July 4, 2002

On one of my walks last week in Mertzon, a hard-working welder stopped to talk. He was hunting for the high school student who had been helping him weld on a tough job under the direct summer sun. All I could tell him was that if he wanted to give the lad a scare, just say "ranch work."

I did give him a tip that the boys hired to paint and hoe weeds at the school might be lured away. Not that sitting under the dark shade of an oak tree puffing on cigarettes and talking would meet his job qualifications, unless he was going to open an art school and needed models to do still life portraits.

When the summer reading program was announced for the school library, a further drain hit the youth labor market. The cool stacks of books and magazines hold a lot more appeal than the wool house. I don't know where the idea comes from that kids are supposed to read in the summer. Looks like they'd get enough written work in the winter studying the TV schedule and reading the gas gauge on the family car.

One of my problems is spending too much time at my house across the street from the school. Taxpayers should never live in sight of their dependents. In April, I watched so many football practice sessions from my front porch that I learned the numbers of the plays. I found myself going around the yard, muttering: "Get em, Kill em, men, break their legs! But don't crush those helmets. They cost a lot of money."

The worst began, however, after I became conscious how early the security lights flashed on before dusk and how long they burned after dawn. Also, I became aware of the laps the superintendent made from his office, purring to a stop in the school's silver Buick under a carport attached to the brick house the district furnishes him. Began to flinch at the motor revving in the sprawling motor pool of vans, buses, pickups, a huge coach, and a spare automobile. It's a scene I think I once likened to the Shah of Iran's private parking lot.

I calmed down by admitting that all eight of my children graduated from this school able to pass the entrance exams to enter college. I myself spent a lot of years behind those quarried brown stone walls in rapture of "the three R's," spellbound by maps of the world on a spinning glove of blue oceans and orange continents, captivated by the teacher's pointer tapping the spelling words letter by letter on the blackboard, and invigorated by dusting erasers and dumping ashes from the black wood stove outdoors in the brisk winters of those childhood days.

But now I had to admit I was out of step, of another age; "behind the times" is the best definition. Promised the next time I was in San Angelo, I'd go by Wal-Mart and buy a big box of bubble gum to give to the librarian to reward the children. Swore I'd stop moving the water off the grass on the practice field at night to water the oak tree across the street in front of my house. Vowed I was going to be a good neighbor. Be a good citizen willing to pay my part to have winning football and basketball teams made of students smart enough to master the intricacies of the games and smash our enemies into smithereens on the gridiron and the court.

My good intentions lasted until the daily paper in San Angelo carried a story of a complaint that the school's spring examinations for the Texas Board of Education were graded unfairly. The superintendent denied the claim by saying, "The problem was caused by an inadvertent error in the scoring and testing procedures." He must have fared well, as no follow-up story was printed.

But it put me to thinking that if in the new century, wired to the finest technological equipment designed made "inadvertent errors in testing and scoring procedures" possible, just what kind of little song and dance was going on those three years in the red-penciled copies of Miss Greengoss' grade book charged against Monte Noelke in the fifth grade?

First, I have to check on the statute of limitations on inadvertent testing and scoring procedures for fifth grade. Next, before matching a fight, I want to sell my wool to pay on my tax bill. Then when the time seems right, I am going to walk over to the superintendent's office and say right casual, "I'd like a look at my transcript from the fifth grade." I think I can make a big change, but I'll let you know when I have the results...

July 4, 2002