.......by Jay R. Kohut
Monday morning came much too early at Western Pen Junior High School. That was the nickname we students gave our school because it resembled the state penitentiary eight miles to the south. Mrs. Burnbaum, our seventh grade English teacher, was in a particularly foul humor. She was writing on the blackboard as we entered her classroom. I didn't think she could see me, so I started doing my famous Chuck Berry Duckwalk, while playing my air guitar. Suddenly, she spun around and bounced an eraser off my head. I fell to the floor covered with chalk dust. As soon as my classmates and I had taken our seats she said, "You darn well better have your homework done today!" Then she shook her fist at the intercom box when the principal announced a fire drill to occur later that morning.
Mrs. Burnbaum was a very demanding teacher. She was Mrs. Burnbaum to everyone--students, other teachers, even to the principal. Everyone seemed to answer to Mrs. Burnbaum.
She didn't just walk down the hall--she strutted, and she loomed over us, an enormous, balky figure. Her brown, braided hair was speckled with gray; it encircled her head, clamped down by tortoise shell combs. She wore black dresses, black shoes, and silver rimmed eyeglasses, secured with a strap. On her wrists, brassy bracelets jangled like angry wind chimes when she moved. In her classroom, she ascended to her throne; her cushion-bolstered chair sat much higher than ours. She flailed her arms overhead and from side to side whenever she dramatized the action scene of a story or a Robert Frost poem. Her stare penetrated the very soul of anyone who stepped out of line, as she glowered at us over her hawk-like nose. Mrs. Burnbaum demanded our undivided attention. Her need for this was fueled partly by ego, but even more, by her absolute belief in the importance of the subject matter and in our need to learn it. She was also an annoyingly good teacher. Her lessons stuck in my mind.
When we had taken our seats, I leaned over the aisle and whispered to my friend, Tom, "The old gal must have swallowed a fly in her coffee this morning." I then looked up to find her glaring at me. "What did he say to you?" she demanded of Tom.
"I couldn't make out what he said," Tom replied. "There's too much noise from the hall." The door was still open, and the sounds of shuffling feet and chattering voices drifted in.
Then she turned to me. "What did you say to him?"
"I just asked him if he had any trouble with our homework for today," I said. "Benny, I think it's time for you to pay a visit to Mr. Kuhn, and have him explain how to behave in this school and in my class. Go!"
I labored to my feet and trudged out the door. I shuffled down the hall to the principal's office like I was going to my execution.
As I approached Mr. Kuhn's secretary, I said, "Mrs. Burnbaum sent me here to see Mr. Kuhn." My mouth was dry and my voice was weak. The secretary pounded her typewriter keys with her back towards me. She did not hear me. In order to get her attention I felt it necessary to shout. My attempt to yell with a parched throat produced an extremely unpleasant squawk. This startled her and caused her to jump in her seat. She then wheeled around--saw me-- and said, "Don't ever do that to me!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jackson," I said, "but Mrs. Burnbaum sent me to see Mr. Kuhn."
"It's Miss Jackson," she said, "and sit over there." She pointed to a large, severe-looking wooden chair against the wall.
I perched on the chair as directed. It was a little too high for me. It soon cut off the circulation to my legs. My feet froze into blocks of ice, while my upper body dripped sweat.
In a few minutes, Mr. Kuhn appeared in his doorway. He didn't say a word. He just curled his index finger to summon me into his office. As I walked in, he pointed to a chair opposite his desk. I sat.
" What did you do to upset Mrs. Burnbaum?" he asked.
I told him of my recent encounter, modifying the details somewhat in my favor. Then I braced myself for a good chewing out--or worse. "
Mr. Kuhn pressed his finger-tips together and said, "Benny, do you know that your behavior can be very immature at times?"
"I guess so," I said..
"Did you happen to hear about Mrs. Burnbaum's dog being killed yesterday?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Well it was," said Mr. Kuhn. "Someone struck it and just left it along the side of the road. Mrs. Burnbaum came across it on her way home from church yesterday. She's very upset about it. Benny, since her husband died five years ago, her dog was her only companion, and now she's all alone in her big house."
"Geez," I said, as I squirmed in my seat. It had never occurred to me that Mrs. Burnbaum had any personal life outside of school. "I didn't know that," I said. "I didn't mean to make things worse for her."
"Teachers and principals are human beings, too," he said. "We come complete, feelings and all."
I started to sink down in my chair, wishing I could disappear into the carpet.
"Well, Benny, what do you think should be done, now?"
"Maybe I could get her a card or something," I said.
"You mean like a sympathy card?"
"Yeah"
"That's not a bad idea; now you're cooking. But how about something from all of us? I'll tell you what. Lets you and I pay a visit to the art class and see what they can make for us."
After he and I talked with Janet Brownlee, the art teacher, Janet's class soon produced a large scroll with a letter of condolence at the top. Throughout the day, students and faculty stopped by the cafeteria to sign it. Mr. Kuhn made sure that I signed my name first, so Mrs. Burnbaum couldn't possibly miss it. He also appointed me as the one to give her the scroll at the end of the day.
After our last class period, I saw her walking towards the door leading to the parking lot. I approached her and said, "This is for you Mrs. Burnbaum, from all us kids, and the other teachers, and the principal." She stopped in her tracks; her eyes narrowed as she looked me over, then she took the scroll from my hand.
She said, " I trust this is not another one of your little jokes?"
"No ma'am," I said, "it's not a joke."
She unfurled the scroll in front of me. Her eyes opened wide as she read the condolence message at the top, and even wider when she saw my name, followed by so many others. All the tension drained from her face, and she looked back at me. For an instant, I thought I saw her eyes start to moisten, but she quickly cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. Then, in a very proper and deliberate manner, she said, "This is very nice, thank you, Benny."
"You're welcome, Mrs. Burnbaum," I said. We then went our separate ways.
The next morning, I crept into Mrs. Burnbaum's classroom. While the other kids continued to file past her desk, she said she wanted to have a word with me. She said, " Benny I'm sorry about hitting you with the eraser, yesterday. I hope I did you no harm."
I said, "No Ma am, I'm okay, and I'm sorry to hear about your dog."
"Thank you, " she said.
After that, the dog was never mentioned again, and I never did my duck walk in school again.
......by Jay R. Kohut
It was high noon in the dusty Western Maryland town as my enemy and I glared at each other. He stood at little taller than I. My feet were on the ground; his were on the rooftop of my house. I threw pieces of pine bark at him; he lobbed shells down on me. His name--Dangerous Dan--the biggest gray squirrel in all of Oakland.
He invaded our home through a hole in the eave. Throughout the day, he stocked his pantry with acorns and other provender. At night, I'd hear him scratching within the walls. Was he shredding the electrical insulation? Would he cause a fire?
I didn't want to seal his entrance hole until I was sure he was out and that there were no other squirrels living inside.
When I'd hear him scampering across my roof, I'd run down the front steps-- shout and fling pine nuggets at him.
"Screech! Screech!" he'd say, as he would dash across the roof ridge and leap to a branch of my white oak tree.
One day, as I cursed him and he scolded me, my wife called out, "Are you and Dan at it again?"
"Yes," I said, "and I'll get him if it's the last thing I do."
"It probably will be," she replied, "if you keep running up and down those steps like that."
"Well, we can't shoot him in town," I said. "Maybe we could catch him somehow."
"Do they sell squirrel traps around here?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said, "but I guess we could check."
After a while, we returned from the store with an all-purpose trap for little critters--the kind that does them no harm.
In succeeding days, we baited the trap with dried corn, peanut butter crackers, and mixed nuts. No luck!
Then my wife set out some smoked almonds. Dan's favorite tavern must have given him a taste for these, for later that evening, we heard screeching outside our living room. We walked outside, shining our flashlight, and there was Dan--darting back and forth inside the cage.
We then took Dan for a little trip out of town. We drove off into the cold, windy night, wearing black hooded sweat-shirts, chauffeuring our squirming squirrel caged in the back seat.
At a picnic area just outside of town, we released Dangerous Dan. He quickly scampered up the nearest tree.
To celebrate our good riddance of the rodent, we pulled up to the drive-through window of the nearest dairy joint. We both ordered a big chocolate ice cream cone. We then toasted each other with our cones and congratulated one another on our craftiness.
But when we drove home and turned the car into our driveway, with the headlights shining on our back door step, guess who was waiting for us. He wasn't wearing a name tag, but he was perched on his hind legs, frantically shredding the last crumbs of smoked almonds between his teeth and paws.
