("You'll never be a man, George. You'll always be just a little boy.")

Show All Stories

Understanding Worm Holes

Paws Frogs/author/8-24-2014

Should one place upon himself the task of trying to explain or theorize on the subject of worm holes, he might well work his way into a lunatic assylum. More entertaining is to simply write about ones personal experiences with that phenomena. For me, this endeavour is a challenge.

Mark I

When I was a reading instructor at Waggoner Grade School, students attended my classes in room four. That's where I would begin work days at a habitual 7:30 A.M. That allowed time for coffee, meditation, planning, and preparation. Usually, no other employees were present during that time.

Important to note is that three methods of entry into that building had been provided- all through double-doors that were kept locked until students began arriving around 8:20 A.M. (Every teacher possessed a key for those locks.)

But one chilly day, the morning held a surprise for me in its pockets- an event I'd be reluctant to share if I were still a teacher.

In room four, I was working on a daily plan and practicing writing skills at a chalkboard.

"Hey!" A cracking voice from behind me proclaimed. "You're a teacher in this school, aren't you? You don't do very well here, do you?"

Caught off balance as would a tackle on a running-back in football, I spun into an about-face, dropping onto the floor both chalk and eraser.

What I saw in one of fifteen student desks was a young man clad in clean overalls, a white shirt, and barnyard shoes. That attire is quite suitable for an Illinois farm boy. He was lanky, blond-haired, light complexed, frowning and rather arrogant, if you want to know the truth. I had made acquaintance with several teens like that. If one has company, he'd prefer it not be such a boy.

"My God!" I exclaimed. "How did you get into the building? What are you doing here now? How did you get into the building? There's not supposed to be anybody here now, especially not a high schooler. Is there a problem of some kind?"

"No, sir," the boy replied. "I went to school here a long time ago. That was in 1934. Everything was different then. I had a hard time getting along here. I can come back here any time I want to-just to remember it."

Somewhat calmed by that time, I tried and comfort him with conversation. "Son," I said. "I don't really mind your being here. It's just that I didn't expect company. All the doors are locked for security reasons. But by the way, I think that I get along well with most of the students here. They're all elementary students in grades one though five."

"I've seen the way you do things here. You don't do too bad, I guess. I was in high school here. The teachers gave me all kinds of problems. I just couldn't get along here at all.

"Well, I'll get out of here now. I don't like the way you look or how you're acting. I'll be back sometime."

Before he arose from a desk and exited into I don't know, that boy made a final oratory: "You don't look good with that moustache, sir. I never did like anybody with one. You'd be a better teacher without it."

After that, he disappeared without further overture. I was glad.

Later on that day, students came to room number four where I worked with them on reading skills.

I, their teacher, had a story to share that I couldn't, wouldn't, and shouldn't tell; even now. Not the principal or the teacher in room number three should ever learn that someone had found their way through a worm hole- someone who had been a high school student in 1934.

This site is supported by Jennifer Parish