This is a slightly modified version of a story I wrote back in March of 2008 for the print version of the BHP. Enjoy.
Fairview. It's interesting how a single word can churn up so many thoughts and memories. In a small town in eastern Pennsylvania in the early seventies life was blue collar. Houses were old and small. The people were wonderful and terrible.
Much of my life on Fairview Avenue revolved around the alley behind our house, the open grass lot next to the volunteer fire station just down the block, and Fairview Elementary.
Fairview Elementary was an old box of a building. It was solid red brick. The front doors were at the top of a tall set of concrete steps. The basement was half above and half below ground. It housed the cafeteria and the boiler room. The other two stories were classrooms, hallways and bathrooms. We didn’t get lockers. Each classroom had its own closet where we each had a hook for our coat and shared shelf space for a lunch box if we didn’t eat the cafeteria food that day. Most of the building was surrounded by an asphalt playground. It was on a street corner and the property stretched from Fairview Avenue to the alley. Behind was an empty grass lot across the alley. On one side was a neighbor’s house. In the narrow strip between the school and the house was a bit of rocks and weeds bordered by a tall chain link fence. Poplar Street ran the length of the playground and crossed Fairview Avenue. This is where I learned to fight. It's where I learned to avoid some people. It's where I fell in love the first time. It's also where I learned the nature of a lie.
I was ten. During the summer I had my first broken bone. Along with friends, I had been jumping off the banister on the front porch of our house. I'd done it hundreds of times before. Then came the one time when something didn't go the way it had so many times in the past. My arm went down before my legs. When I picked up my arm to look, I saw a perfect Z shape before the swelling started and turned it into a grapefruit. Both the bones in my left forearm had been broken.
The plaster cast went on. It went from my hand all the way above my elbow. Over time the cast filled with signatures of friends and family. It was my first real experience with a hospital. I remember sitting forever with my balloon arm wondering when they were going to do something. I remember being asked if I wanted my name in the paper.
I had never thought of such a thing. My name in the paper. Wow! Looking back, I understand this was just a standard hospital blurb in the weekly paper. In the more modern time of confidentiality and HIPAA this would likely never happen, but back then in small-town America it was business as usual. The idea both flattered and repulsed me. I would be known by all, but what would they say? Keeping my mind busy helped me to lower the crying and whining I had been doing because of the pain. I survived. Six weeks later, after all the itching, the saw came out, the cast came off and the summer went on. Then came fifth grade.
Fifth grade. The same kids were there from fourth grade. Radell Harding was there. She was a typical blond skinny, budding young lady to others. To me she was sighs and blushes. The game of the school day was kick ball. This was no wimpy little kids' kick ball. This was cut-throat and blood-loss-at-every-game kick ball. Bruises and scrapes were common. Glory and shame for the entire school year road on every game. Fights broke out every couple of weeks. It was wonderful for ten-year-old boys. I got my licks in like the rest. I also sometimes took and gave during the occasional spill-over fight that happened in the neighborhood when all the teachers were gone.
One of the best things for a boy to be able to do at Fairview was to work with the Janitor. I was on the crew. It was great because we could get out of class for the work. We also stayed some extra time in the boiler room. When the work was done, we'd sometimes agree that we were still busily working when we were really tossing paper into the boiler and watching it catch fire, or concocting other risky and destructive behaviors. The janitor was crotchety and rebellious like we were, and we all loved it.
Sometime just before Christmas my name came up for another fun assignment, milk detail. As fifth graders, we all got the chance to get out of class for fifteen minutes or so to go get boxes full of milk cartons and distribute them to the classrooms just before milk break. My turn would begin just after the holiday break in January. I was looking forward to the excuse to escape class each day, but not as much as I was looking forward to the holiday break. I had two things in mind for the holiday, sleeping in and snowballs.
At church there was a buzz. It was Sumo Tom, an unusual name for an unusual boy from an unusual family. The Tom family and our family were good friends. Their kids and those of my family were roughly the same age. Sumo was a year younger than me. They had horses and dogs. We had a dog, but that was it. Jesse Tom was the family patriarch. He was Hawaiian, real native Hawaiian. I was told he was some relation to Don Ho. His wife was Ethel. She had fire-like red hair that matched her personality from my childish perspective. I always thought she looked Irish, but I don’t really know. Sometimes our church put on talent shows. She would dance Hawaiian dances. It always seemed odd to me. She just didn’t look the part. All the kids in the family had cool sounding Hawaiian names.
Sumo fit his name. He was large and round shaped like the famous wrestlers. He had a happy disposition, and all us kids at church liked him. It was Sumo that caused the buzz at church. Just as school was getting out for vacation he had suffered appendicitis. He had to go to the hospital and have his appendix removed. We all got to see the scar. The girls were repulsed. We boys were sudden admirers of the cool stitches. Over the break I thought about appendicitis. Why couldn’t I have it too? I could be cool like Sumo when I went back to school. Oh well. Too bad.
After enjoying our week of frozen heaven, it was back to the grind of Fairview Elementary. My home room teacher was Mrs. Stout. I remember the name because just like Sumo, her name matched her person. She was older, probably not too far from retirement, a real seasoned and experienced teacher, a real veteran. We all knew that she knew her business.
“Welcome back class,” said Mrs. Stout. “How was your vacation?” The conversation went on between the instructor and her students. Each kid was taking their turn describing their Christmas presents, or visits with relatives. I kept thinking on what I would say. Then it struck me. Just one person ahead of me the wild thought crept in. I had no real time to actually think it through. I probably wouldn’t have anyway. Then my turn came. “I got my appendix out,” I blurted. An excited rustle passed through the nervous class.
“You did? When?” She asked.
“Just after Christmas,” I returned. I could see the admiration building in the faces of the other kids.
“Hmm, I didn’t notice your name in the paper.”
Bang! You could have knocked me over with a feather as the saying goes. All I could say was a weak, “What?”
“The paper. When someone goes to the hospital, they write something about it in the newspaper,” she said quizzically.
My face must have changed several colors. My heart raced. My mouth got dry. I was searching. Then it came to me. When I had broken my arm I remembered they asked me if I wanted my name in the paper. “Well, I told them not to print it,” I answered.
“Why not,” she continued.
Heart thumped and sweat came again, then a flash. I got it. “Well, I didn’t want anyone to worry about me, so I told them I didn’t want my name in the paper.”
Whew! I’d dodged a very big bullet. How did I manage that? Someone was looking out for me. Later that day came bullet number two. It happened during recess. One of the kids had a brother who earlier had his appendix out. He told of the stitches and the large scar that resulted. “Hey Mike, show us the stitches!” I hesitated. They weren’t necessarily looking for proof. I wasn’t before the Inquisition, but it felt that way. Of course they were just being like I had been with Sumo. They wanted to see it because it would be cool. My mind again had to race. My heart was thumping. My body heated as I trudged through the sticky swamps in my mind pushing for the answer. The answer as to why I couldn’t show them my stitches. Then it came. Sumo was again my inspiration. I remembered he had to pull off a rather extensive amount of bandages to show us his stitches.
“I can’t. It’s all buried in bandages, and they told me I can’t take them off,” I proclaimed.
A collective sigh from my admirers was followed by my own sigh of relief. They seemed happy with assurances they could see the scar later whenever the doctors let me take off the medical wrappings. I was hopeful that I could push it off long enough that they would all forget about it and not ask later. In this I was right, but as it turns out, I was not out of the quagmire yet.
Milk duty, important words. Mrs. Stout reminded us it was time for the new roster of assignees to take on the responsibility to make sure we all got our daily dose. Ah, that half-pint of cold delicious vitamin D and calcium. She read the names then stopped when she came to mine. “Oh Michael, you can’t do this can you?”
“Why not?” I quizzed.
“Didn’t the doctor tell you no lifting until you were all healed up from your operation?”
“Wadaya mean?!” I’m sure she caught the frustration in me.
“Whenever a person has an operation like yours, they are not allowed to lift heavy items for fear the stitches might rip open when you strain your stomach muscles.”
“But the milk crates aren’t heavy!” I grimaced.
“Nonetheless I can’t let you do it. You’ll have to bring in a note from your parents when it’s OK for you to lift things again. When I get that I’ll try to work you into a future milk detail schedule.”
“How long will that be?!” I protested.
“Well, I’m no doctor,” she replied, “but I’m pretty sure the normal time is six weeks.”
I don’t know how many shades of red my face turned. I was red from fear of being found out. I was red from anger because I couldn’t get out of class for milk detail. I was red because I had no idea how I could convince my mom to write a letter that I was over my nonexistent operation enough to get on a future milk detail.
Six weeks! How could she know that? It couldn’t be that long, could it? Six weeks is forever! My thoughts kept stirring. Then I remembered it was the magical six weeks I had to wear that plaster cast when I broke my arm. Maybe Mrs. Stout was right about that. Dang, why do grownups always have to know so much? The solution was going to take me some time. Six weeks of time to be precise.
So, I needed a note from Mom. Hmmm. This would be difficult. How can I get this done? Well, I was sure she wouldn’t write it. So I guessed I’d just have to write it for her. This would take some real finagling. I needed something that she would write so I could copy it. I needed something that said more or less the same thing as a permission note. Then it hit me. How many times before had Mom written an excuse for my being out of school? Every time I was… SICK! Of course that was it. I had figured it out.
I picked a day to be sick. I did a great job at being sick. I don’t know if she completely bought it, but she bought it enough to let me stay home. Of course, while my parents were at work I had all day to figure out what my milk-carrying, no-appendix-problem note would say. I was smart enough to have my “sick day” about a week before the six-week banishment was up. Sure enough, the next morning before going to work, Mom wrote my excuse for being home sick the day before. I had about an hour from the time she left until I had to be at school. I spent the whole time feverishly creating my forgery for milk duty. I carefully wrote over and over again using the sick note for my model. After what seemed like about a hundred tries, I got a version I thought sounded like the sick note and looked like her hand writing. I went to school and hid the forgery. A week went by. I handed in the permission slip “Mom” wrote. Mrs. Stout added me to the next rotation of milk duty. I was saved.
This is a totally true story. Well, I suppose a few caveats to that assertion would apply. Remember I was a 10-year-old. So the perspective of exactly how things were came from the limited understanding of someone of such a tender and inexperienced point of view. Adding a sort of questionable-ness to all of this is the fact that decades have come and gone since these events. If my understanding was shaky to begin with, it’s even worse now.
As I have recollected this experience in life over time, I’ve decided that in all likelihood Mrs. Stout understood what was really happening from the very start, or at least early on. I can envision in my mind teachers hanging out in their hallowed lounge where no student can enter. I see them in my mind laughing as they told and retold the story of the kid who pretended to have his appendix removed. In fact, I’ve even gone so far as to imagine my masterful forgery hanging on the lounge bulletin board for a reminder to all the teachers.
I did learn something from all this. As it turns out you can’t tell just one lie. Usually lying is an attempt at gaining something when, in reality, by lying you lose freedom. Trust is easy to lose and hard to regain. I wish I could say I never lied again after all that, but I can say it’s been a very long time since I’ve lied. Telling the truth, as it turns out, takes less work. You don’t have to remember what you said to whom. You just have to tell things as you remember them. That’s what I hope I’ve done here. No foolin’.
Fairview. It's interesting how a single word can churn up so many thoughts and memories. In a small town in eastern Pennsylvania in the early seventies life was blue collar. Houses were old and small. The people were wonderful and terrible.
Much of my life on Fairview Avenue revolved around the alley behind our house, the open grass lot next to the volunteer fire station just down the block, and Fairview Elementary.
Fairview Elementary was an old box of a building. It was solid red brick. The front doors were at the top of a tall set of concrete steps. The basement was half above and half below ground. It housed the cafeteria and the boiler room. The other two stories were classrooms, hallways and bathrooms. We didn’t get lockers. Each classroom had its own closet where we each had a hook for our coat and shared shelf space for a lunch box if we didn’t eat the cafeteria food that day. Most of the building was surrounded by an asphalt playground. It was on a street corner and the property stretched from Fairview Avenue to the alley. Behind was an empty grass lot across the alley. On one side was a neighbor’s house. In the narrow strip between the school and the house was a bit of rocks and weeds bordered by a tall chain link fence. Poplar Street ran the length of the playground and crossed Fairview Avenue. This is where I learned to fight. It's where I learned to avoid some people. It's where I fell in love the first time. It's also where I learned the nature of a lie.
I was ten. During the summer I had my first broken bone. Along with friends, I had been jumping off the banister on the front porch of our house. I'd done it hundreds of times before. Then came the one time when something didn't go the way it had so many times in the past. My arm went down before my legs. When I picked up my arm to look, I saw a perfect Z shape before the swelling started and turned it into a grapefruit. Both the bones in my left forearm had been broken.
The plaster cast went on. It went from my hand all the way above my elbow. Over time the cast filled with signatures of friends and family. It was my first real experience with a hospital. I remember sitting forever with my balloon arm wondering when they were going to do something. I remember being asked if I wanted my name in the paper.
I had never thought of such a thing. My name in the paper. Wow! Looking back, I understand this was just a standard hospital blurb in the weekly paper. In the more modern time of confidentiality and HIPAA this would likely never happen, but back then in small-town America it was business as usual. The idea both flattered and repulsed me. I would be known by all, but what would they say? Keeping my mind busy helped me to lower the crying and whining I had been doing because of the pain. I survived. Six weeks later, after all the itching, the saw came out, the cast came off and the summer went on. Then came fifth grade.
Fifth grade. The same kids were there from fourth grade. Radell Harding was there. She was a typical blond skinny, budding young lady to others. To me she was sighs and blushes. The game of the school day was kick ball. This was no wimpy little kids' kick ball. This was cut-throat and blood-loss-at-every-game kick ball. Bruises and scrapes were common. Glory and shame for the entire school year road on every game. Fights broke out every couple of weeks. It was wonderful for ten-year-old boys. I got my licks in like the rest. I also sometimes took and gave during the occasional spill-over fight that happened in the neighborhood when all the teachers were gone.
One of the best things for a boy to be able to do at Fairview was to work with the Janitor. I was on the crew. It was great because we could get out of class for the work. We also stayed some extra time in the boiler room. When the work was done, we'd sometimes agree that we were still busily working when we were really tossing paper into the boiler and watching it catch fire, or concocting other risky and destructive behaviors. The janitor was crotchety and rebellious like we were, and we all loved it.
Sometime just before Christmas my name came up for another fun assignment, milk detail. As fifth graders, we all got the chance to get out of class for fifteen minutes or so to go get boxes full of milk cartons and distribute them to the classrooms just before milk break. My turn would begin just after the holiday break in January. I was looking forward to the excuse to escape class each day, but not as much as I was looking forward to the holiday break. I had two things in mind for the holiday, sleeping in and snowballs.
At church there was a buzz. It was Sumo Tom, an unusual name for an unusual boy from an unusual family. The Tom family and our family were good friends. Their kids and those of my family were roughly the same age. Sumo was a year younger than me. They had horses and dogs. We had a dog, but that was it. Jesse Tom was the family patriarch. He was Hawaiian, real native Hawaiian. I was told he was some relation to Don Ho. His wife was Ethel. She had fire-like red hair that matched her personality from my childish perspective. I always thought she looked Irish, but I don’t really know. Sometimes our church put on talent shows. She would dance Hawaiian dances. It always seemed odd to me. She just didn’t look the part. All the kids in the family had cool sounding Hawaiian names.
Sumo fit his name. He was large and round shaped like the famous wrestlers. He had a happy disposition, and all us kids at church liked him. It was Sumo that caused the buzz at church. Just as school was getting out for vacation he had suffered appendicitis. He had to go to the hospital and have his appendix removed. We all got to see the scar. The girls were repulsed. We boys were sudden admirers of the cool stitches. Over the break I thought about appendicitis. Why couldn’t I have it too? I could be cool like Sumo when I went back to school. Oh well. Too bad.
After enjoying our week of frozen heaven, it was back to the grind of Fairview Elementary. My home room teacher was Mrs. Stout. I remember the name because just like Sumo, her name matched her person. She was older, probably not too far from retirement, a real seasoned and experienced teacher, a real veteran. We all knew that she knew her business.
“Welcome back class,” said Mrs. Stout. “How was your vacation?” The conversation went on between the instructor and her students. Each kid was taking their turn describing their Christmas presents, or visits with relatives. I kept thinking on what I would say. Then it struck me. Just one person ahead of me the wild thought crept in. I had no real time to actually think it through. I probably wouldn’t have anyway. Then my turn came. “I got my appendix out,” I blurted. An excited rustle passed through the nervous class.
“You did? When?” She asked.
“Just after Christmas,” I returned. I could see the admiration building in the faces of the other kids.
“Hmm, I didn’t notice your name in the paper.”
Bang! You could have knocked me over with a feather as the saying goes. All I could say was a weak, “What?”
“The paper. When someone goes to the hospital, they write something about it in the newspaper,” she said quizzically.
My face must have changed several colors. My heart raced. My mouth got dry. I was searching. Then it came to me. When I had broken my arm I remembered they asked me if I wanted my name in the paper. “Well, I told them not to print it,” I answered.
“Why not,” she continued.
Heart thumped and sweat came again, then a flash. I got it. “Well, I didn’t want anyone to worry about me, so I told them I didn’t want my name in the paper.”
Whew! I’d dodged a very big bullet. How did I manage that? Someone was looking out for me. Later that day came bullet number two. It happened during recess. One of the kids had a brother who earlier had his appendix out. He told of the stitches and the large scar that resulted. “Hey Mike, show us the stitches!” I hesitated. They weren’t necessarily looking for proof. I wasn’t before the Inquisition, but it felt that way. Of course they were just being like I had been with Sumo. They wanted to see it because it would be cool. My mind again had to race. My heart was thumping. My body heated as I trudged through the sticky swamps in my mind pushing for the answer. The answer as to why I couldn’t show them my stitches. Then it came. Sumo was again my inspiration. I remembered he had to pull off a rather extensive amount of bandages to show us his stitches.
“I can’t. It’s all buried in bandages, and they told me I can’t take them off,” I proclaimed.
A collective sigh from my admirers was followed by my own sigh of relief. They seemed happy with assurances they could see the scar later whenever the doctors let me take off the medical wrappings. I was hopeful that I could push it off long enough that they would all forget about it and not ask later. In this I was right, but as it turns out, I was not out of the quagmire yet.
Milk duty, important words. Mrs. Stout reminded us it was time for the new roster of assignees to take on the responsibility to make sure we all got our daily dose. Ah, that half-pint of cold delicious vitamin D and calcium. She read the names then stopped when she came to mine. “Oh Michael, you can’t do this can you?”
“Why not?” I quizzed.
“Didn’t the doctor tell you no lifting until you were all healed up from your operation?”
“Wadaya mean?!” I’m sure she caught the frustration in me.
“Whenever a person has an operation like yours, they are not allowed to lift heavy items for fear the stitches might rip open when you strain your stomach muscles.”
“But the milk crates aren’t heavy!” I grimaced.
“Nonetheless I can’t let you do it. You’ll have to bring in a note from your parents when it’s OK for you to lift things again. When I get that I’ll try to work you into a future milk detail schedule.”
“How long will that be?!” I protested.
“Well, I’m no doctor,” she replied, “but I’m pretty sure the normal time is six weeks.”
I don’t know how many shades of red my face turned. I was red from fear of being found out. I was red from anger because I couldn’t get out of class for milk detail. I was red because I had no idea how I could convince my mom to write a letter that I was over my nonexistent operation enough to get on a future milk detail.
Six weeks! How could she know that? It couldn’t be that long, could it? Six weeks is forever! My thoughts kept stirring. Then I remembered it was the magical six weeks I had to wear that plaster cast when I broke my arm. Maybe Mrs. Stout was right about that. Dang, why do grownups always have to know so much? The solution was going to take me some time. Six weeks of time to be precise.
So, I needed a note from Mom. Hmmm. This would be difficult. How can I get this done? Well, I was sure she wouldn’t write it. So I guessed I’d just have to write it for her. This would take some real finagling. I needed something that she would write so I could copy it. I needed something that said more or less the same thing as a permission note. Then it hit me. How many times before had Mom written an excuse for my being out of school? Every time I was… SICK! Of course that was it. I had figured it out.
I picked a day to be sick. I did a great job at being sick. I don’t know if she completely bought it, but she bought it enough to let me stay home. Of course, while my parents were at work I had all day to figure out what my milk-carrying, no-appendix-problem note would say. I was smart enough to have my “sick day” about a week before the six-week banishment was up. Sure enough, the next morning before going to work, Mom wrote my excuse for being home sick the day before. I had about an hour from the time she left until I had to be at school. I spent the whole time feverishly creating my forgery for milk duty. I carefully wrote over and over again using the sick note for my model. After what seemed like about a hundred tries, I got a version I thought sounded like the sick note and looked like her hand writing. I went to school and hid the forgery. A week went by. I handed in the permission slip “Mom” wrote. Mrs. Stout added me to the next rotation of milk duty. I was saved.
This is a totally true story. Well, I suppose a few caveats to that assertion would apply. Remember I was a 10-year-old. So the perspective of exactly how things were came from the limited understanding of someone of such a tender and inexperienced point of view. Adding a sort of questionable-ness to all of this is the fact that decades have come and gone since these events. If my understanding was shaky to begin with, it’s even worse now.
As I have recollected this experience in life over time, I’ve decided that in all likelihood Mrs. Stout understood what was really happening from the very start, or at least early on. I can envision in my mind teachers hanging out in their hallowed lounge where no student can enter. I see them in my mind laughing as they told and retold the story of the kid who pretended to have his appendix removed. In fact, I’ve even gone so far as to imagine my masterful forgery hanging on the lounge bulletin board for a reminder to all the teachers.
I did learn something from all this. As it turns out you can’t tell just one lie. Usually lying is an attempt at gaining something when, in reality, by lying you lose freedom. Trust is easy to lose and hard to regain. I wish I could say I never lied again after all that, but I can say it’s been a very long time since I’ve lied. Telling the truth, as it turns out, takes less work. You don’t have to remember what you said to whom. You just have to tell things as you remember them. That’s what I hope I’ve done here. No foolin’.
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