Forty Year Old Mystery

I don't know why I thought of this last story...perhaps because my last post was about a teacher. There's a mystery that has bounced around in my head for the last forty years or so and I would like fresh insight as to how it might be solved.

Virtually all of my elementary school teachers made a lasting impression on me in one way or another...

My kindergarten teacher's name was Miss Buzzbee. (what a perfect name for a kindergarten teacher!) Aside from her name, I remember that she was very sweet and patient and that she made me feel safe in her classroom. I still remember that warm and genuinely loving smile she gave to me when my mom took me into her classroom on the day before I started school to introduce me to my new teacher. Once she told us that we were going to have some new friends come and visit us that day. I still remember my excitement; I've always enjoyed meeting new people. When they never came, I felt cheated for years until I finally realized that our 'new friends' were named, "Dick" and "Jane" and they had a dog named, "Spot".

My first grade teacher's name was Mrs. Gilliland. She was a stickler for manners and courtesy. It was while in her class that we were first allowed to go and eat in the school cafeteria. For a week, each day before lunch, she would drill us on cafeteria protocol. She taught us that it was inconsiderate to make the cashier and others behind us in line wait while we fumbled around in our pockets looking for our money. Such was her influence that, to this day, when I visit a Luby's, I still have my money or credit card in the upper right hand corner of my tray when I get to the cashier.

It was while in Mrs. Steven's third grade classroom that I first was allowed to write with a fountain pen and we were introduced to cursive writing.

Miss Piggett, my fourth grade teacher was a willowy blond who looked like she was the inspiration for Barbie and was the object of my first crush.

Miss Innis, my fifth grade teacher was fresh out of college. My ability to make her turn red with laughter any time I felt like it made me think that I had her in the palm of my hand. Then I got my report card and discovered that, under the category of conduct, I received an "Unsatisfactory"

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs Harris, was a no-nonsense woman who issued pages of math as a punishment and is probably the reason I can now do long division with the skill of an autistic savant.

Did you notice that I skipped over my second grade teacher? That's because I only remember one thing about her. I can close my eyes and see, in my mind, the face of every single one of my elementary school teachers except this woman. I remember absolutely nothing about her....what her name was, what color her hair was, was she tall or short? Was she skinny or plump?....nothing....my mind is a complete blank.

The only thing I can recall is one day (after a particularly bad day of conduct on my part) She dropped a note on my desk for me to take to my parents, allow them to read how horrible I had conducted myself in class that day, get them to sign it, and bring it back to class with me the next day.

Now, I understand that this was a time predating the Internet and so my teachers could not simply email my mom and dad and tell them how badly I had misbehaved. But, by the time I attended second grade, Alexander Graham Bell was dead and in his grave for the better part of a century...the woman couldn't pick up a phone?

Having a seven year old boy bring one of those dreaded notes to his parents was akin to having a firing squad victim pass out the bullets just before they tied him to a post and put a blindfold over his eyes. Worse, in fact. At least a firing squad victim knows what his punishment will be and that it will be much quicker and relatively less painful.

To make matters worse, the sadistic...(what's the adjective I'm looking for here?....it will come to me....) In any event, the woman dropped the note off on my desk a full hour before I was to go home; meaning that I had a full hour to fret over my fate and try to concoct an alibi (which I couldn't because, unlike her more considerate predecessors, THIS teacher had stapled the note shut so I couldn't read it before I got home!) I was going to find out what I had done wrong at the same time my parents did. Allowing for their reaction, I would have about 30 seconds to come up with a plausible story. I was going to have to call upon all my powers of persuasion and talents in extemporaneous speaking just to survive past dinner time!

I tried to prise open a corner of the note to get a clue as to what it might be all about. No good. The woman had used too many staples. I accidentally tore a corner and quickly tried to smooth it all back into place. Things were bad enough but they would be much worse if my parents saw the torn corner and correctly surmised that I had tried to circumvent my teachers will and read the note before they got it.

Nervous energy consumed me and spilled out of me in the form of fidgeting and drawing doodles on the object of my obsession....the instrument of my doom. I'd had to contend with notes from teachers before but never had I been hemmed in on all sides like this.

After an hour of mental torture, the afternoon bell rang signalling freedom for virtually every student at James Arle Montgomery Elementary School...save one condemned.

That long walk home was too much for me to face. I sat at the street corner, directly atop a storm sewer inlet, and contemplated my fate. I sat there for the better part of an hour before inspiration struck. I looked down and saw the opening to the storm sewer. I casually looked about for witnesses. There was nobody in sight. The only thing that would make me seem more alone would be for the wind to moan and a tumbleweed to come rolling by. I girded up my loins, took a deep breath, and dropped my teacher's note into the storm drain inlet where I was certain it would be transported to the nearest bayou and out into The Gulf of Mexico to disappear forever.

I had bought myself some time. Tomorrow was a new day and hope springs eternal for a seven year old. I felt my old confidence return.

The next day, in class, when my teacher asked me if my parents had signed the note, I told her I had lost it. I smiled inwardly. I knew I was going to have a new note but my bad conduct was almost a day old. Chances are that this note would be written with far less venom and vitriol...maybe she had forgotten what I had done altogether...

My teacher levelled her gaze at me, reached into her top drawer, pulled out that note...that very same note...and placed it upon her desk.

"you mean this note?", She asked.

Did you ever see the movie, "Psycho"? You remember how Hitchcock played that shower scene...keeping his viewers mentally off balance by rapidly, and repeatedly zooming in and out while strained violins screeched in cadence with the camera's movements?

All I can say is that something like this must have happened in his life to give him the inspiration because that's exactly what was happening in my mind as I stared, transfixed upon that note on my teacher's desk.

SCREECH!!!...SCREECH!!!...SCREECH

And it was the same note...not a replica...not a duplicate or a carbon copy. It was the very same note that I had stuffed down the storm sewer the day before without a witness in sight...right down to every crease, doodle...even the tear in the corner where I had tried to read it!!! all there!

And that's it...that's is my only memory about second grade. Now, there might be one or more explanations for my inability to recall anything else from that school year. Post traumatic stress might be coming to your mind. I can buy that.

But I can only come up with two plausible explanations for how my teacher came to be in possession of that note.

1) She lived in the sewer

or (and this is the one I'm leaning towards)

2) She sold her soul to The Devil.