(BLOGGER'S NOTE: This blog is on vacation for several days. In the meantime, we offer this "Know Your Blogger" series -- excerpts from our autobiography, in the shadow of our 50th birthday in August.)
We pick up our story with the start of fifth grade, and a teacher named Mr. Davis. He was a bland glasses-wearing man, who reminded me a lot of Jack Benny. Except instead of telling jokes, he threatened our class with no story-reading if we didn't behave.
I spent first through fourth grade the same shell group of students, which some people considered the brightest group. But for some reason, I was "sent down" a notch for fifth grade -- as if all the others in the class would be inspired by my example. But not even the in-school handout of Gideon New Testaments seemed to do that.
Mr. Davis quickly decided he had someone reliable and trustworthy in me. When he left class and assigned two students to "take names" of the talkers, I was often the first person picked. Too bad he didn't organize the kickball teams at recess....
But other fifth-grade students decided Mr. Davis was playing favorites, and they didn't like it. One of them was a notorious troublemaker named Bill. One day he stormed back from the school library after hearing I'd taken his name down, and shoved my desk on its side with me still sitting in it. Then he saw I'd crossed his name off the list -- and he became like the Soviet Union under Mikhail Gorbachev.
I had my first crushes on girls in fifth grade. Diane in the next row wasn't interested. So I kept the second one quiet -- for about two years.
When spelling bee time came, I won the grade for the second year in a row. And I moved up seven spots to eighth place in the school bee -- moving up faster than a team which beats Georgia in college football.
I also was named to the school "Honors Chorus" in fifth grade -- and director Mrs. Wooten sparked my first real interest in politics, when her husband ran for the school board. I kept asking my Mother if she voted for Mr. Wooten. Finally she caved in and said she did. But she wouldn't tell me any more, saying the polling place was a private matter. Of course, back then so were candidates' tax returns....
Our grade school held Kindergarten through sixth grade, so I ended the elementary years back at the "top level" under Mrs. Ware. She actually led the class every day in not only the Pledge of Allegiance, but the Lord's Prayer. I didn't realize the local Catholic schools were stealing so many children.
With school crush #2 kept a secret all year, I admittedly did some strange things with other girls. I pulled up one girl's elastic headband during class (no, I wasn't punished for it) -- and organized a group of guys to pick on another one during recess. I stood quietly alongside, and felt for a moment like a good Mafia boss.
But I still had friends in sixth grade -- especially when recess was approaching. I was recommended by other students, when there were two minutes left to read aloud an article from "My Weekly Reader." Moments like that helped fuel my dream of becoming a play-by-play sportscaster.
I spent a second year in the Honors Chorus -- and that led to a tough decision one spring evening. I either sang with the chorus at a concert, or played on an off-school basketball team in a playoff game. I chose music, primarily because I was a substitute on the basketball team. Of course, that was the night the team would run short on players due to foul trouble....
I became a music sensation in sixth grade, but in a bizarre way. For a PTA talent show, I put on a long wig and grabbed a toy ukelele to imitate TV phenomenon Tiny Tim -- singing his one hit, "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." It brought me an appearance or two at downtown dinners. So how did he wind up married, while I'm still not?
Reviewing my sixth-grade yearbook, one boy wrote a rhyme: "Roses are red, your face is black, you'd look better with a knife in your back!" How innocent the times were back then....
I entered Coronado Junior High School several weeks late, because a urologist finally figured out the source of my bladder control problem. All sorts of different pills had failed, but this doctor said surgery would solve things. My mom later admitted she was ready to take me to the Mayo Clinic -- since Marcus Welby M.D. simply didn't bring this topic up on TV.
The source of the problem wasn't really discovered until after a first round of exploratory surgery. The second operation followed a night of comforting in my hospital room by a minister named Mundinger. That seemed like a silly last name to me -- and I fear I actually told him that.
The big day came for the second operation -- and I recall screaming very loudly until the sedatives took effect. Some people in Columbus could learn from this example....
The second operation worked, but I needed an incision in my "secret parts" to gain the victory. Doctors said I could NOT run or exercise for about a month. When I was allowed to join other children on a K.U. Medical Center playground one day, my mom said the words which make doctors quake in their shoes -- malpractice suit.
But the suit was never filed, and I actually got along well with the doctors who handled my case. One day I complemented a doctor for writing a prescription that I could actually read -- and the lead urologist shook his hand to congratulate him on the spot.
With a mix of intensive care and IV fluids, art therapy and homework assigned by junior high school teachers, I made it through what I called in a freshman college essay "The 30-Day Lifetime." A life of shame over wetting my pants suddenly was over. Now all I had to do was get through junior high school....
Entering junior high several weeks late didn't stop me from doing well in my classes. But for awhile, I could only walk at school -- with running still not allowed. I became a master of "super-slo-mo" football practice in my bedroom.
(The exception was third-hour "shop." I still have a couple of leather coasters I made in that class -- but my skills were so faulty in General Shop, I wouldn't even qualify for Private.)
To help with the late arrival, I was enrolled in a lunch-hour study hall. That became a problem when other students decided I was an easy target. For several days, they gave me their used lunch trays and make me take them back to the counter. I'm not sure even those Greensboro college students in 1960 had to do that.
The study hall teacher finally intervened. Then my mother intervened, deciding I didn't need study hall anymore. I was moved to a choir class in the second semester -- while I switched in another to physical education. Awkward moments in the locker room led to a couple of students challenging me to a fight. Once I agreed, but didn't show up -- but the opponent at least had enough sense not to punch me out later.
But someone down the block from me decided to make me a target as well. He went after me for weeks, during the two-block walk home from the bus stop -- several times with fists. Trying to outrun him failed. Talk of carrying a hidden glass soda bottle was discouraged. He finally stopped after my parents visited his parents. Hmmmm -- did they threaten a lawsuit, too?
I had weekly Monday counseling sessions at the Medical Center during seventh grade -- supposedly because my father thought part of my bladder control problem was mental, not physical. My parents were in simultaneous support group counseling, too. A check of the records showed my dad talked openly about divorcing my mom. They stayed together largely because of me -- as if two bowling nights a week by my dad meant "together."
Seventh grade also introduced me to Saturday night "Teen Town" dances at the junior high school. The bands were 1970's rockers which could ruin your eardrums, but the only dance I knew how to do was the Russian saber dance kind.
At one Teen Town night, I finally revealed Crush #2 -- but indirectly, asking someone else to tell a girl named Martha about my interest. She wasn't interested in me. And that was a relief, because I honestly didn't know what to do next.
That opened the door for a friendship with a girl who actually admired me, and I admired in return. Teresa signed her name "JG73T" -- as in Jolly Giant, 73 inches tall.
(Teresa eventually went to medical school, and I've lost track of her. She wanted to be friends, but nothing more -- and time has shown deja vu really DOES happen.)
As seventh grade ended, my older brother graduated from the University of Kansas. I was so thrilled that I called him "The College Graduate" for almost a solid year afterward -- just like years before, I declared him "Mr. President" for leading the high school German Club.
Eighth grade was a bit calmer for me, as the counseling sessions and the picking-on stopped. I didn't even get in trouble for enrolling in a "Chef's Class" with a home economics teacher.
In fact, my most memorable moments of eighth grade occurred away from junior high school. In youth league basketball, there was a consolation playoff game where my team rallied from ten points down with two minutes to play and won third place. I had such a great seat on the high school gymnasium bench for that....
Late in the fourth quarter of an earlier game, the son of Kansas City "All-Star Wrestling" broadcaster Bill Kersten drove toward the hoop. I was the only player in his way -- and I stopped his lay-up with a hand-on-ball clean block, which left him called for traveling! Add that to the two baskets I made all season, and it was quite a year.
I also played on a youth softball team for years -- but there was a falling-out during this time, when I quit the team largely because of parental pressure to have the manager play me. At least I THINK that's what happened. You always blame the agents, not your own actions....
We received no certificates for graduating grade school or junior high. But I received a two-part lapel pin of sorts from the junior high school. I think it was for good grades -- but if I really was that smart, I'd remember the reason for getting it.
(Our series will continue in our next post on Friday)
Our number of unique visitors is now up 31 percent from last year. To advertise to our readers, offer a story tip or comment on this blog, write me - but be warned, I may post your e-mail comment and offer a reply.
BURKARD BULK MAIL INDEX: Suspended for vacation
The views expressed in this blog are solely those of the author -- not necessarily those of anyone else in Columbus living or dead, and perhaps not even you.
© 2003-08 Richard Burkard, all rights reserved.