mrs. Smith forbade all of her students to leave the classroom for the first recess of the day until they identified poor Joey’s assailant. Of course, nobody said a word because nobody knew the culprit. Finally, the stalwart and wise teacher relented and allowed Joey and Tiffany to go to recess – Joey because of his victim status and Tiffany because she’d been absent on the day of the crime.
Joey, with his stomach in knots, traipsed on out to the monkey bars. He was able to hold out through recess and into the next class period, but finally his better angels got the better of him and he confessed his misdeeds to his teacher. I don’t recall her final sentence, but I’ve no doubt it was more relief than punishment to Joey’s tortured soul.
Joey still continued to raise a little Cain throughout the remainder of his school years, but I’m certain that his bubble gum rodeo, with its ensuing prize money, was a pivot point in his life. Even so, I know he still likes a good chaw of bubble gum every now and then.
