A Place we could All Go

It’s fifth grade, the wild and wiggly grade. Boys are getting horny and they don’t even know why. Girls know why but keep the secret masked in giggly whispers. Every fifth grade class is a crazytown underground of bubbling pre-teen steam. And it takes a careful hand on the controls to keep the whole thing from blowing up. Our fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Berry, managed fairly well most of the time. But then there was that one day.

First a little bit about Mrs. Berry. If she wasn’t our teacher, most of boys would have said she was a beautiful blond. A couple of years before we got into her class she had married Mr. Berry, the playground guy who I mentioned earlier organized those massive football games at recess. Most of the time she was pretty nice and a pretty good teacher. But it usually didn’t take long for us to get her all pissed off. Her cheeks would puff up, she’d give an icy glare, and speak in a low slow rolling voice of doom.

It was 1964. Goldwater vs. Johnson. I don’t even remember who I voted for in our mock election. But I remember Mrs. Berry writing something amusing on the chalkboard: BaAuH2o; which you chemical historians out there should recognize as the losing candidate’s name. Mrs. Berry also made us memorize the names of all the states and their capitals. I loved it. I got a 100% on the test, though I’m sure some of those places are gone now or have moved elsewhere.

Anyhow, the following events took place probably in the early spring of 1965. I’m really not sure, but it’s been early spring here for the last several weeks and everyone is sick, tired, and depressed. So, I’m just inferring it must have been like that then, too.

It seemed like a dark day. We’d had a number of tornado and nuclear war drills in the recent weeks. Mrs. Berry’s room was in the basement of Oxford, just down the hall from the boiler room. Whenever we had a drill we’d head to the hall and students would line up and lean their arms and heads against the lockers. Then another line of students would lean their arms and heads against them. If you were lucky, and if you were a boy, you got to lean against Rosanne, Wendy, or Barbara. If it was a real storm or a real nuclear attack, we’d stay out in the hall for up to an hour until the tornados or missiles passed over into Canada or Ohio.

We’d just had one of these drills and had gone back into the classroom. Mrs. Berry was trying to settle us down. Right about then our principal, Mrs. Cotter, popped into the room, said hello, and motioned Mrs. Berry to the hall. I really don’t know how the fracas started. Usually what would happen was that Sam would make some crack about Colleen. She’d tell Sam to shut up. He’d say “make me” and start with that stupid bully snickering laugh. Someone would throw something. Jeff would start up with his Louis Armstrong impersonation. Some girl would start writing on the chalkboard. Like steam blowing a hole in the floor, the room would burst into noise and nonsense.

After about ten minutes of this, Mrs. Berry walked in slowly with her guns drawn, glaring at us like a modern day female Lucas McCain. There was sudden silence. I don’t remember all the words she said next. They had something to do with how rude and childish we were, how much we had embarrassed her, and how ashamed we should be. EV-ery OTH-er SYL-lable was EM-phasized like when Captain Kirk kicked the Klingon off the cliff in Search for Spock and said, “I have had e-NOUGH of YOU!”

She really had had enough of us. She said a bunch more words, then paused, then glared harder, and finally said, “and you can all go to hell.” Then she walked out of the room.

Within moments we were sort of in hell, if hell means weeping and gnashing of teeth. I mean, several girls did begin to cry. Sam snickered and a teary-eyed Colleen told him to shut up. Johnny Kotlarczyk, my good Catholic pal, was telling everyone how bad they had been. I just kind of sat there stunned and wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Berry was fired.

Strange thing was, nearly every kid in the room seemed to think we had deserved Mrs. Berry’s harsh words. After about five minutes she came back into the room and quietly sat at her desk. Three or four girls walked up to her, put their arms around her, and sobbed, “we’re so sorry Mrs. Berry!” A couple of boys said the same thing, and soon there was a line of kids up there wanting to give her a hug. Not me. I liked her, but I didn’t love her.

Mrs. Berry was not fired and no one ever spoke of this again.

Coming soon: My Friend Bill, Devils Night, Mrs. Shay Turns against me, and Starting the Room on Fire.