Monday, December 28, 2009


I work in a K to 6 school.  When the kids leave us, they're eleven or twelve.  And that's when time stops.  Your last glimpse of them is at Grade Six graduation, scrubbed and tailored, smiling, and still pre-teen.  The snapshots in your mind do not age.  And that's why it's such a shock when you meet them again (at the mall, at the rink, at the grocery store) and they're all grown up, late teens to mid-twenties, university graduates now... or, young people with jobs and babies in tow.  It's always such a kick to see them, especially at this time of year.  (Nine times out of ten, they recognize me long before I recognize them.  And sometimes I need to be coached to make the connection.  Sorry, Tracey.)

What makes me happy is that they cared enough to remember an old fart who corrected their grammar and spelling, chewed them out when it was necessary, and expected results.  But really, they don't remember any of that. What they tell me they remember is the fun they had. Fun! In school? Go figure. Which is why, whenever I entertain the thought of packing it in early -- and let me tell you, it often doesn't seem like much fucking fun -- I figure I'll carry on a little longer.

Because there are always (more than) a few who need a laugh.  And a safe place to be.

Besides, I probably wouldn't have a clue what to do with myself otherwise.


Woozie said...

I think this post could be applied to something else you do as well.

Doctorboogaloo said...

Woozie: In an effort to provide our faithful customers with a fun and safe dining experience, all sandwiches and grape drinks now come with a whoopie cushion and a handgun.

Thank you for your patronage.