Every Act of Creation - Part I

"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our duty as we understand it." - Abraham Lincoln

There were on the outside walls of the school where I attended the beginning of seventh grade two marble slabs, one on the east side, one on the west. They stood well above the ground, permanently stained by the rain that rolled regularly off of the red brick walls of the school.

On each of the slabs, chiseled deeply into the marble, was a quotation. The one on the east by the Father of our Country, the other by the Great Emancipator.

No one ever really too time out of their day to read them, and on this day they were about the furthest thing from my mind. Little did I know that they would both soon probe to have a great impact on my life.

I was in seventh period on Friday afternoon. The last few minutes before the weekend officially started. I thought those last few minutes were the longest of the whole week.

Bob, Chris, Rick, Wooly and I had Mr. Katkavitch's English class during seventh period. He was a huge man of about 35 with enormous hands and a voice that sounded like it was coming straight from heaven. He prided himself on the fact that his brother Paul played for the New York Giants football team. We always wondered why Mr. K never played, too, for to us, his intimidating gaze was like a she-bear out for the kill. We thought he could scare the pants off of any pro football player.

When the bell finally sounded on this particular Friday afternoon, we went for the door so quickly we almost left skid marks.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Mr. K. "Just hold on!"

Snapping out of our weekend dreams and turning around, we looked despondently at Mr. K with a collective groan.

"For Monday..."

We groaned even louder.

"...for Monday," he said even more loudly, shaking his head and raising his finger, "you will read pages 277 through 282 and have a two page report to hand in."

"What?" questioned Wooly.

The middle-aged English teacher looked at him coldly. "What didn't you understand, Mr. Woolwine?"

We all looked at each other, inquisitively and with scrunched up eyes like we'd just heard Wooly's last name for the first time. And even though his real name was Mark, nobody ever called him anything but Wooly...ever. The sound of his real name almost sent shivers up our spines.

"Nothing, sir," he said.

"Ok, then," said Mr. K. "You can go."

"Can you believe that guy?" said Rick as we walked down the street toward home. "Homework on the weekend! Doggone it! There go two whole hours of doing nothing but studying, which is actually nothing because I won't learn anything anyway!"

"Six crummy pages!" exclaimed Chris. He was always the most vocal of our merry little band. "And for what? Absolutely nothing!"

"Did you hear what he called me?" grumbled Wooly. "I can't believe he did that!"

"I didn't know your name was Woolwine, Wooly," said Bob, grinning widely, a wink in his eye.

"Me neither," said Chris, with a giggle. "I thought we called you Wooly because of your curly hair." We all burst out in uproarious laughter.

"Very funny, very funny," Wooly said as the snickers started to take control of him. "You guys are a bunch of real comedians, you are. You know that?" We all pushed and poked the chuckling Wooly all the way down Hillside Avenue.

That night, after we had all exhausted ourselves playing football and freeze tag, I opened my English book to page 277. My eyes widened slightly as I read the title, "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. I'd heard of this Poe fellow, but I had never read anything he'd written.

I'd never read anything by any author except the guys at Street and Smiths Baseball Yearbook and Sports Illustrated. The were like icons to me. I read every single word they wrote, and sometimes twice.

And that's pretty much the way I liked it. So, I sat the book down, figuring I had plenty of time to read. I could explore an entire edition of SI in about ten minutes. I could certainly read these six pages with relative rapidity.

The next day, Saturday, started very early, as they usually did. We liked to get out of bed before the sun did so we could make the most of our parole time. Bob started throwing pebbles at my bedroom window at six-thirty. I didn't hear him until my brother reached down from atop the bunkbed at ten to seven and slapped me on the cheek.

"Hey! Wake up! Bob's outside!"

"What? Oh, ok," I said drowsily.

I reluctantly pulled myself out of my nice toasty bed and walked to the window across the room. Pulling back the curtains and looking out I saw Bob standing on the lawn wearing jeans and his favorite jacket. It was an old blue and gold letterman's jacket he'd bought at someone's yard sale for three bucks. It was all beat up and letter was gone, but that's the way he liked it. That way he could get it all dirty and grungy and nobody would ever notice.

I pushed the window up and looked at Bob with extreme agitation. "Hey, Bob," I said, with a small sprinkling of rancor. "What time is it?"

Bob took a deep breath. "It's almost seven o'clock. Why are you still in bed?"

I could see my breath in the chill air as I sighed deeply. "I stayed up late to watch that werewolf movie on 'Creature Features.' It was good."

"Well, can I come in and warm up a little while you get ready?"

"What'cha got going today?" I asked. Bob had been elected by the guys to be the Activity Chairman for the month. Despite his impassioned protests about the job, he was always coming up with cool stuff to do.

"I'll tell you inside, all right? It's cold out here."

Nodding, I closed the window and ripped open the bag that contained three pairs of new underwear. Pulled them on, I reached for my jeans. I loved the feel of new underwear under freshly laundered jeans.

Downstairs Bob was waiting at the kitchen door. The screen door slammed behind him as he entered the room.

"Quiet, will ya?" I said sharply. "Mom's still asleep!"

"Just your mom?" Bob asked. "Where's your dad?"

"Out playing ball. He goes over to the school and plays hoops with the guys from church every Saturday morning." I put a piece of bread in the toaster. "So, what have you got for us today?"

Bob looked longingly at the toaster until I put a piece of bread in for him, too. "Well," he began, "I figured we could get the other guys and go back to the lot and play around awhile. On my way over here I saw that the workers left a lot of junk lying around, like nails, hammers and stuff like that."

The lot was an old vacant lot behind my house. About two weeks before construction guys had come along and started to build a house on it. Mom had made it clear that it was taboo to even think about going over there. "If you go back there, you will be grounded for so long that your children will wonder why you can't go out of the house," she would say. Of course, she was worried about us hurting ourselves, but we didn't understand that. We only understood that we now HAD to go back there.

"Ok," I said, buttering my toast.

Coming soon - Part II

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part III

That afternoon Roger walked up to me at the bus stop, holding the card that I had slipped into his locker. "Is this yours?" he asked. Smiling, I replied, "Nope, it's yours, if you want it." Roger looked at the card longingly. "I don't know. I mean, I..." "Listen, you don't have to take it. I just thought, well, you know, after yesterday and all." Roger looked up. "He's always been my favorite, you know." I did. "Yea, I figured." I walked over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Look," I said, turning the card over, "it's even got all of his statistics and stuff on the back." And with that, Roger and I were no long arch enemies. In fact, we became rather good friends. During the next few weeks, Roger, Bob and I spent all kinds of time together. Bob had been a reluctant convert, but I finally convinced him that Roger wasn't as bad as he thought. It was a strange experience to pal around with someone whose demise I'd plotted just days before, but I finally realized that Roger was crying out for help. All he really wanted was a friend to lean on. For three solid weeks, I tried my best to be the friend that he never had. "Excuse me?" I couldn't believe my ears. "We're not inviting him to the party." Lisa was the sweetest girl I had ever known, but right then I would have traded her in a heartbeat for a stack of jelly beans. "Why not?" I bellowed. She scrunched up her nose. "Listen, the rest of the kids don't want him there. They don't like him." "So what? He's a nice guy," I insisted. "That may be so," she continued, "but they say that anyone who fools around with drugs is not welcome." "I can't believe you all would do this," I said. "I'm sorry," she said. "But this is pretty final." I looked at the floor, mouth hanging open wide. I shook my head. "Well, then, this is final, too. Unless Roger is invited, I'm not coming, either." Lisa's eyes shot open wide. "You're not serious, right?" "You just let me know what your decision is, ok? I'll see you sometime," I said as I shut the door behind me. When I told Roger what I'd done, he only laughed. "Man, you shouldn't have done that!" he said. "I understand. Don't sweat it. I'll find something else to do. It's no big deal." "Roger, I can't," I protested. It's just not right." "Hey, man, there are a lot of things in this world that aren't right," he replied. "Was it right for you to hit me with that fast ball?" I hung my head. That shot hit me right in the heart. "And for that matter, was it right for me to taunt you after I hit that home run off of you?" I didn't say anything. "I'm used to it, man. It's no big deal. Hey, I appreciate what you tried to do, but I don't want you to lose all of your other friends over it. It's not that important. Besides, Carl Tacey wants me to go to a concert with him that night. I'll be fine." "But it's still not right," I said. Roger chuckled. "Maybe not," he said, "but it's not that big of a deal. We'll still be friends long after this party's over, right? That's what's important." Dancing was never my favorite thing to do as a kid. I always thought it should be left for the girls. But that's all Lisa ever wanted to do at these neighborhood parties. Needless to say, I was not in the dancing mood. "What are you doing over here in the corner?" Lisa's knees would buckle and eventually give way when she saw the tiniest spider, but when it came to anything else, she went after it with both hands. "I don't really feel much like being sociable tonight," I replied. "I'm sorry." "Would you dance with me just once?" she asked. "Please?" Now, if it had been anybody else, I wouldn't have thought twice. But since it was Lisa, I could not find the word "no" in my vocabulary. Before I knew it, I found myself on the dance floor swaying to Bill Haley and the Comets. The record player was loud, people were laughing and screaming all around us. The dance floor was packed, but as far as I was concerned, we were the only ones in the room. I felt much better in her arms. When the phone rang at about ten o'clock, I'd almost completely forgotten about Roger. Lisa and I were sharing a beanbag chair, Bob and Roxy were sitting on the couch, and a bunch of other kids were just standing around. Lisa answered. "Hello? Yes, m'am." She turned to me. "It's for you. It's your mom." I don't remember many of the details of the conversation. I do remember that she said that Roger had been in a car accident. He'd died on the way to the hospital. He was on his way home from a Simon and Garfunkel concert he'd gone to because he couldn't come to the party. About a quarter of a mile from home, the driver of the car fell asleep and crashed into a telephone pole. Everyone in the car but Roger survived. The party kind of died out after I broke the news to everyone. Bob and I sat dumbfounded for awhile before the anger hit me with a vengeance. "You see!" I yelled between the tears. "You see what happened? Are you all happy now that he's dead? Now you won't have to invite him to any of your stupid parties!" Everyone looked at the floor. I sobbed, but still found the strength to speak. "All Roger ever wanted was a friend," I said, a little more quietly. "He never asked for anything else. Just a friend. And instead of that we all treated him terribly. Did it ever occur to any of you that he used drugs because no one would be his friend? He was just lonely." It turned out that everyone in the car but Roger had been smoking marijuana that night. His mom, who had been aware of his problems, told me that he'd given all of that stuff up about the time we'd started doing stuff together. He'd been turning his life around. Life's way too short to waste it over petty disagreements and misunderstandings. Maybe Roger was different than me and the rest of the kids in school, but looking back, I can see that many times he was just crying out for someone to help him. Maybe instead of holding out a fist to him all the time, we might have been able to save him if we'd just held out a helping hand instead. When I got home from the party, I turned on the radio. The first lyrics I heard were from a Simon and Garfunkel song called "Mrs. Robinson." "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson? Joltin' Joe has left and gone away." The significance of those words slammed into me like a runaway semi. Joltin' Joe was gone and I'd never see him again. I cried myself to sleep that night and for many nights thereafter. Roger's face still pops into my head whenever I hear that song. At the funeral, his mom handed me the card I'd given him our first day as friends. I still keep it in a frame above my desk. The colors are somewhat faded, but the message to me still rings loudly every time I look at it. People need my help. That's why I'm here in the first place, to help people, to love them, to do what the Savior would do if he were here. I'm no better than anyone else, no matter what their circumstances may be. Roger's been gone for nearly thirty-five years now and I still wish I could talk to him just a little bit more. But that isn't to be. So, now I turn my focus to all of the other Roger Lewises I have in my life today, and I try to help them and I try to understand. And somehow, I do.

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part II

There were more fans at afternoon's game than had ever been there before. Doc Schumacher was watching from his kitchen window, Mrs. Laney was bringing lemonade between innings, and several of the cute girls from the cheerleading corps were there, too. Come to see the execution, I figured.

Things were going well for me when Roger finally stepped to the plate. We were up 5-1 and I'd only allowed two hits and struck out four in the first two innings. But when he dug his cleats into the batter's box and gave me that look of contempt, it was easy to crank up the chin music in his honor. I wasn't about to waste any time in getting to the point.

Sweat started to form on my upper lip and my hand started to shake when I looked in for the sign. When the ball started whistling toward its final destination, there was no fooling around. It was a fastball, down and dirty.

Usually the sound of a good heater plunking the hitter is enough to make a person sick, especially if it's a good head shot. But today, that noise was enough to kill me. You see, the ball hit Roger Lewis in the shoulder, not the head.

As I look back now, I see the next ten seconds or so in super-slow-motion. Roger rushed the mound, teeth gritted, and eyes blazing. After that, I don't remmeber much but pain and darkness. It was like someone had just turned out the lights.

"Look, he's coming around, honey."

My mom was a saint. Florence Nightengale, Donna Reed and June Cleaver all wrapped up into one five foot two inch package. "You just relax, sweetheart. Doctor Shumacher said that you'd be find once the swelling went down."

"Uhhhhhh!!"" was the most intelligent response I could give at the time. My head felt like I'd been run over by a train, dragged behind a horse, and then kicked by a mule. I only had vision in one eye. The other was a mass of black and blue puffiness.

"I'll get you some aspirin," she said. "You just lie still and get a little rest."

I laid there in the bed for most of that afternoon groaning, aching and generally plotting an extermination. Loads of people came by to see me and my eye that day. I guess word had spread around the school pretty quickly. Lisa came over to comfort me the best she could. Kevin came and tried to swipe my Mickey Mantle rookie card. Of course, Bob stopped by and tried to poke my swollen socket.

"Bob, just leave me alone, will ya?" I was growling more than pleading.

"Listen, I don't know if you remember this or not, but after Roger clubbed you, he looked down at you and promised that this wasn't the end. He said he'd get you again and again and again. I guess he didn't appreciate getting tagged with that fast ball very much."

"He said that?" I asked. I lay musing for just a few seconds when I realized Roger was right. This was not the end of it. But the next time, I would not make any mistakes.

Several days later in gym glass, Coach Waterson asked me if I wanted to sit out awhile. We were playing dodgeball and I guess he figured I looked banged up enough already. But dodgeball was one of my favorite games, especially when Bob was on the other side. And today, a bonus. So was Roger.

"I guess I can rest easy today, can't I?" Bob said. "I mean, I know who you're going to be gunning for, right?"

An evil sneer crossed my face.

"Yea," I said. "I guess you do."

When the balls started flying wildly around the gym, I kept my good eye on them and my swollen one on Roger. I think he was purposely staying away from me, throwing at all of the other guys on my team.

"Ha!" I thought. "He's so afraid of me he can hardly stand it."

Now, I wasn't the greatest dodgeball player in the world, but at the end of the game, there were two players left: Roger and me. And each of us had a ball.

We stood about ten feet apart for what seemed like ten minutes, glaring into each others angry eyes. My heart raced wildly and my hands started to quake noticeably. I squeezed the ball as hard as I could and mustered up the courage to heave it at Roger's head. But just as I was about to let loose, Roger rolled his ball toward me and smiled.

"What is this?" I wondered. "A challenge? Is he calling me out? Calling my bluff?"

Holding my ball in front of me, I scrunched up my face and looked at him. The other guys were yelling at me to hit him, but I held back. There was something different this time. Something I didn't understand. What I did understand was that I couldn't hit him. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, I had the feeling that Roger wanted to bury the hatchet somewhere other than in my forehead.

So, I rolled my ball toward him and smiled. The next thing I knew, I was walking off the floor amid a shower of boos.

That night, I didn't get much sleep. I tossed and turned for a long time before the sandman even knocked on my door. What were these things I was feeling? Yesterday, I hated Roger more than anything. Today, I wasn't sure. What was the difference?

Mom opened the door to my room and poked her head inside. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yea, mom, I'm fine. Thanks. I'm just not very tired yet."

Mom opened the door a little wider and stepped in. "Did I tell you I ran into Mrs. Lewis at the store this evening?" she asked. "She told me that Roger talks about you all the time. She said she's glad her son has a friend that's as nice as you."

I looked at her there in the half-lighted doorway. The hallway light was on and illuminated the back of her head. I always thought mom was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

"She said that?" I asked inquisitively.

"Yea, she thinks you're a pretty terrific kid. And evidently, so does Roger. I told her she was right."

I smiled. Mom always knew just what to say to make me feel better.

"It's getting pretty late," she said. You'd better try to get some sleep. It's a school day tomorrow."

"Ok, mom," I replied.

"Goodnight, son. I love you."

"I love you, too, mom. And mom? Thanks."

Mom smiled and closed the door.

-------

"You're going to what?" Bob cried incredulously.

"I'm going to give Roger my Joe DiMaggio card."

Bob looked at me as if I had just grown a wart on my nose the size of a bowling ball. "Do you know how much that card is worth?" he asked.

Of course I knew how much it was worth. Fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents and counting. It was my prize card. I'd had it ever since I was three years old And it was old then.

"I thought you hate him!"

"Well," I said as I slipped the card through the grates in the door of Roger's locker, "I just figured he needs a friend, and nobody else seems to care a whole lot for him. So I thought I'd give it a try."

Bob shook his head and closed his locker, which was two down from Roger's. "Hey, if you want to give your cards away so badly, you could give them to me! You know how I've been trying to get my hands on your Lou Brock."

I chuckled. "Bob, you're already my friend. What else could you want?"

He looked at me and grinned. "How about a million bucks? I think that would compensate me for all the crap you give me, don't you?" he said as we both walked down the hall to class.

Coming soon - Part III (Conclusion)

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part I

Long before anyone ever dreamed of today's Rotisserie Baseball leagues, there was the World Famous, All American, All Star Professional Baseball Players League, the WFAAASPBPL for short. We just called it the Waffle League. Hundreds of the sweetest summer days ever dreamed of were spent at the official Waffle League stadium, the vacant lot between our house and Old Doc Schumacher's place. Mickey Mantle played there. So did my favorite, Lou Gehrig. And Yaz, The Big Train, The Bambino. All of the greats. And we loved it. "Come on, are you going to pitch the ball or what?" cried Bob, my best friend. He was the world's greatest living expert, a veritable knowledge bank on just about any subject. He knew the names of all the kings and queens of England since the days of King Arthur. He could recite the Declaration of Independence from memory. And he could show you every constellation in the sky and tell you the legends behind them. Nothing escaped him. Unless, that is, you're talking about my slider. "Strike three! You're out!" "What do you mean, strike three?" he protested. "It wasn't even close!" Bob hated getting struck out more than just about anything. He hated taking a bath on Saturday evening, he hated broccoli, and he hated Karen Staggle. But hated striking out more than all of them combined. And he hated it even more when he was pretending to be Roberto Clemente. "You must be blind or something!" My kid brother was serving as the umpire that day, and even though he wore glasses, he wasn't blind. He could still see the difference between a ball and a ball thrown right down the pipe. "It was a strike, Roberto," he said with utter calmness. "Now take your seat before I give you the boot." Bob was three years older than my brother, and if he had wanted to he could have knocked him into the next zip code. But there was something sacred about being an umpire. They were ok to yell at and give all sorts of grief to, but you never touched them, even if they were what you considered "a little puke". So, with epithets under his breath, Clemente took his seat at the end of the bench. "Next up, Joe DiMaggio!" I've always been a die-hard Yankee fan, but I loved striking out Joe DiMaggio more than anyone. I liked it partly because he was one of the greatest baseball players of all time. But I also liked it because his real name was Roger Lewis. No one in school really liked Roger. He was so different from the rest of us. He had everything: a huge house, a new bicycle, tons of money, and something else that none of the rest of us would ever think of having - drugs. Roger was the biggest doper in school. As a matter of fact, he was the only one I ever really knew growing up. "I'm taking this one downtown, Whitey," he said with a strange look in his eye. I'd seen that look before, but only after I'd been punched in the nose by Jimmy Dills. It was kind of like seeing stars. "No, you're not, Joe!" I replied. "You're not even going to see it going by." I was cocky if not good. The first pitch was a curve, just outside. "Ain't you got nothing better than that?" he cried. I gritted my teeth. Slider, in on the hands. "Ball two," cried the ump. "You'll never get me out with that garbage." Screwball, a little low, but my brother called it a strike. Lucky. Now, set him up with the fastball and then drop him with a change up a little inside. It worked every time. Except this one. He crushed my fastball into the upper deck of the Waffle League stadium where an adoring DiMaggio fan caught it. Actually, it landed in Mrs. Lucha's garden, but even in defeat we liked to pretend. "I told you I'd kill it," Roger taunted as he rounded the bases, laughing. "I've got your number, chump!" There are several things I hated more in this world than being laughed at by someone who had just hit a homerun off of me. But I can't think of any. When the dust cleared, I had a chipped tooth, a black eye, and a torn shirt. Roger had a bruised fist. "There are more than 15,000 species of ants in the world today. Some can live as long as 15 years." Mr. Zaleski's science class was never a boy's favorite class. He spoke with a voice that was a cross between Jack Benny and a monotone Tiny Tim. "You playing today?" whispered Bob. "Yea, sure," I replied. Even with a black eye, Bob knew good and well that I never missed an opportunity to play baseball, but he had to ask every day anyway. "Even after yesterday?" "Yup," I said. "I'll be there." "Roger's going to be there, too." "Good!" I said, a little too loud. Mr. Zaleski looked my way, but kept right on boring the class with his mindless ant facts. "Let him come," I said a little softer. "It's a free country." For the rest of the school day I dreamed of the awful things I was going to do to Roger Lewis. And I came up with a plan that I thought would take care of the issue once and for all. I'd hit him in the wig with the baseball.

The Secret Life of Harry Houdini - Part II

For the next couple of days I lived in virtual anonymity. No one really took the time to talk to me, but no one threatened me, either. But several days after my encounter with the Cowboys front line, I was still trembling and still wondering when it would come.

It would not be long before I would discover what their nefarious plan was.

The recess bell rang just as we were finishing our English exercises for the day. I didn't like to have exercises hanging over my head, so I finished the last few sentences before packing my books in the cubby hole directly under my seat. Standing, I saw that most of the kids had followed Mrs. Pollet out the door and into the grass next to the trailer. I tried to follow, but was unceremoniously restrained by one of the more untoward boys in the class.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Chris, who stood right behind the larger, more ponderous Gary.

Pushing my way past them, I turned and looked back at the boys. "I'm going out to recess." I was quaking like an aspen, but tried not to let it show.

"No, you're not," said a voice behind me, and I instantly recognized Bobby's squeaky rasp. He'd been out sick for some time and his voice still had not recovered. "You're not going anywhere."

Realizing too late that he was blocking the door, I tried forcing my way past him. The rest of the boys grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me back inside.

Shoving me down into the "sit-in-the-corner" chair, Chris started tying me up tightly with some cotton rope. One of the boys had brought a long strand from home and another had kiped some out of the janitor's closet in the main school building.

"Leave me alone!" I protested. I was not going to beg for mercy. Propitiation was never my strongest suit. But I did fight like a tiger, though eventually I was bound hand and foot like last year's Thanksgiving turkey. They'd also shoved a cloth in my mouth and then wrapped a handkerchief around my head, tying it tightly in the back, some of my hair caught in the knot.

Having finished their dastardly deed, they picked me up, chair and all, and threw me into a broom closet in the back of the trailer and shut the door. I was so thoroughly gagged that I could not utter a sound for fear the cloth would wedge itself deeper into my throat.

I started by trying to free my hands. It was not going to be easy, but they'd looped the rope in such a way as to make it easy to loosen, and soon I'd loosed it just a tad. It was only a bit, but it was progress.

The knot they'd tied behind me was directly over my hands, so I could reach it with the tips of my fingers. Pulling it down into my palms, I fiddled with it until the two ends fell in opposite directions. A few minutes later, when everyone returned from recess, I almost had my hands completely untied.

When the class was all seated and calmed down to a dull roar, I could hear Mrs. Pollet ask where I was. I was only just getting the rope they'd used to wrap around my body pulled over my head to free my arms. After that I untied the handkerchief and spit out the cloth from inside of my mouth. From there it was just a matter of untying my legs and stepping out into the open, fingering the culprits and watching them get marched to the principal's office for their just desserts.

Only, it didn't happen that way.

Bright light burst into my eyes when Mrs. Pollet opened the closet door. I was just getting the knot untied from my legs. "Stefan!" she gushed. "Are you all right?" She knelt to help free my legs from their serpentine prison, but I'd already completed the task.

"Yes, m'am," I replied with a smile, as I stood and walked unencumbered from the closet. "I'm fine."

"Who did this to you?" she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder and looking me over for cuts and bruises.

"We were just playing, m'am," I said, gritting my teeth so the truth would not escape. The way I figured it, it was much better to lie to the teacher than to face more courtyard bullying because I was a narc.

Mrs. Pollet looked at me incredulously, looking down at the pile of rope that had fallen at my feet. "Are you sure, Stefan?" she asked. "You're sure you were just playing. This is very serious, you know. Whoever did this could get in a lot of trouble."

I looked around the classroom at each boy who had taken part. Most of them were looking at their own desks, no doubt pondering the significance of their own "Becky loves Johnny".

"Yes, m'am. I'm sure. It was all just playing around."

Mrs. Pollet put her hand on my back and gently pushed me toward the front of the class. "All right, then, Houdini. Please have a seat."

She called me Houdini for the rest of the year, but honestly, my "miraculous" escape hadn't changed any other attitudes very much. Those boys still didn't seem to like me, but they didn't pick on me anymore, either. It wasn't until David French himself became my friend that the other icebergs began to thaw. Eventually, all of them became good friends with whom I'd get in trouble a hundred times.

I was flipping through my Senior high school yearbook not long ago and was reading all of the innocuous things high schoolers tend to write to each other. Among the dopey Have-a-great-summer's and It's-been-great-knowing-you's there was an entry tucked neatly toward the bottom of the last page. The writing was somewhat crisp and easy to read, and though it wasn't very long, what it said brought pleasant memories flooding back of a day 40 years earlier.

"To Houdini," it started. "I hope we'll always be friends. And I hope the rope wasn't too tight. Thanks for not giving us up."

It was signed by Chris.

The Secret Life of Harry Houdini - Part I

"Doug."

"Here!"

"Rick."

"Here!"

"Lisa."

"Here, m'am."

"Chris."

"Here!"

"Bobby."

Silence.

"Bobby?"

Still no answer. There would be no Bobby today.

"Carol."

"Yes, m'am."

After reading about ten or twelve other names, Mrs. Pollet put her attendance book in the top drawer of her desk. Looking up at the class, she walked over to my desk and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Class, we have a new student in our room today."

I could feel the eyes of every single 7th grader in that room boring a hole in the back of my head, since I had been assigned a seat on the front row. No one gave me the time of day before class started, though plenty had taken the time to give me the stink eye.

"His name is Stefan Schetselaar."

Stifled giggling could be heard quietly emanating from the around the class of tittering students. By the 7th grade I was used to hearing it when my last name was mentioned to people who'd never heard it before. And nobody here had heard it before.

"Did I pronounce that correctly, Stefan?"

She had, but I knew she'd had help from the principal and had taken time to practice it several times before telling her students.

I quickly looked up from examining the New Jersey dirt stains on the tip of my black Chucks, and replied "Yes, m'am." As quickly as I'd looked up, I looked back down again, focusing intently on the fact that "Becky loves Johnny". It was etched deeply into the surface of the wooden desktop I now called my own. I was happy for them, but I had no idea who they were, nor would I ever.

"Stefan and his family have moved in from New Jersey and he'll be in our class for the rest of the year," Mrs. Pollet said. "I expect everyone to be nice and get to know him."

A gentle susurration arose from the class, everyone giving her the "Yes M'am" or "OK" she expected.

"Would you like to tell us anything about yourself, Stefan?" she asked, turning her steely focus toward me. Her name was French, but there was nothing French about her. She was as Virginia as the rest of them.

"Um," I began. "Not really, m'am. Like you said, we just moved here from New Jersey."

We'd only left our comfortable suburbian home a few days earlier and I still said Jersey so it rhymed with Boise. A cacophony of laughter arose from the group, each student's smile now a vacuous cavern of chuckles. I felt the blood quickly rise to my head and I knew my face was as red as a cardinal's cassock.

Rick Hall, who was sitting just to my left, was laughing so hard under his breath that he had a snot bubble coming out of one nostril. His hair, cut straight across his forehead and just behind his ears, was also bright red, matching the freckles that stippled his face.

"OK, guys, let's behave, please," warned Mrs. Pollet, waving her hands above her head. "Quiet down." She had dark, short hair, eyes to match, and a tough, yet delicate way about her. Turning to me she smiled and said, "That's fine, Stefan. Thank you very much and welcome."

I dug a hole in the floor with my eyes, desperately wanting to climb in and cover myself forever. We'd only lived in New Jersey for five years, but they were important growth years, and I'd left several very good friends behind. None of us had really wanted to leave the comfort of our former home for the relative wilds of Southwestern Virginia, but dad didn't want to commute 16 hours a day.

At recess later that morning, David French came up and introduced himself. He was only 12, but he wore sideburns better than most adults could grow and a scraggly mustache he hadn't cut since he was 8. The bangs of his dirty blond hair hung down over his right eye, but he was also one of the nicest kids in the class.

"My name's David," he said with an even deeper Southern drawl than I had expected. "Wanna race?"

"Sure," I replied, reaching down to tighten up my Chucks. I fancied myself a pretty quick runner, but I didn't know at the time that David was the fastest kid in school.

The race started innocently enough. Bobby Poff said, "Ready, Set, Go" and David and I started running down the open field next to our trailer. From the outset it was obvious that he was a lot faster than me, but I pushed hard to at least make it a good show.

Rounding the first turn by the tennis courts, David, who was already a good 15 feet ahead of me, turned completely around and ran backwards, I guess to give me a fighting chance. Not watching where he was going, he hit the corner of the concrete slab with the back of his foot and tumbled to the ground in a writhing heap.

The ambulance only took about five minutes to get there. They wrapped up David's ankle and told him to stay off of it for a couple of weeks. During the fall, he'd tried to right himself, but his foot landed awkwardly under his body. It wasn't broken, but he could barely walk.

"He's the quarterback of our football team!" shouted Chris. "What are we going to do now? He's the only one who can throw the ball!"

The Cowboys were Belview Elementary School's football team, playing teams from other elementary schools in the area. Mostly because of David's speed and cannon-like arm, they were in first place, with a game coming up at the end of the week against another of the tougher teams around. Most of the boys in Mrs. Pollet's class were on the team.

The other boys gathered around David's ailing ankle slowly turned their heads and looked at me.

"What?" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. "I didn't do anything!"

Chris got up immediately and got right in my face. "It's because of you he's hurt!" he said through gritted teeth. "If you hadn't raced him he would be ok now."

I backed up one step and pointed my finger at no one in particular. "Hey, you can't blame this on me! I wasn't anywhere near him when he fell. It's his own fault for running backwards."

All five boys stood in unison and surrounded me like they were fencing in a defenseless calf. "We'll get you for this, new guy. You just wait."

They left me trembling in the schoolyard, wondering when their vengeance would find its next victim. They were all bigger than me, football players, Cowboys nonetheless, and all itching for a bloodletting. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Unfortunately for me, it would not be the last time.

Hannah's Parade

Last Saturday (12/4) we went to Manassas early in the morning and watched the Christmas parade. In September, Hannah made the local dance company and they were asked to come and dance in the parade. Actually, we hit three parades in two days. Lots of traveling and lots of running to get her places on time. But in the end, it was all worth it. Below is a video of her dancing in the Manassas parade on Saturday morning. It was very, very cold (in the 30's), but she was a real trooper. And honestly, so was Jacob. He didn't complain one time.

May I just say, I have the best family around. They are so good to me and patient. And talented? Come on! I love my family and cherish every single minute I spend with them. I am so proud of all of them.