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Highlands Today

I Can Always Get A Witness

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By Joyce Minor | Highlands Today

Published: June 28, 2008

We writers live "surrounded by a cloud of witnesses."

When I was 10 years old my family moved from the city to a tiny country town where the school was overcrowded, so all fifth graders - me included - attended an old-fashioned, one-room school.

The teacher, Rhea O'Grady, had taught eight grades in that room for 40-some years. She was 74 and shorter than some of her students, but she ruled the classroom like a drill sergeant.

The first day I eagerly slid into a seat in the second row just left of the middle. Mrs. O'Grady peered at me over her wire-rimmed glasses and jerked her head toward the other side of the room. My fellow students giggled and whispered as I sheepishly crossed the aisle. Apparently, I was the only one who didn't know that in "Old Lady O'Grady's" class, boys sat on the left, girls on the right.

When it was time for recess, Mrs. O'Grady followed us outside with a huge canvas bag which she turned upside down. Out poured baseballs, softballs, and several bats.

Grabbing the baseballs and four bats, the boys raced to a large diamond behind the school and soon had a game going. To my amazement, the girls did the same on a smaller diamond, smacking the softballs into the outfield like pros.

I wandered over to the swings where one girl sat alone. Sheila was plump and shy and I soon learned she too had moved from the city, a year ago.

"Uh-oh," Sheila jumped up from the swing and motioned to me. I turned to see the biggest boy in the class striding toward me. I darted out of his way just as he gave the swing a slashing blow that sent it flying up and over the top bar. Soon it was wound so high no one could reach it. He plopped into the other swing with a grunt.

"Meet Tony." Sheila whispered. "He's thirteen, flunked fifth grade four times, and he's got three to go." I must have looked puzzled so she explained, "You know, till he's old enough to drop out of school."

I stared at the angry mountain of a boy slumped in the swing. He was huge. His black hair was rumpled and shaggy. He wore faded jeans and a dirty T-shirt with the tail hanging out - a no-no in O'Grady's class.

Sheila grabbed my hand, dragging me away.

"Why is he like that?" I couldn't stop looking at him.

"Sh-h-h," Sheila warned. "Like what?"

"You know, angry and mean. Why doesn't he join the ball game? He could probably knock a homerun every time."

Sheila sighed, "Girl, you got a lot to learn. Tony's an Indian. Kids from the reservation don't mix with whites. And they don't finish school, ever."

"What? Why?" I'd heard there was a Chippewa reservation nearby, but I knew nothing about the people there.

Just then Mrs. O'Grady rang the big bell atop the schoolhouse and everyone crowded back into the classroom. Sheila looked at me across the sea of bobbing heads and shrugged.

I looked around at my classmates and soon realized there was another Indian in the fifth grade.

LaVern Longfoot was small and thin. He wore jeans that looked brand new and a crisply pressed plaid shirt. His ebony hair was perfectly combed. He was also one of the smartest students in the class. Mrs. O'Grady always handed our papers back in order of the scores from highest to lowest. LaVern was always among the first to receive his. Tony was always last.

Today, they're both millionaires, but the path between that country school and their pot of gold was not what you'd expect. It's the topic of a half-written novel that maybe I'll finish someday.

Such is the life of a would-be writer. You live haunted by "characters" from the past. It's an obsession. Sometimes you battle it like a recurrent illness. Sometimes you revel in it like a sweet addiction. But you never, never escape it.

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