CHRISTMAS LETTER 2012



     Okay, I was going to begin a new chapter, but my wife and daughter said I should have put my Christmas letter on my blog.  So, following is the infamous Maberry Christmas letter for 2012.

 

 

+MABERRY CHRISTMAS 2012

 

     Merry Christmas to all our family and friends!  We hope this season will be a special time for each of you.     

     Every year, I anxiously await the return of Christmas.   It never keeps me waiting.   It was different when I was a child.  I had to wait several years for its arrival.  Now it comes two or three times a year, sometimes four.  I’m convinced this is due to the earth slipping off its axis, although Connie insists that I’m the one who has slipped off his axis, as I’ve been spinning out of control for some time.

     This past year has been especially difficult as I’ve had a constant struggle with guilt.  Connie finally discovered the problem. I had failed to send out a Christmas letter in 2011.  Yes, there were those who wrote me a note of thanks, saying they appreciated the break from such drivel.  But I paid no attention to those frivolous comments.   

      I knew I didn’t want to go through another year like that.  So yesterday I made the decision: “Connie, I’m going to send out some more Christmas drivel this year.”  She wept.  I think she missed the letter, too.      

     Many have asked me how I got started doing Christmas letters.   It was in 1984, while we were living in Michigan, that I began my first letter.  Some of you may still have it.  If so, see how much you can fetch on “Antique Roadshow.”   

     It was actually Connie who started the Christmas letter.  She decided it would be much easier doing a letter, than sending out all the cards. 

     “Okay, write a letter,” I said.

     “No, I thought you could do one,” she answered. 

     “Okay, okay, I’ll give it a try and see what happens.”  

     I thought about the Christmas letters we had received.  I always enjoyed reading them, but I knew I could never compete with the families I had read about.  The husband and wife were both making a couple hundred thousand a year, had visited 125 countries, and all the kids were child prodigies, having graduated from college at age nine.  There was no hint of rebellion, drugs, imprisonment, ties to Al Qaeda…anything.  No one in the family had even suffered a hangnail.  By the time I would finish their letters, I was depressed.  They were living a life that I couldn’t even find in my dreams.

     But I had to compete, if we were going to get our names written into the “Who’s Who of Christmas Letters.”  So I began my first letter, touting our family’s achievements.  The letter ended after a couple sentences.  I would have to find more to write about-- maybe borrow some achievements from other families.  I finally decided I would just be myself, sharing about our family over the past year, embellishing it with a little humor; kind of the way my mind looks at life.   And, so the annual Maberry Christmas letter was born.  Now, let the latest drivel for 2012 begin!

      It has been a busy year for Connie and I…a year filled with texting, Solitaire, Facebook, checking email, and waiting for our orders at Starbucks.      

     Always looking for a creative edge, I considered texting everyone my Christmas letter this year.  But my thumbs weren’t up to the challenge.  Besides, I was concerned about deletions and exploding phones. 

     Texting is an interesting phenomenon, although it can lead to a loss of speech.  If this happens to you, you will eventually need speech therapy, so you can re-learn how to speak again, rather than grunting.  But texting is a great tool for communicating.  And it’s quiet.   

     For example, the other day, Connie and I got into a bit of a texting scuffle.  She had gone to the post office.  When she came out, the car wouldn’t start.  For some reason, she found this extremely inconvenient.  I was working in Seattle.  So she sent me a text.  I sent a text back, suggesting a plan.  She didn’t like the plan.  I suggested another plan.  She didn’t like the plan.  I finally found a plan she liked.  Then the car started.  That made the plan much more palatable.  Now she wouldn’t have to push the car down the street to Les Schwab.  She could drive it.  Les Schwab checked the battery.  Connie sent me a text:  The battery is very bad!  Why didn’t you have them check it when they put on the new tires?  I sent a text reply:  Just had battery checked eight years ago.  Bad text!  She sent back another text, questioning the timely manner in which I had battery checked.  Then she took aim with blazing thumbs.  Text:  Why didn’t you…blah…blah…blah?  Text:  Couldn’t you blah…blah…blah?  Text:  And what about blah…blah?  I sent a text reply:  You forgot a blah.  Bad text!  Blahs began flying everywhere.  I couldn’t get a text in edgewise.  Finally, there was a lull.  I figured she was just cooling her thumbs in a bucket of ice water.  So I typed a text:  I hope no one heard you texting!  She had re-loaded.  Her text reached me before mine had time to discharge.  While mine was standing by in Drafts, I was getting the blahs…blah…blah…blah.  I finally had to go in to a Starbucks and ask for a sleeve for my phone.  It was too hot to hold.   I was thankful we were able to resolve the issue quietly.   

     As most of you know, I suffer from acute S.A.D. (Shopping Anxiety Disorder)  I’m usually sedated until Christmas Eve, then I run out and look for the perfect, last-minute gift.   Last year I came out just in time to get Connie a gift card for a root canal.  It wasn’t the perfect gift, but it was last minute.  She said she would have preferred an Extreme Makeover, as long as it was the Home Edition. 

     This year, she wanted me to act like a man, and meet the holidays head-on.  So the day after Thanksgiving, I was involved in a high-impact collision with Black Friday. I figured it was probable payback for the gift card.  The day began rather quietly, as I relaxed in my recliner and watched highlights of the Black Friday shopping wars.   Before I could find out who won, I was summoned to Walmart.     

     There I found myself competing in the Black Friday Challenge.  This is Walmart’s version of the “Corn Maze.” But, instead of weaving your way through cornstalks, you’re weaving your way through shopping carts. 

     Drivers have to dodge carts that have been positioned randomly throughout the parking lot.  The objective is to avoid being hit by these unmanned carts, as they roll toward your newly washed and waxed collector. While maneuvering through the parking lot, drivers must also be alert for other drivers who are competing in the Challenge. 

     It’s not for the faint of heart.  For safety reasons, anyone entering the Challenge should be in good health, and free from high blood pressure, heart, back or neck problems, motion sickness, nervous disorders, or other conditions that could be aggravated by the Challenge.

     Expectant mothers and those who have P.A.D. (Parking Anxiety Disorder) should stay home.    

     The Challenge tests a driver’s alertness, reaction time, and ability to refrain from shouting at unmanned carts, and imaginary people. 

     It’s being considered as a future Olympic event, called Extreme Parking.  I saw a couple of cars make some very nice moves, as they swerved around, and in between, numerous shopping carts, finally maneuvering their way into a parking space. 

     One gentleman didn’t read the rules about remaining in your car.  He had jumped out, shoved one cart out of the way, and was yelling at anyone grasping a cart handle to return it to a cart stall immediately, or they could forget Santa.  I guess there is always going to be one poor sport.

     I didn’t fair too well in my first Challenge.   I jumped a median and ran over some shrubs in an attempt to squeeze between carts, and park the car.  I was disqualified, and had to return home.

     After several days of exercises to strengthen my neck, I was ready to meet my next challenge head-on…the Mall.  Remembering the last time she found me cowering and whimpering in a corner of Ladies Apparel, Connie exhorted me to be brave, then she promptly left me to fend for myself while she did a little shopping.  I stumbled upon a nice cup of coffee and an eight grain roll at Starbucks that I combined with a sports page that someone had left on a table.  Together, they provided a nice calming effect for my shopping disorder.  I considered the day to be a tremendous success. 

     Connie found herself in the “American Girl” store; a very dangerous place to find yourself.  If you have a granddaughter, you know “American Girl.”     If you have a granddaughter and DON’T know “American Girl,” you’re deceased.  By the time Connie came out, I was on my third cup of coffee, had read the sports pages of several papers, and was now nervously pacing the mall, knowing that it was cheaper delivering a real baby, than buying an “American Girl” doll.  

     When I saw her walk out of the store carrying a bag, my heart started to make a run for my mouth, but she quickly informed me it wasn’t a doll, just several hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. (I’m just kidding on the amount for clothes.  That’s called “embellishing” for effect.  And I’m more than happy to embellish it.)

     I was going to share some highlights from our trips to France, Italy, Greece, and several other countries, but we didn’t go.  I considered borrowing some highlights from a friend’s Christmas letter, but suspected he might recognize it as his own trip.   Anyway, it would have required too much drivel.

     Apart from allergies, sinus infections, bronchial pneumonia, and other assorted ailments, all the kids and grandkids are doing well.

     We enjoyed Leavenworth this fall with Michael and Mindy, and their family.  It’s always a fun time of swimming, shopping, eating black ice cream, and just relaxing.  On the drive over, Grandpa gets to ride in the back of the van and referee the backseat turf wars. 

     Brett, now 10, loves to read and draw.  One of his favorite things to do is go to Barnes and Noble with Grandpa, where we both read and write together.  When he’s not reading or writing, he enjoys taunting his brother and sister.

     Mallory is now 7, and practicing her fashion runway form.  She is definitely the princess of the family. 

     Four year old Braxten is growing up quickly.  He loves staying busy, whether it’s work, sports, or just prepping in the kitchen.   The other day he had on his chef’s hat, and was making pancakes.  We expect to see him on the Food Channel…Pancake Throwdown with Braxten Sayler.       

     Connie and I also went to Philly in October.  We enjoyed time with Chris and the boys, along with her parents and two of her sisters.  We just had one evening with Justin, as he flew out to Las Vegas the next morning for six weeks, working on the election. 

     Carter is now 10 and, like Brett, loves to read.  He also has an extensive baseball card collection. 

     Jaxon is 7, and loves school, especially the social part. 

     We enjoyed watching the boys ride bikes, play baseball, and carve pumpkins.  We even did some babysitting, while Chris enjoyed time with friends.      

     As I close this year, I hope everyone remembers the reason for this season.  It’s not about you, or me, or what’s under the Christmas tree.  It’s about the nativity, and the manger you see, with the Christ child, who came into this world to save a wretch like me.  It is our wish that you have made Him a central figure in your life, for He is the reason for this season.

     Again, we wish you all a Merry CHRISTmas!

 

    

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

CHRISTMAS DECOR SHOWDOWN - Final segment (Scroll  down for earlier segments)

     On one of Connie’s trips to the store for more lights, she returned with a large box which held inflatable Christmas characters.  “Since we had nothing in the yard, I thought we could add this to our display of nothing,” she said.

     I had a flashback; then staggered backwards, like I had just received a glancing blow to the head.  “I remember this picture as a kid,” I said fearfully.  “I remember Mom wanting more than lights.  She wanted a full nativity scene, with carved, wooden, life-sized figures of the wise men, Mary and Joseph, sheep, cattle, and a cast of thousands.  I had to convince her to save the cast of thousands for the Red Sea crossing, hopefully, after I had left home, and wouldn’t have to direct traffic.

     “No, no; this will be nothing like your childhood experience,” insisted Connie.

     As soon as I started opening the box, I knew we were headed for trouble.  “This one is going to apply to the ‘Box Law,’” I said. 

     “What’s the ‘Box Law’?” Connie asked.

     “What comes out of the original box will only go back into a box twice its size,” I answered.  As soon as something is removed from a box, Alien powers cause its contents to grow.  It’s just part of the Christmas Twilight Zone.”

     Nevertheless, I finally got our inflatable blown up, which left me exhausted and out of breath.  Then I saw the cord and realized I could have plugged it in and achieved the same result.  I also learned that you don’t just blow up an inflatable and seal the hole with a plug.  You have to keep the fan running for them to stay upright.

     Nearby, they actually have a Bah, Humbug tour where you can drive around looking at inflatables lying in people’s yards.  If a neighborhood has a lot of them, they usually asked for a canned food donation. 

     Every year we usually drive around with the kids, enjoying our local Parade of Lights, but one year we decided to try a new approach.  In keeping with Scrooge’s Bah, Humbug spirit, we drove around admiring the homes with no lights.  We called it the Parade of Darkness. 

     “Look! There’s a nice home with no lights.”

     “Grandpa, shine the lights on that house.  I can’t quite see it.”

     “Did a can of soup just hit the car?”

     Bah, Humbug!  This may catch on.

     This past Christmas, while driving home and enjoying our local Trail of Lights (which we call rush hour after dark), I was inspired to add to the Christmas spirit.  I came up with the idea of flashing red and blue headlights.  I thought they were starting to catch on when I saw someone behind me with flashing red and blue lights, only he had his on top of his car.  After discussing our lights, I agreed to drop out of the competition.  In keeping with the Christmas spirit, I complimented him on his lights, and we both enjoyed the holidays.

 

 

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CHRISTMAS DECOR SHOWDOWN - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

      When I was a kid, we had men’s lights…lights that were tough; lights you could take out of the box and pound with a hammer, and they wouldn’t break.  Try blasting them with a shotgun, and they would just laugh.  They were about the size of car lights.  The limbs drooped a bit when you strung them on the tree, but they lit up the place.  There were no flashing lights; just high beam and low beam.   If your parents thought you were snooping around the tree, checking out your gifts, they would turn on the high beam.  For the next week, your gifts would look like white dots.   

     Those were Christmases to remember; with men’s lights that burned forever.

     These new Christmas lights are so tiny and fragile.  Why don’t they just stamp FRAGILE…DO NOT OPEN on the box?  I’ve found its much easier plugging in the lights while they’re still in the box.  People enjoy driving by and seeing my flashing boxes.   

     Today’s lights require constant care.  Before I realized Christmas lights were on a mission to destroy my life, I did everything possible to keep them happy and shining brightly.  I treated them with tender, loving affection…cradling them in my arms, caressing them…

      “Would you like a rocking chair?” my wife would ask.

     “No, I think they’re almost ready to be plugged in,” I would  answer, as I continued talking to them in a soft voice, even kissing them, which I don’t recommend immediately after you unplug them unless you want burnt lips.  After Christmas, I would gently and neatly lay them to rest in their box until next year.

     Next Christmas would come and I would carefully open my box of lights. What would I find?  Lights worse than tangled fishing line and, as a bonus…LIGHTS THAT DIDN’T WORK!  My first thought was, the light brigade; attack mice destroying my lights, seeking revenge for some relatives we refused to take in.  But, after talking to Christmas light scientists, I discovered that this is a universal problem.  It’s called the “Law of the Christmas Lights.”  Whatever shines brightly this year must short out before next Christmas.  It’s more certain than the Law of Gravity.  We can put a man on the moon, but can’t get the lights to work.  As soon as I discovered it was impossible to reason with lights; that they were utterly depraved and hopeless, I quit whispering sweet nothings into their sockets and gave my lips a chance to heal.

     Maybe some Christmas we can sit down at the bargaining table and sign a peace accord, but with a mind of their own I doubt if the lights would agree to it.

 

 

To be continued...check back soon

CHRISTMAS DECOR SHOWDOWN - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)


      Next to hanging shirts from doorknobs, I enjoy watching the neighbors decorate for Christmas.

     On occasion I will even lend a helping hand…“Hang on to that eave, Norm, and I’ll get a ladder so you’ll have something to stand on.”

     “Why can’t you hang lights from the eaves, like Norm?” asked Connie.

     “I could, but Norm’s using my ladder.  Besides, the lights refuse to leave their warm box.”     

     “I’m sure they would be more cooperative if you would quit screaming and put down that rifle.  And, no, they don’t want to ride with you to the shooting range.”      

     Wanting to please my wife and have some dinner, I agreed to string the lights.  “Here, hold the gun,” I said, “while I try to get them out of the box.  And don’t be afraid to pull that trigger if they start making threatening gestures.   

     I removed the lights from the box without incident.  Then I walked over to Norm’s.  “Sorry, Norm, but I need my ladder.”  I tried to ignore his screams as I carried the ladder around the house.

     During the brief cease-fire, I quickly fastened the lights to the eaves along the house.  They refused to shine.

     “Why don’t you try this new device?” asked my wife.  It’s called a ‘Light String Saver.’  You can test the lights to see if they are working.”

     “I just plugged in the lights.  I don’t need a ‘Light String Saver’ to tell me its dark out here.” 

     “But one bulb may be the reason they’re not shining,” Connie continued.

     “If that’s the case, hand me the hammer and I’ll fix the problem.”

     In theory, one bulb is the culprit in keeping 67 other bulbs from shining brightly.  This is just theory.  In reality, none of the 67 bulbs work, and they’re not planning on working, but taking each one out and testing it gives you something to occupy your time while you’re waiting for the return of summer.

 

 

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CHRISTMAS DECOR SHOWDOWN - Opening segment (Scroll down for earlier chapters)

 

     I was out for a drive recently, when I noticed a bumper sticker on the car in front of me.  As I got closer, I could see P-E-A-C-E in big red letters.  I had to laugh.  It was obvious this person had never dealt with Christmas lights.     

     I have spent years attempting to negotiate a peace agreement with Christmas lights, and I can tell you this: It would be easier negotiating with terrorists.

     Christmas is supposed to be a wonderful time of year with all its lights and good cheer.  Even I, myself, will attempt to exhibit good cheer, but it usually ends when I pull the Christmas lights out of the box.  “Leave us in the box where it’s warm,” they’ll say.  “We don’t like hanging out in the cold.”  

     “I’m here on orders from the General…my wife,” I counter, “So come with me.” 

     Every year I try to be prepared for a confrontation with Christmas décor, but nothing can prepare you for the attack of the lights.     

     This past Christmas they were especially disagreeable.  As soon as I had gotten them out of the box and began strangling…I mean untangling them, we got into a shouting match that included a lot of pushing and shoving.  The neighbors called the police to come and separate us.  I thought for sure they would cite the lights for assault and battery, and throw them in the back of their car; but they just seemed amused that the lights had me in a take-down hold.  They laughed and drove off, leaving me to fend for myself.  I tried to shake my head.  “No justice,” I gasped. 

     The lights seem to exhibit much better behavior around my wife.  She will take them out of the box and they will say, “Oh, you don’t need to untangle us; we can untangle ourselves.  Then she will plug them in and they will lay there, smiling and shining brightly. 

     Every year she wants me to hang them from the eaves.  I prefer hanging shirts from doorknobs.   

     This year she noticed some of our lights were missing.  “Where did we put those lights?” she asked.       

     “Those were the lights that rode with me to the shooting range,” I answered.  “They got spooked by the sound of my high-powered assault rifle and ran off into the woods.  I’m surprised they haven’t found their way back.”   

     “Well, I’m going to go out and buy more lights,” Connie said.

     “Wait! I’ll go with you.  I need to buy more doorknobs.” 

     “If you keep putting up doorknobs, I won’t have any more room for hanging my pictures,” moaned Connie. 

     “Doorknobs are so much easier than lights,” I answered, “And shirts look so nice hanging from a doorknob.  Besides, you can have the entire closet to yourself, and we won’t have to add on.  I can lay my slacks over the back of a chair.”

     “That means you’ll have to go out and buy more chairs,” said Connie. 

     Next Christmas, we’re going to have an open house and give tours…”Look at those nice shirts on the doorknobs…and what a great-looking pair of slacks on the back of that chair.”  We might even get some canned food donations.  I just hope Connie doesn’t ask me to string lights from my shirts.

 

 

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THE ENFORCER - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     One of Miss Hatchet’s hobbies was hovering.  She was always looking over your shoulder to see how your work was coming along.   This is probably why she was always telling me to sit up in my seat.  I would sit so low, trying to avoid her, she couldn’t find my shoulders.  She would just stop and stare at the small mass in my chair.   “Is that you, Mr. Maberry?” 

     “Yes, Miss Hatchet.”

     “Well, you need to sit up, so I can look over your shoulder.”

     “Yes, Miss Hatchet.”

     Between her iron hand and hovering, she was an overpowering presence.  At night, I would dream of her hovering over me, holding dripping, wet math papers that she had rescued from the irrigation ditch, where they had gone on a joy ride.  “Mr. Maberry, look what I found, with your name on them.”  I would bolt upright, with my heart in my mouth.  “I’m sorry Miss Hatchet!  They must have slipped out of my notebook when I was walking by the ditch.  Next time I will keep them under lock and key.”  Then I would awaken, to the terrible taste of heart in my mouth, realizing it was just a horrible nightmare.     

     “Is your work done, Mr. Maberry?”   I don’t know why Miss Hatchet asked me such a silly question.  Mine was always a work in progress…kind of like your tax dollars at work.   She expected me to have my schoolwork completed by the end of the day.  The problem was our differing views on the definition of “the end of the day”.  Miss Hatchet’s “end of day” was the school dismissal bell.  Mine was anytime beyond bedtime.  Her day didn’t allow me enough time to complete my work.  My day would have allowed enough time if I would have remembered it before the next morning.
 

      To strengthen my memory skills, Miss Hatchet would keep me after school, and use me for sport with math problems.  “Try this one…try that one…here’s a nice problem"…and on it went.  After several sessions, I became restless and decided it was time for a break, as in daring escape.  I waited until she walked the school bus kids out to their bus.  As soon as she went out the back door, I shot out the front door, completely ignoring the possibility of finding my picture tacked to a utility pole, with a sizeable bounty on my head.  I ran like the wind for home.  Actually, I think I passed the wind along the way.  Arriving home, I ran inside and quickly slammed the door, making sure to push the couch in front of it, in case the Enforcer tried to break it down.  All of a sudden she appeared, like an apparition, hovering at the door, motioning for me to come out.  I closed my eyes, and then opened them again, to see if the apparition was real.  It was.  I figured I might as well save the door, and walk out under my own power. 

     Getting into her car, I told her Mom wouldn’t want me riding around town with a young girl. (I was hoping flattery would save my life.)  “I’m sure your mom won’t mind you riding to school with an old lady,” said Miss Hatchet.  “Now, let’s get back and finish those math problems that are patiently waiting to be solved.”

     I questioned whether I could survive this overpowering presence until the end of the year.  To your good fortune, I survived.

     After a year with Miss Hatchet, summer never looked sweeter.  Skies were bluer, the birds chirped louder, the days were longer, there were no assignments to complete, and my wandering mind had rejoined me for a summer of fun.  It was a wonderful time to be alive.

     Years later, when I became a teacher, and my students had wandering minds and difficulty completing assignments, my time in The Enforcer’s class had prepared me for it.  I just hope kids didn’t hear the scratching inside the wall in the cloakroom.

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THE ENFORCER - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     I always dreamed of reciting a sports score or sharing some fascinating weather trivia, but dreams never came true in Miss Hatchet’s class…just math problems that always seemed to need immediate attention. 

     ”Mr. Maberry, would you please work this problem?” asked Miss Hatchet, barely able to conceal her joy, as I stood alone at the blackboard.  My legs quivered, as my hands fumbled with the chalk.  I stared at the problem; it stared at me, refusing to leave the board.  Everyone’s attention was riveted on me as they waited for an answer.  I hated the riveting, but I had no answer.  While they waited, I prayed…for an earthquake…flooding…appendicitis…kidney stones…anything to avoid the menacing glare of the problem waiting restlessly to be solved.  If I waited much longer, I was certain it would start pacing back and forth, across the front of the board.

     Glancing at Miss Hatchet, I knew I didn’t have much time left.  I had to make a move.  I remembered the advice of an old math sage…”If you don’t know the answer, guess.  You always have a chance of being right.”  So I guessed.  Then I heard a voice in the math wilderness saying, “Very good, Mr. Maberry.”  It was the voice of The Enforcer.  I had guessed correctly.  Overcome with emotion, I grabbed a desk to steady myself.  Everyone cheered.  I felt like a hero.  I had gone to the blackboard and conquered my nemesis…a nasty math problem.  Returning to my desk, I hunkered down, and waited for my next confrontation with numbers.

     On occasion, a student would bring an apple for Miss Hatchet.  I couldn't understand that.  Why would you bring an apple to someone who was always running you to the blackboard at the most inconvenient time; when you were staring out the window, trying to enjoy the great outdoors.  That's why I preferred bringing a bone.  With my life always in the balance, I figured if The Enforcer became too upset with me, I would just throw the bone into the middle of the room, and hope she went after it, while I was fleeing down the hall.

    


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THE ENFORCER - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     “My dad said I’d better behave for Miss Hatchet because she rules with an iron hand,” Jimmy informed us.   

      “Wow, I’ve never seen anyone with an iron hand,” said Tony.

      “Neither have I,” Billy chimed in.  “Maybe she’ll let me borrow it for show and tell.”  

     “I’m sure we’ll all get to see it,” I said, nervously looking over my shoulder.    

     I didn’t know why Miss Hatchet needed an iron hand.  Her piercing eyes were enough to make you grab your heart, for fear it would burst through your shirt at any moment.    

     Hanging up our coats in the cloakroom, we could hear faint scratching inside the wall and wondered if it was a student from last year, who hadn’t completed his work.    

     Reading, writing, and math were Miss Hatchet’s priorities.  Having spent considerable time with Gramps, I thought she should be instructing us in how to schedule doctors’ appointments, fill out medical forms, and how to get our pillboxes in order.  She wasn’t interested in my priorities.  According to the Enforcer, my sole purpose in fourth grade was to read, write, and figure out numbers.  It was obviously more than I could handle.  School was a long seventeen months that year.

     If Miss Hatchet left the room, no one moved, because she had a way of appearing without notice.  If you got out of your seat while she was out of the room, she would appear like she had just slipped under the door.  We never could figure out how she got the iron hand under the door, but there it was, looming over us.  You had to scoot over in your seat when she walked by, so the hand wouldn't hit you in the head and knock you unconcious.  It silenced any talk of mutiny.    

    Miss Hatchet had one student who was the apple of her eye.  No, it wasn’t me.  I was the bait.  She would feed me to the blackboard, where I would be devoured my math problems.

     I tried to stay out of her sight by sitting behind the biggest student in class, but The Enforcer would hear the beads of perspiration dripping from my forehead and splashing on the floor, creating a small pool.  “Mr. Maberry,” she would say sternly, “would you please come to the board.”  I would remove myself from inside the student’s shirt in front of me and slither to the front of the class. 

    

THE ENFORCER - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)

     It was ten o’clock in the morning.  I had been sleeping soundly, preparing for the fourth grade, when I was rudely awakened by my mother.  “I talked to your new teacher this morning,” she said.

     “Who was that?” I asked, holding my breath in anticipation.

     “Miss Hatchet,” mom answered.

      All my breath packed up its bags and fled out the window.  I would be spending my entire year with Miss Hatchet, better known as “The Enforcer,” a partner in scare tactics with the “Intimidator.”

     I remember riding my bike around town.  I would pedal by Miss Hatchet’s home.  Viewed from a distance, she seemed like a normal person…working in the yard, sitting on the porch, reading the newspaper, smiling and waving as I passed by.  But somewhere between the porch and school she underwent a metamorphasis, appearing in the classroom as Attila the Hun.  I was certain, if I went in in her basement, I would find kids from last year, chained to a desk, doing math problems.

     She was a rather large, but sturdy, old maid; someone who had never married.  She had dedicated her life to scaring the wits out of little kids. 

     As Mom escorted me to school that first day, I felt like a fourth grader being drug to slaughter.  As it turned out, I just needed a couple of bandages for two skinned knees.  Once the bandages were applied, I didn’t think Mom would leave me.  This was because I had a death grip on her leg, restricting blood flow, and almost causing her to black out.  She managed to grab hold of a chair to steady herself, then shook her leg until I broke free, leaving only my hands still firmly attached to her ankle.

     “Wake is a little nervous about the first day, “she said.  “Do you think he will be alright?”  Before I could answer the question, the Enforcer interrupted,” Don’t worry, Mrs. Maberry, I’ll make sure to keep an eye on your son.”  I was just thankful it wasn’t both eyes. 

     Quickly, I glanced out the window and saw slides, swings, and monkey bars, with kids playing and laughing.  With my acute sense of discernment due, in part, to my previous years as a P.O.W. (Prisoner of Washington grade school), I realized immediately that this was probably a diversionary tactic, leading me to believe there would be time for fun.  Then my eye caught the razor wire encircling the playground, and I knew I couldn’t escape.  I was just hoping to get time off for good behavior.

     As other kids started filing in, I began getting insider information.  I would have to wait until recess to get outsider information. 

To be continued...check back soon