SEVEN TIMES SEVEN

BAM!

Too late! Ellie got smacked. I blew my whistle. “Tanner!

“Yes Miss Sanborn?” innocence dripping from Tanner’s voice.

“You’ve been warned. One more and you’re out of the game.”

It was my first year teaching elementary physical education. All my classes were going well except for two fifth graders: Ellie and Tanner.

Sweet Ellie was a special needs child. Ellie had the reading level of a first grader. In PE, she always did her best with a great big smile. For a ten year old, she was a good size girl; around five foot six and weighed one-eighty pounds.

If Ellie was a north magnet then Tanner was the south. A short and scrawny boy, I scolded him several times every class time for tormenting Ellie. A teacher can only see so much and the minute my back was turned, he’d be saying hurtful things or pinching her. I always made sure they were on opposite teams, thinking this would ease the tension.

We were playing a game called Psycho Ball. It was a wild, fast game with two-dozen yellow three inch soft rubber balls. They were flying all over the gym. The team players aimed to hit their opponents, tagging them out of the game. If Tanner got a ball, Ellie would be his target. Ellie got hit hard a few times. She’d say something to herself but go on with the game. It didn’t take long before one of the soft yellow spheres smacked her in the face.

“Ellie, are you all right?” I turned my attention to her.

“I’m ok. Miss San Born.” Ellie always said my name as if it were two names. “I want to play some more.” Ellis was smiling like nothing had happened. The spot on her cheek was cherry red.

“Are you sure? That hit you pretty hard.”

“I need to get seven times seven on Tanner.”

“Seven times seven?”

“That’s what my mom says I have to do.”

I had no idea what Ellie was talking about, and since she wanted to join the game, I let her continue.

Two seconds later, BAM! Ellis got hit hard. I got my whistle ready, but I didn’t need it. What she did next brought the whole class to a standstill. Ellie lumbered over to Tanner, pushed him down. Then she sat on him!

It shocked all of us.

“Ellie,” I hurried over to her and helped her up. Poor Tanner looked like yesterday’s pancake. I knew I needed to address this right away.

“Class, please pick up the all the nerf balls, then line up. Now!”

I focused on the two.

“Now what is going on here? I want an explanation, Ellie.”

“Miss San Born, I did it. Seven times seven. I don’t like Tanner calling me names or pinching me. Mom says to forgive seven times seven. That’s 49 times, Miss San Born. Tanner did bad things 49 times. “

“So you’re telling me you’ve been counting to 49, so you could sit on Tanner?”

“Yes, Miss San Born. I want Tanner to stop.”

I looked at Tanner. I don’t believe anyone had ever sat on him before, especially a girl.

“Well, Tanner, will we have anymore trouble out of you?”

“No Miss Sanborn.”

“Ellie, Tanner says he’s stopping. So, no more sitting on him, ok?”

“O.K. Miss San Born,” Ellie was smiling.

I released the kids to their next class. It was later that evening before I figured out Ellie’s seven times seven. She had simplified, with her sweet simple mind, the Bible verse ‘seventy times seven’.

For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to tell her any different.


AT THE STATION

We pulled into the parking lot at the train station. The early morning darkness was accompanied by fog. A lonely street lamp did its best to radiate light beyond its shiny orb, to burst through the dense vapor. The train station windows glowed warmly but did little to help luminate the dark.

“We’re a little early, June Ann,” Dad said as he rolled down the window a crack. “Let’s wait in the truck.” He shook out a cigarette from the package of Marlboros. I heard the soft scratch of the match. The tiny fire eagerly lit the paper and tobacco. The end of the cigarette glowed bright orange as he sucked in the fumes. Smoke curled out the truck window.

I worried about my dad. Would he get sick, get lung cancer from smoking? Headed back to college after Christmas break, I worried about things like that. What if I never see him again? There were things I wanted to say. Things I wanted to hear from him. I didn’t know how to start as Dad wasn’t the easiest person to talk to, especially the sentimental stuff.

I watched as he took another drag, the end glowing fiercely. The orange radiance faintly outlined my dad’s weathered face. Farming year after year baked in permanent wrinkles.

What should I say? Should I thank him for giving me this chancel? I knew the cost was great, but he never said anything. I felt so thrilled to be learning how to be a teacher. It was like food that nourished my soul. Teaching young children someday was a dream I acquired many years ago. I wondered what had been his dream when he was 19? Did Dad what to farm all of his life? What if he didn’t? Did I really want to know that maybe he didn’t?

The truck’s interior glowed dimly again while dad took another drag,

There were times I wished he would just talk to me like an adult. I pictured us chatting about the pros and cons of the political issues, about farm bills, stuff that was important in his world. Then we’d switch gears and talk about what matter to me.

The last puff of the cigarette and then was snubbed out.

“Hoot hoot” blasted the whistle of the train pulling into the station. The fog tried to contain the train, but the huge steaming machine punched through, hissing and screeching to a stop. Wishing I could punch through my fears, I knew opportunity was laughing at me. Time had run out. He turned to look at me. Did he sense my thoughts? I watched as he opened his door.

“Time to go, Honey,”

I got out of the truck. Closed the door. Dad got my suitcase out of the truck bed. Not a word was exchanged as we walked to the platform. He set the case down and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“Here’s your ticket,” Dad handed it to me. Surprised by the warmth of his fingers, I nearly dropped the ticket. I didn’t feel well. I wanted to stay home, and be with him, Mom, my siblings. Bile churned and began moving up my throat.

“All Aboard to Wichita.” A loud, brassy voice called. “All aboard.”

I swallowed hard, keeping tears at bay. “Goodbye, Daddy.”

“Goodbye June Ann. Make good grades. Your mom is so proud of you.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you proud of me?” Afraid of the answer I looked at the train as it hissed again.

There was a pause. I looked back at Dad and saw tears in his eyes. I threw myself into his arms. That firm hug was all the talk I needed. I kissed his cheek.

“Thanks, Daddy,” He handed my suitcase to me and waved as I boarded the train.


FARM AUCTION

Sarah listened to the crunch crunch crunch of each step as she walked in the frosted grass. The dark morning seemed to amplify the boisterous noise. The sun wasn’t up yet, and the black silhouettes of the trees against the horizon made a pretty picture, one she often wished she could capture by painting or even a photograph. She did neither for these scenes were all ready captured in a safe place, in her mind, forever.

The quietneigh sound came from Jim Bob, her aged gelding, as he greeted her at the gate. He knew breakfast was coming. Sue, the shyer one, stood beside him and nodded her head up and down.

“Morning, “ Sarah softly greeted the horses. It seemed rude to talk loudly. She figured they enjoyed the quiet as much as she did. Tossing the contents of the buckets into the trough, she stood back and watched as they jockey around to their spot and began munching on the sweet grain.

Finally she forced her mind to think about the up coming event for the day and just like that, it ruined the morning. It was the day of the farm auction. She felt the familiar tightening to her lips and stiffening shoulders. All those horrid feelings about her husband came rushing into her mind. All summed up in one word: death.

Dan’s heart attack was unexpected; his death even more so. The emptiness wouldn’t go away even after a year. The children worried about her. What about Mom and the farm? What should ‘we’ do about the farm? You’re not as young as you used to be, Mom They couldn’t let her run the farm. And they were always bringing up the ‘what if’s’…

‘What if’s’. Too many of them. Sarah knew she could do it, farm. And she wanted to. How many years has she been a part of this farm as a partner, wife, and mother?

However, the children did have valid points. And the thought of working the fields, baling the hay, cutting the crops without Dan made her tremendously sad.

“Dan, how can I let go of this part of our lives? It’s hard to imagine strangers and neighbors come here today and take our things away. All our farm equipment that we used to make this farm.”

She wandered through the rows and rows of equipment lined up so neat and tidy. The last shred of night shrouded the items, all sizes and shapes of black silhouettes in the field. Every tractor, combine, wagon, all of them told a story, a chapter in their lives, and beginning, middle and, well, now an ending to their life.

Am I doing the right thing? Sarah looked up at the heavenly blue. The stars were fading, their bright twinkle not so bright.

“Dan, I miss you so much. I can’t make these tough decisions by myself. It’s too hard. Am I doing the right thing?” She asked out-loud, uncontrollable tears falling.

A mere hint of the rising sun changed the look of the shrouded tractors, discs, and planters. As with the grass, the frost had covered these pieces with the finest layer of ice. Capturing the first rays of the day, the frozen field basked with a luminescence glow. Sarah stood still in awe of the beauty and then, it was gone. The sun broke the horizon bringing forth more morning light.

For that brief moment she felt the presence of Dan brushing a tear from her cheek. Inhaling deeply, Sarah straightened her shoulders. Today would be painful, but she knew she wouldn’t be alone.


THE PICKLE QUEENS

Pastor Johns sat on a stage behind a long table. He faced a room full of Green County residents. It was their annual fair and he was the sole judge. He seemed particularly nervous. Two ladies on the front row were glaring at him. Both ladies had had their share of winning the Annual Green County Sweet Pickle contest with six wins apiece. This year would break the tie. These two have not spoken to each other since the first contest.

Thelma Bottoms, wearing her dark green polyester pant suit, was staring at the pastor, as if boring a hole through his head and depositing the words “Pick mine, pick mine” into his brain. She lost last year and didn’t want that to happen again.

Nadine Siddens, with the tiny green pill hat balanced on her curls, sat with a smug look on her face. She knew she’d win again because of the secret ingredient in her green pickles.

Everyone knew, well those who lived in the Green County knew, that for the past twelve years only two jars filled with the deepest emerald green, mouth watering sweet pickles were presented to the judge. No one else ever entered the Sweet Pickle Contest. What was the use? Thelma or Nadine always won.

During the wait, bets were being taken in the back of the hall. Half the crowd laying money that this would be the year those two Pickle Queens would scratch each other’s eyes out.

The chairperson of the Green County Sweet Pickle Contest walked out on the stage carrying a small tray. On the tray sat three pint jars, each with a large paper number taped on the front.

Three jars?

What? Were their eyes deceiving them? Were there actually three jars entered? The two ladies looked baffled at first, looked at each other and then thunder rolled across their faces. Who dare enter THEIR contest?

With great ceremony, the chairperson opened jar number one. A fork was jabbed into the jar and brought forth one pickle. Pastor Johns’ hand shook so bad he almost dropped the pickle. Recovering, he took a small taste. A pickle from jar number two was handed to him and finally one from jar number three. Pastor Johns now had to decide a winner.

The room was so still you could hear dust fall. Any stranger or friend could only imagine the turmoil Pastor Johns was going through. With one sentence, announcing the winner, world war of any number would begin. Each able body looked at the nearest exit and mentally calculated the distance from where they sat so they could escape before the turmoil erupted.


The pastor stood and spoke. “Ladies and gentleman. Thank you for allowing me to be the judge for such a prestigious contest. All three jars were very crisp, sweet and so delicious. But one jar was quite unique.”

A gruff voice in the back hollered, “Just tell who won the dang contest, Pastor.”
.
“Yes, sorry. As God is my witness this years winner is…”

Air whooshed from the room as everyone inhaled in unison. Pastor Johns tore the number off the jar, turned it over and read, “Anna Waggle.”

Time froze for the residents of Green County. The winner was not Thelma Bottoms or Nadine Siddens. The winner was a greenhorn, the dark horse, or someone with lots of courage. Anna Waggly was jumping up and down, screaming, “I won! I won!”

The silent crowd waited for reaction from the dethroned Pickle Queens. Thelma lowered her head, a hankie to her eyes. Nadine’s smile disappeared and tears streamed down her face. No one was watching Anna who was waving her blue ribbon, and dancing all over the stage. Pastor Johns had simply vanished.

Nadine stood, looking absolutely green as she walked over to Thelma. A voice in the back of the hall hissed a chant “fight, fight”. Others crowded closer to watch.

When Nadine stood close enough she raised her arms and shouted “Halleluiah Lord! I’m so glad its over,” then gave Thelma a big hug.

The teary-eyed Thelma nodded. “Me too, Nadine, me too!”

“How about some coffee and a sandwich?”

Astonished, the crowd watched the ex-Pickle Queens leave the hall together.

Anna Waggly was still screaming, “I won. I won!”


THE PAPER CHALLENGE

“Close the door, Jenna” said Mrs. Grinstead. She sat behind a massive dark wooden desk. There were piles of papers and folders on the left side and on the right was her telephone. The file that sat in front of me had to be about me. I closed the door and looked for a place to sit. There were two chairs positioned in front of the desk and I moved carefully to one of them. Moving on crutches wasn’t the fastest.

“How are you feeling Jenna?”

“Ok.”

“From all the reports, you and your friends were very lucky.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

There was a pause. I had been looking at the floor during the conversation. When she didn’t say anymore, I looked up. Just as I thought, she was looking at me, waiting. I got nervous and blurted out, “Well, go ahead and tell me how stupid I was. And what was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, Ok? I just did it. Just get it over with and kick me out.”

My principal sat back in her chair studying me.

“Jenna, I believe with all my heart that my job as principal is so much more than making sure everyone graduates from here. You were on that track until a couple of months ago. That’s why I wanted to visit with you.”

I was getting really edgy. If she wasn’t going to kick me out of high school, then what?

Mrs. Grinstead got up from the desk and went to her printer. She pulled out a piece of clean paper from the tray. Then she walked over to me, stopped and held the paper with both hands in front of my face.

“I want you to do think about something for me. By tomorrow morning, figure out a response to this: how life and this white piece of paper are alike.”

Figure out an answer to that stupid comparison? Piece of cake, I thought.

“Jenna, I know you are a very bright, eighteen year old, so you will understand why I won’t accept a flippant answer. Dig deep or you’re looking at week of in-school suspension, no make up work. Any questions? No? You may go.”


All night I search for right answer was so I wouldn’t spend the end of my senior year serving in-school suspension. How IS my life like that white paper? Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind would jump back in time to the accident. I couldn’t stop the rush of details and reliving the crash: the sounds, the screams and breaking glass. It was horrible. I broke out in a cold sweat.

Why did I ride with those girls? I don’t even like them.

“Jenna,” I scolded myself out loud. “Think, think. Paper. Life. A sheet of clean, white paper.” Still my mind wanted to switched back to the accident.

”Boy, if I could do it all over again…” I realized that I wanted to break out of the “good girl” format I had been in all my life. I felt this push to do just the opposite of my upbringing. Why? When did all this start? Me, Jenna, the sensible girl. Why WAS I hanging out with these girls? I searched my mind to find when I began feeling the need to be a “bad girl”. Nothing stood out, and then, it hit me. Erik.

My boyfriend for most of my senior year dropped me for Samantha. Erik said he got tired of waiting.

Tears welled up in my eyes. It still hurts. Hurts really bad. Erik said he respected my decisions. Was that all a lie? Did he say all those nice, wonderful things so he could score?

I sighed. Back to Mrs. Grinstead’s assignment. I needed to focus on it, not on the past. Maybe if I write down some ideas….

I stopped myself. Slowly I smiled. I had the answer for Mrs. Grinstead.

Facing Mrs. Grindsted the next morning, I began, “Each day I start out with a clean, white sheet of paper, in my book, creating my story. Lately, I have been filling it with stuff that hasn’t been very smart. The accident is one story filling those pages. Erik is another, or rather my reaction to Erik. It’s a part of me, but doesn’t have to be me. It’s about writing my life story, each day, one page at a time. Right, Mrs. Grinstead?”

Her smile said it all.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.12.2009

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