Snapshots - Three Students.

A snapshot is my remembering a moment in time - something that made an impression.

Things were different from where I was brought up. Not Better, Not Worse, Just Different.

(1) My ex was also a high school English teacher in rural New Hampshire. She tried her hand at dog breeding. One night the Shar-Pei had puppies, and as one who always did the right thing, she stayed up all night making sure the delivery went well. The next day she made it to class (it's often more trouble to just go in to work than stay home).

She announced to the class that she had been up all night delivering and taking care of the new puppies and that if she seemed a bit out of it, that was why. A student raised his hand and said, "Do you want us to drown them for you?"

(2) One girl had been acting up in several classes, so a meeting was called to compare notes and discuss what could be done - to see what strategies might help her. One of the first suggestions was
to call her parents. Someone responded immediately: "Not a good idea; her father will beat the shit out of her!"

(3) Finally, a rare compliment. During one class, two girls in the back of the room were having their own animated conversation. Before I could say anything, one girl loudly said to the other, "Shut up!" I responded, "Don't say that! My daughter is four-years-old and knows not to say that!" The girl said, Yeah, well look who she has for a father!" That felt good.

From the Memoir - Part Two and a Snapshot

1             1973, and I got a job! It was in a place called Plymouth, New Hampshire. I was going to be a high school English teacher! Someone told me one of the reasons I was hired is that I brought a different background to the classroom. I didn’t go to local schools; I hadn’t been graduated from the local college; I had traveled the world; I had a wide range of experiences that I could draw on to help expand students' horizons.

     On one of my first teachers’ in-service days, class schedules were handed out. A couple of the old-timers (long-time veterans of the classroom) were standing in the office and asked if they could see my class lists - which students I had. As they looked down the lists of students, they frequently offered advice such as, “This kid is trouble,” or “You’ll love him/her; what a nice family,” and the like. Of course, I would decide for myself as I got to know the students, but I thanked them. As it turns out, several of the proclaimed ‘trouble-makers’ are still my friends today.

***

     During my early years, I arranged to bring a Scholastic Book Fair to the school. Throughout the day, different classes would be taken to the book fair, browse the books, and buy whatever looked interesting.

     The day after the book fair, a student sauntered into my classroom and tossed a Garfield cartoon book on my desk. He said, "I thought you might like this." I thanked him and said I had already read it. He said, "No, you don't understand. I stole the book from the book fair, but when I heard you were behind it, I thought I should return it."

     That moment stunned me and has stayed with me to this day! That moment told me I was doing something right (and that some of the troublemakers maybe weren't). 

From the Memoir - Part 1 An Overview & Snapshot

     My story begins in 1947 when I was born - that's a long time ago! As of this writing, the year is now 2019, and I am still around, closing in on the end of my 73rd year. Every story has a beginning and an end, and as I tell anyone who will listen, I may have 30 seconds or 30 years left (we all do), so the only thing of which I am certain is the start and what has happened up until this point. We don’t know about the ending; no one really does. It’s that part that comes in between that is the story.
     I was born in a time and place far, far away from where I am now - worlds away, one might say (even though the places are not much more than two hours' apart). 
     When I ended up in rural New Hampshire, it was to get a job. The plan was stay long enough to get enough experience to return to The Flatlands where I had been born and brought up because  that was the life I knew. In New Hampshire, I discovered a whole new existence - in some ways like a Mayberry or Willoughby. As I like to say, something went terribly right, and I am still here close to fifty years later.
     The NH lifestyle is not totally bucolic, though. One of my first wake-up calls regarding how different the two places are came in 1973 during my first year of teaching. I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at that point. I was standing in line at a local bank, when I overheard the name of the man in front of me. When he finished his business and turned to leave, I cheerfully said, "Mr. White (not his real name). Hi. Are you Bob's father?" (Not his real name either.) When he grunted yes, I went on, "I'm your son's English teacher at the high school." 
     Getting a better look at his front side when he turned and faced me, he looked pretty rough and swayed a bit. He looked me in the eye and with alcohol-charged breath, he slurred, "Well, ain't you the lucky one!" I stood speechless for a moment and watched as he staggered out the door. 
     Maybe I had been sheltered, but where I came from outside of Boston, family was an important part of life. I was stunned!

***

     I have learned I was one of the lucky ones. In my upbringing, family and education were two crucial areas. When I was in high school, the question was not whether we would go to college but what college we would be going to. In NH, I had a lot to learn up here.

***

     

Start Here...

So.... here I am again. I am hoping this time will be different. Forget everything that came before!

Since 1976, more on than off, I have written a column called "Berman's Bits," which has appeared in numerous NH papers. The latest version had been in a local NH publication for the last several years, but the paper seems to have disappeared - poof - gone.... The website states "Permanently closed." That doesn't bode well.

A few weeks ago, I sent the owner an email asking what's happening, but I didn't receive a reply, so I decided to put my efforts here!   

My goal here is more Blog than Berman's Bits (there is an occasionally updated Facebook page for that and a www.bermansbits.com). Here, however, I have two major directions: (1) a partial memoir and (2) something I call 'snapshots' - moments that have stood out (good or bad), stand alone, and withstood the test of time.  

Snapshot 1. 

Last week, I was at an area restaurant and ran into a former student. We nodded hello, and that was that, but a memory worked its way into my consciousness - not a good memory. I will call him Brian. He was (and still is) a large person. When he was put in my class, I was told that if he ever got in trouble, I should not send him to the principal's office but instead to the Special Ed. director, whom I will call Mrs. Holt.

One day, he was fooling around in class, and after a couple of warnings, I said, "Okay, Brian. That's enough. Get your stuff and go to Mrs. Holt's office." If he had, that would have been that, and I probably wouldn't have the memory of what happened next.

He got up and slowly walked down the aisle to where I stood. I am not small, but he was bigger. I remember thinking he could probably bench press me and snap me like a twig. The rest of the class fell absolutely silent and watched. He got right in front of me and my face. With his hands in fists on his hips and his head tilted, he said, "What are you trying to get me in trouble for?" I don't think a piece of paper would have fit between us. 

Even though I was turning into Jell-O inside, I stood my ground and without breaking eye-contact calmly said, "Brian, I am not trying to get you in trouble - I'm trying to keep you out of it." A couple of hours-long seconds went by, and I could see him deflate; his shoulders dropped, his hands went off his hips, and he said, "Okay." He went back to his desk, retrieved his belongings, and left the room. Whew!

After dinner, I went over to his table, and we shook hands. I asked if he remembered the incident - he did and said he is not like that anymore. The thing that made me feel the best was when he said, "You handled it well."

Mr. B's Class - Day Eight

"War! Huh, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing...." Edwin Starr.

"There was never a good war or a bad peace." Ben Franklin.

That said, the idea of war in 2017 shows how far we haven't come. We are all passengers on the spaceship Earth, and, yes, some people are horrible. But why so many? Are there people I would like to see eradicated? Of course, but unfortunately, it is what it is. All some of us can do is try to make a positive difference and make the world a better place. 

The following Thomas Hardy poem written in 1902 sums up the ridiculousness of it all. I can write until I am blue in the face, but minds will not be changed, so I will just offer the poem and hope:

The Man He Killed

BY THOMAS HARDY

"Had he and I but met 

            By some old ancient inn, 

We should have sat us down to wet 

            Right many a nipperkin! 

            "But ranged as infantry, 

            And staring face to face, 

I shot at him as he at me, 

            And killed him in his place. 

            "I shot him dead because — 

            Because he was my foe, 

Just so: my foe of course he was; 

            That's clear enough; although 

            "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, 

            Off-hand like — just as I — 

Was out of work — had sold his traps — 

            No other reason why. 

            "Yes; quaint and curious war is! 

            You shoot a fellow down 

You'd treat if met where any bar is, 

            Or help to half-a-crown." 

Mr. B's Class - Day Seven

R-E-S-P-E-C-T Find out what it means to me....

When I taught, most students learned a quote of mine that, for many, made a real difference. "You don't have to like everybody, but you have to get along."

I am getting older. As a matter of fact, just scrolling Facebook and watching or reading the news had made me realize I could have 30 seconds or 30 years left - obviously, I don't know, but I am thankful for each new day. Every day is what I call an icing day, icing on the cake. A good day is when nothing gets worse - the status quo is fine.

Whether times have indeed changed or communication has exposed us to news and events much more quickly (and incessantly), the world isn't what I once thought it was. The concepts of good manners, respect, shame, and class are missing. Everyone has a voice now, and most aren't afraid to use it. While people have differences of opinion, the rudeness and name calling has gone over the top. I think because I was raised to be polite and have manners, I expect others to be the same. They're not.

That said (and it barely scratches the surface), most people, animals, property and ideas deserve respect. The following poem shows what happens when someone realizes it, understands, and acts accordingly. 

The Fish - Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

I caught a tremendous fish

and held him beside the boat

half out of water, with my hook

fast in a corner of his mouth.

He didn't fight.

He hadn't fought at all.

He hung a grunting weight,

battered and venerable

and homely. Here and there

his brown skin hung in strips

like ancient wallpaper,

and its pattern of darker brown

was like wallpaper:

shapes like full-blown roses

stained and lost through age.

He was speckled with barnacles,

fine rosettes of lime,

and infested

with tiny white sea-lice,

and underneath two or three

rags of green weed hung down.

While his gills were breathing in

the terrible oxygen

- the frightening gills,

fresh and crisp with blood,

that can cut so badly- 

I thought of the coarse white flesh

packed in like feathers,

the big bones and the little bones,

the dramatic reds and blacks

of his shiny entrails,

and the pink swim-bladder

like a big peony.

I looked into his eyes

which were far larger than mine

but shallower, and yellowed,

the irises backed and packed

with tarnished tinfoil

seen through the lenses

of old scratched isinglass.

They shifted a little, but not

to return my stare.

- It was more like the tipping

of an object toward the light.

I admired his sullen face,

the mechanism of his jaw,

and then I saw

that from his lower lip

- if you could call it a lip

grim, wet, and weaponlike,

hung five old pieces of fish-line,

or four and a wire leader

with the swivel still attached,

with all their five big hooks

grown firmly in his mouth.

A green line, frayed at the end

where he broke it, two heavier lines,

and a fine black thread

still crimped from the strain and snap

when it broke and he got away.

Like medals with their ribbons

frayed and wavering,

a five-haired beard of wisdom

trailing from his aching jaw.

I stared and stared

and victory filled up

the little rented boat,

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine

to the bailer rusted orange,

the sun-cracked thwarts,

the oarlocks on their strings,

the gunnels- until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! 

And I let the fish go. 

Mr. B's Class - Day Six

I have had many pets through the years. Probably the worst part of pet ownership is saying 'Goodbye.' Through it all, I had managed to never be in the room during euthanization... until now. There was always someone else, or a couple of times, I just passed the pet off; I couldn't go into the room, for which I now beat myself up.

When my wife's email came while I was at work, it basically said we need "a plan" for our Domino. I looked at it, and a literal jolt shot through my being - I knew what it meant. Domi was a large 29-year-old  horse whose leg wasn't getting better; I will spare you the details. The short of it was in our heads, euthanization was definitely the right decision - no question there, but in our hearts....

I made the arrangements; we picked a day and time. I have a friend who dug a large hole and had a vet come to the house. Leading up to the moment, I prayed for strength because
I knew I had to be there for my wife and for Domi.

I didn't see my first dead human body until I was in my 40s. It was everything I thought it would be (good and bad), but I had never been present at the time of passing. This time would change that.

It was the right thing and time. I stayed for the whole thing and, in a way, am proud of myself. Again, it was everything I thought it would be (good and bad).

Treasure what time you have. We are all heading down different roads to the same destination.

RIP, Domi. Run free.

Reuben Bright

BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Because he was a butcher and thereby 

Did earn an honest living (and did right), 

I would not have you think that Reuben Bright 

Was any more a brute than you or I; 

For when they told him that his wife must die, 

He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, 

And cried like a great baby half that night, 

And made the women cry to see him cry. 

And after she was dead, and he had paid 

The singers and the sexton and the rest, 

He packed a lot of things that she had made 

Most mournfully away in an old chest 

Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs 

In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house.