Mrs. Wheeler

I wrote this in college as an exercise in emulating another writer's tone.  The tone I was aiming for in this instance is Patrick F. McManus, one of my favorite writers.  As with Louis L'Amour and Jack Higgins, my grandparents introduced me to him.

--

My grandson seems to think I'm pulling his leg when I tell him about how things were back in 'my day'.

This could be due to the fact that I am.  I could never bring myself to disclose the full, awful details of those bygone days to such an innocent, young whippersnapper.  These days, that would be grounds for child abuse.

After he's been scrubbed pink and is clean as a whistle from his evening bath, he'll come running out for an evening story.  As he climbs into my lap, his six-year-old inquisitive eyes meet mine in a look of curiosity and admiration.

"Don't cross your eyes at me, and next time use a darn towel!  Did you brush your tooth?"

I still scold him; always making sure to add that special frown only a retired old coot like me can muster.  Even so, I often find myself taking it a tad too easy on the lad.  I guess even after a hard day of reminiscing, I'm just too jolly and pleasant to be annoyed by such insolent silliness.

When he's been dried properly, and his teeth no longer look stained with coffee, the rocking chair and I grudgingly accept the little tyke.  He asks his usual questions as a sort of primer for his old man.

"Did you really have to walk to school in the snow when you were a kid?  Were you ever really a kid?  Can I have some Cheetos?"

"Yup, you bet and NO WAY.  Don't touch, and quit asking.  And one more thing!  These here 'cheesy poofs' are called 'cheesy poofs'!  I don't care what the bag says.  You know a 'Cheeto' never wins."

"You're silly, PaPa!"

(Yup.  That's what the grimy gremlin calls me.  "PaPa".  That's spelled with a big P and a little a.  Followed by a big P and a little a.  My spell checker says I'm wrong, but it's my name and I'll spell it how I like.)

"Have you been listening to your father again, boy?  I've warned you about the likes of him.  Bad company erupts wood - er, never mind.  I forget how it goes.  Anyhow, you was curious about the trials, tribulations, and tales of love and woe in school when I was your age?  Well..."

...and I proceed to let him in on a part of the torture I endured.  It goes something like this...

Six years old meant the winter of 1940, which was the early part of first grade.  My teacher's name was Mrs. Wheeler.  I found this especially fitting, seeing as how the old lady must have been ten years older'n Methuselah.  I was convinced if we were to give Mrs. Wheeler a sudden start, we'd have to 'wheel her' out on a gurney.

She was a delightful old relic, though.  She was exactly twelve feet tall.  She wore old lady's perfume; the kind that made your nose wrinkle up into a prune.

I loved her.  She was the reason I went to school.  The numerous bullies who traded my lunch money for a bloody nose or a black eye hardly bothered me.  All my attention was focused on getting to Mrs. Wheeler's class.  It was one of my two main goals in life.

The other, of course, was to please Mrs. Wheeler.  Any act that would make her happy was an accomplishment to me, no matter how minuscule it seemed.  If her pencil tip were dull, I'd gladly whittle her a new one.  When she needed the chalkboard erasers beat, I gladly and hastily volunteered.  My hair may have resembled Ben Matlock's when I was finished, but I enjoyed every minute of it.  It was the first time I can remember finding self sacrifice enjoyable.

I did these things not only because I loved her, but also because I owed it to her.  You see, some bullies were worse than others.  There was a whole gang of the really mean ones that got their kicks from the same vicinity as my posterior.  I accurately nicknamed them 'The Meanies'.  they practiced their eight-year-old marine Corps judo on me every day at recess.  i knew the routine well.  They would have me surrounded, and I would begin to feel the fear creep over me.  The name calling and shoving would commence, and the tears and pocket change would disperse.

One day as all this was taking place, again, something out of the ordinary happened.  I was picking myself out of the earth's crust when a lone shadow blocked the sun.  The proceedings halted like molasses in August.  The onlookers scattered as Mrs. Wheeler towered over the malicious would-be thieves.  I knew all would be fine when she began scolding them with those scalding words of retribution that still ring in my ears to this day, 'Come now, let's play nicely, girls."

"Get yer slimy paws off my cheesy poofs!"

"But PaPa!"

"GRRR!"

"PaPa, your fingers and teeth are all orange.  And your beard!"

"Better than wrinkly and yellow.  Anyhow, I'm saving some for later."

"Please can I, PaPa?"

"Well, you sure do take after your father...NO!"

"Nuts!  So whatever happened with that old teacher of yours?  Did she grow up to become Grandma?"

"Nah.  My mom said I couldn't love her anymore."

"Why not?"

"She said she was the only woman allowed in my life."

"So what did you do?"

"What could I do?  Don't you know that mothers are always right?  Well, speak of the level!  There's yours now.  Time for bed, Bucko!"

" 'Night, PaPa!"

"Take your cheesy poofs and clear out now, you overgrown monkey!"