Recently, my wife, the Fabulous Miss Kitty, was
talking about coating some ornaments in Mod Podge, anticipating hanging the
items in the trees. If you’ve never been
in my backyard, I should explain that in addition to a lovely garden and a bitchin’
deck, the trees are filled with small shiny things of all types. She has, over time, become a total Ann Arbor
hippie chick, something I love to tease her about, though she accepts that
description with pride. I hadn’t heard
the term ‘Mod Podge’ (a sealer for porous art projects) in many years. It put me in the mind of another hippie chick
from another time…
When I was in the fourth grade, I was blessed with a
young, enthusiastic teacher named Miss Skeba.
She had auburn curls that didn’t quite reach her shoulders and a spray of
freckles across her nose, making her look even more youthful when she turned
her lively, patient eyes your way. If
you had a cool teenage sister in 1973, she would’ve been dressed like my
teacher.
She wasn’t just someone I remember because she wasn’t
an ancient crone, which would accurately describe my teachers up to that point
(I believe my first grade assignments were scratched into a cave wall). She saved me from a playground bully once. Noticing that I had an interest in writing,
she let me write the two-paragraph blurb our class submitted to the school
newsletter. When I wrote my first song,
she let me make copies and teach the class the tune. I still remember the exhilaration I felt when
we had the sing-along (though that may have been the dizzying ‘ditto’ fluid
going to my head). Do not look for my musical
tribute to Snoopy on my ‘Greatest Hits’ album.
Then came the day that she announced we were having a
guest in our class. She seemed really
excited about it. And then I found out
why.
In the afternoon, she introduced us to a fellow named
Mike, announcing “We’re going to get married!”
I remember him as kind of a beefy fellow who sat quietly on the back
counter of the classroom, watching her do her job with a goofy grin on his face…you
know, the kind of grin you have when you’re totally smitten. I don’t know what Miss Skeba talked about that
afternoon. I couldn’t do anything but
stare at this interloper, this punk, Mike.
Eventually he left, to my great relief. Several of the girls in the classroom immediately
rushed over to Miss Skeba to gush about how handsome he was and how excited
they were for her to get married. Then,
my mouth opened, independent of my brain, blurting out, “Well, I don’t like
him.”
I had no idea those words were coming out. Just like I had no idea that, as a half-grown
man of nine, I had designs on my teacher.
I didn’t want her to marry that man.
I wanted her to be Mrs. Miss Skeba Holland.
She turned to me and asked, “Why, Marc?” It was years later when I puzzled out what
her face was saying at that moment. She
was mostly amused and a little bit flattered.
I had no answer, grumbling and offering no coherent response to her
question.
It’s been forty-four years now. I think I’m over it. I’m very grateful that time added some Mod
Podge to those childhood memories, keeping them from degrading over time. I have no reason to complain…I was lucky enough
to marry my very own curly-headed hippie chick, right? After all of these years, I hope Miss Skeba
has had a nice marriage and a fulfilling life.
And in case you were wondering, I also extend those
well wishes to that worthless bastard Mike.
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