you really had to be there, but...
- Thread starter DVS
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jetdriver68
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Very funny stories! 
brioche
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DVS said:Now, did I say I was going to post that story...today? I just posted one. I have to spread these out. Teacher will just have to be bugged, I guess.
I knew it, you mean nasty man!
Oh, and it looks like I may be back with JK munchkins for the rest of the year starting in February. It's only a maybe though.
DVS
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This was back in the mid 1980s, when I was playing in my share of rock bands. This particular incident was when we were playing an afternoon party at an apartment clubhouse pool, one summer afternoon.
The band was setup in the clubhouse, so we were out of the sun, but the bulk of the party was around the pool. Actually, there were little “partylets” going on all over the clubhouse. Just about anywhere you looked there was a party going on. Some of this was because of the drink of choice. Grain alcohol Kamikazes. Yep, they were great. There were pitchers of them all over the place, too.
Personally, I didn’t drink much, but what I did drink must have affected me, to a point. And, speaking of a point, I’ll get to the point of this story.
The band was on a break. I needed a change of clothes, and my clothes were out in my car. But, there was an 8-foot chain link fence around the clubhouse and pool, and because of the party, they had the gate padlocked to keep out unwanted party crashers. The only other way out and to my car was through several parties. At least two were on the stairway up to the main floor, and they didn’t seem like they were gonna be easy to move.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to climb over the 8-foot chain link fence. Now, I said I hadn’t had many of those drinks, but not being a drinker, I guess the couple I had must have hit me. I didn’t feel drunk at all. I just felt great.
So, out to the pool and then to the fence I went. I had no problem at all climbing the fence, and I also had no problem at all getting over it. Once I cleared the top, I just dropped to my feet, on the other side, to a perfect two-footed landing.
But, as I landed, I heard a slight tinkle-tinkle of metal on the sidewalk around me. I followed the sound and found a pinky ring. I thought it was just someone's ring that I'd kicked as I landed. But, upon closer inspection, I realized it was my ring. I wore it on my right pinky. When I realized it was mine, I first thought it had fallen out of my pocket when I jumped the fence, thinking I must have been too drunk to remember taking it off.
But I hadn’t taken it off. So, I was standing there wondering how my ring could have fallen off, then a sick feeling hit me in the stomach. It just dawned on me how it had to have happened. When I jumped over the fence, I must have caught my ring on one of the pointy edges at the top, and when I jumped down, it pulled my ring off. Also strange but true, the ring had no marks on it, nor was it bent out of shape at all. And, my finger was not scraped, cut, or in any pain at all.
Now I have a problem with this scenario, even though I know it to be true. My pinky ring was rather tight on that finger. In fact, it had a pretty snug fit over the last knuckle. It was so difficult to take off, I usually needed to use soap to get it off. I hadn’t had it off in close to ten years. I had just forgotten about it. It had become a part of me. It was just a simple 12K band, like a wedding ring, so it was very easy to forget about. No stones, or sharp edges to notice, etc.
I guess you can tell what I'm leading up to, here. The chilling part of all this is that because that ring was so tight on my finger, I have no idea how it could have been pulled off and not damage either the ring or my finger, in some way. It had just been pulled off of my finger in such a way that it didn’t damage the ring or my finger. The odds on that happening were very much NOT in my favor.
So, I guess you really had to be there to truly understand this one. And to really understand the significance of it, you also had to be in my shoes. Everyone knows how valuable their fingers are. That's pretty much a no brainer kind of statement. And, being a musician and a keyboard player, all of my fingers are even more valuable to me.
It stands to reason...if my ring had been caught on that fence, it surely would have pulled my finger right off. My body weight would have been enough to take care of that. I'm only six feet tall, and the fence was eight feet tall. You do the math.
But, someone was looking out for me that day. Maybe some day my music is gong to do the world some good and the loss of a finger didn't fit into the cosmic plan. I don’t know the answer to it, and I don’t even like to think about the alternative. Then, maybe the little bit of Kamikaze mix I had was enough to have something to do with it. God only knows. Whoever is to blame, I'm eternally indebted.
The band was setup in the clubhouse, so we were out of the sun, but the bulk of the party was around the pool. Actually, there were little “partylets” going on all over the clubhouse. Just about anywhere you looked there was a party going on. Some of this was because of the drink of choice. Grain alcohol Kamikazes. Yep, they were great. There were pitchers of them all over the place, too.
Personally, I didn’t drink much, but what I did drink must have affected me, to a point. And, speaking of a point, I’ll get to the point of this story.
The band was on a break. I needed a change of clothes, and my clothes were out in my car. But, there was an 8-foot chain link fence around the clubhouse and pool, and because of the party, they had the gate padlocked to keep out unwanted party crashers. The only other way out and to my car was through several parties. At least two were on the stairway up to the main floor, and they didn’t seem like they were gonna be easy to move.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to climb over the 8-foot chain link fence. Now, I said I hadn’t had many of those drinks, but not being a drinker, I guess the couple I had must have hit me. I didn’t feel drunk at all. I just felt great.
So, out to the pool and then to the fence I went. I had no problem at all climbing the fence, and I also had no problem at all getting over it. Once I cleared the top, I just dropped to my feet, on the other side, to a perfect two-footed landing.
But, as I landed, I heard a slight tinkle-tinkle of metal on the sidewalk around me. I followed the sound and found a pinky ring. I thought it was just someone's ring that I'd kicked as I landed. But, upon closer inspection, I realized it was my ring. I wore it on my right pinky. When I realized it was mine, I first thought it had fallen out of my pocket when I jumped the fence, thinking I must have been too drunk to remember taking it off.
But I hadn’t taken it off. So, I was standing there wondering how my ring could have fallen off, then a sick feeling hit me in the stomach. It just dawned on me how it had to have happened. When I jumped over the fence, I must have caught my ring on one of the pointy edges at the top, and when I jumped down, it pulled my ring off. Also strange but true, the ring had no marks on it, nor was it bent out of shape at all. And, my finger was not scraped, cut, or in any pain at all.
Now I have a problem with this scenario, even though I know it to be true. My pinky ring was rather tight on that finger. In fact, it had a pretty snug fit over the last knuckle. It was so difficult to take off, I usually needed to use soap to get it off. I hadn’t had it off in close to ten years. I had just forgotten about it. It had become a part of me. It was just a simple 12K band, like a wedding ring, so it was very easy to forget about. No stones, or sharp edges to notice, etc.
I guess you can tell what I'm leading up to, here. The chilling part of all this is that because that ring was so tight on my finger, I have no idea how it could have been pulled off and not damage either the ring or my finger, in some way. It had just been pulled off of my finger in such a way that it didn’t damage the ring or my finger. The odds on that happening were very much NOT in my favor.
So, I guess you really had to be there to truly understand this one. And to really understand the significance of it, you also had to be in my shoes. Everyone knows how valuable their fingers are. That's pretty much a no brainer kind of statement. And, being a musician and a keyboard player, all of my fingers are even more valuable to me.
It stands to reason...if my ring had been caught on that fence, it surely would have pulled my finger right off. My body weight would have been enough to take care of that. I'm only six feet tall, and the fence was eight feet tall. You do the math.
But, someone was looking out for me that day. Maybe some day my music is gong to do the world some good and the loss of a finger didn't fit into the cosmic plan. I don’t know the answer to it, and I don’t even like to think about the alternative. Then, maybe the little bit of Kamikaze mix I had was enough to have something to do with it. God only knows. Whoever is to blame, I'm eternally indebted.
jadefirefly
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Yikes. That's a scary one! Like, scary as in I actually curled my fingers in and made little whimpery sounds out of sympathy!
(I used to have that paranoid musician-hands fear myself. Now I'm just paranoid. )
(I used to have that paranoid musician-hands fear myself. Now I'm just paranoid.
)
DVS
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Thanks for the sympathy. There's just not enough of that going around, these days.jadefirefly said:Yikes. That's a scary one! Like, scary as in I actually curled my fingers in and made little whimpery sounds out of sympathy!
(I used to have that paranoid musician-hands fear myself. Now I'm just paranoid.
OK, I guess we ARE on a BDSM forum...that could be why.
Chicklet
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my boyfriend before last, although not a musician, cut off his right index finger his first day on a job. a temp agency sent him to do some woodwork, they put him on a machine that hadn't been set up correctly, was supposed to have been recalled, and also had required a two-week training course to use. so, first thing they do is plop him on it, show him the trigger, first thing he does is cut off his index finger.
his father was a musician, and i think it bothered his father more than it bothered him. he called it "mister stumpy" and would always pretend to be picking his nose, so half his finger would be missing "up his nose" or in his eye, or wherever he decided to stick it and make funny noises.
hohoho.
(in case you're wondering, in Oregon a company is 100% immune from neglect lawsuits as long as they pay their workers comp insurance. this company did, so my friend got $5,000 for his finger. a friend of mine who works in a lawfirm in illinois was involved in a similar case, where the victim sued for $200,000. blech.)
his father was a musician, and i think it bothered his father more than it bothered him. he called it "mister stumpy" and would always pretend to be picking his nose, so half his finger would be missing "up his nose" or in his eye, or wherever he decided to stick it and make funny noises.
hohoho.
(in case you're wondering, in Oregon a company is 100% immune from neglect lawsuits as long as they pay their workers comp insurance. this company did, so my friend got $5,000 for his finger. a friend of mine who works in a lawfirm in illinois was involved in a similar case, where the victim sued for $200,000. blech.)
jadefirefly
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DVS said:Thanks for the sympathy. There's just not enough of that going around, these days.
OK, I guess we ARE on a BDSM forum...that could be why.
What in most places would elicit sympathetic hugs, around here, tends to garner requests of "Where can I get some of that?"
DVS
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I worked in a book bindry for a short time. There was a paper cutter there, that would equal out the book's page edges, before theywere bound into a book. One day, this cutter was acting up. The guy on first shift kept using i, though. I don't know why...maybe he wasn't concerned, or maybe it was a company thing...work goes on, etc. Who knows.Chicklet said:
All remember about it is I worked second shift and we came into work that day, just after he had cut four of his fingers off on that damn machine. There was blood all over the thing, and it looked somewhat like a Steven King movie scene. I don't know how it ended up, though. The union went on strike shortly after that (unrelated reasons) and because I wasn't in the union, and needed money, I found me another job.
I just don't understand how people will risk their fingers like that. Maybe I am giving people more credit than they want, when thinking about their fingers. Personally, I like all of mine.
That place in Oregon...I'd be suing them until I owned a fair share of the company. That was a sure case of neglect on the part of the company and your boyfriend's supervisor, and in the hands of the right lawyer, laws could have been changed. You don't practice good policy, when your workers aren't trained on the use of dangerous equipment like that.
And, although I'm with his dad on the seriousness of losing his finger, he seemed to have a pretty good attitude about the whole thing. Sounds like he was quite the joker.
Blushing Bottom
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God is a misician. He watched out for you on that day. He knows how really difficuly it is to get someone who's good with the 88s.
Hey man watch yourself will ya. These stories frighten even me and I've seen much in my line.
Hey man watch yourself will ya. These stories frighten even me and I've seen much in my line.
brioche
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I thought you were going to post a teacher story...
That one about the ring gives me chills. Brrr.
I worked at a bakery for 5 years, and there were various things that happened: one girl put her hand into the mixer too soon and it basically fractured and sprained every bone and muscle while it was slowing down. And we all had the burns from touching racks of trays and discovering that no, that wasn't the first one out, or brushing your arm when you went to dump the hot pans out (your hands being protected by the gloves). Ironically, the worst scar I have from there is from a shelf. I scraped it while putting out chocolate chip cookies, looked at it, and it didn't look like the skin was broken, so I rubbed it a few times with my chocolatey hands. Unfortunately it was, just a bit, so I was basically rubbing chocolate and crumbs into the wound. It was not happy about this. I needed to clean it out the next day because it was looking a very threatening red. That is probably why it scarred.
My personal problem was the bread cutter. It had about 30 open blades and they were scalloped and VERY sharp. In fact when one fell out, we used it to cut the slits at the top of the bread and you had to do it very gently or they would go too deep, but that blade's the second part of the story.
The cuts that you would get from this thing depended on where you hit the blade and how quick your reactions were. If you hit between the scallops and yanked your fingers back before it hit you (the blades are going up and down very fast), it would give you a horrific cut that bled at the slightest pressure for days, but healed very fast because it was so clean. If the scallop got you, it ripped it open.
One time I added a loaf while it was on and my hand just kept going...clean cut at the top of my finger. They didn't give me stitches, but they should have because the skin proceeded to peel off it for 3 months. I guess that's how far down it had cut.
The second time, the aforementioned blade had fallen out of the machine about 2/3 along. When the bread came halfway through, you had to reach up and ease it through the rest of the way, holding the ends with your hands, unless other loaves were there on top to push it. Well, one day I was slicing a loaf of bread for a lady, reached up, and somehow reached up through the gap, with the pad of my finger landing right on the serration. There was this jolt and when I looked at my finger blood was literally running off of it. I actually got the bread out without wrecking it (I was alone) and handed it to the woman while wiping a bloody fingerprint off the plastic bag. I told her I didn't have AIDS or Hep B, but she wasn't fazed - turns out she was a nurse. Told me how to care for it until I got to the hospital. Luckily, though it was an ugly cut that bled and bled and bled (I actually wandered around looking for the manager instead of paging him - duh - and the front office made me sit down, apparently my face was white from shock and blood loss) I only needed a week off. After that I wore gloves.
But my personal favourite was once when I was in the freezer. I was pulling a sort of trolley thing of pies, and when I stopped it kept going. Later in the comp thing they determined the cart weighed about 80 pounds, and had momentum on its side. I realized it was going to hit this stack of things we kept cakes in and tried to pull my hand back, but didn't make it.
The cart crushed my finger against this thing. It was gross - all scraped and bruised and bloody. The first aid guy wouldn't even touch it until I had the first layer of bandages on it.
I went to hospital after my shift - yes, I finished my shift, timing was tight those days, and the next day's baking would have been thrown off - and they took a look. They were amazed that there could be that much bruising and swelling but nothing broken. They kept bringing other people to look at it. I think it was sprained though. I actually went on three week's comp for that one, and returned with one of those finger things on. Then I went to a tight bandage, which was annoying because it got dirty.
I still am amazed that these left me with nothing but faint scars. I guess someone was looking out for me, too.
That one about the ring gives me chills. Brrr.
I worked at a bakery for 5 years, and there were various things that happened: one girl put her hand into the mixer too soon and it basically fractured and sprained every bone and muscle while it was slowing down. And we all had the burns from touching racks of trays and discovering that no, that wasn't the first one out, or brushing your arm when you went to dump the hot pans out (your hands being protected by the gloves). Ironically, the worst scar I have from there is from a shelf. I scraped it while putting out chocolate chip cookies, looked at it, and it didn't look like the skin was broken, so I rubbed it a few times with my chocolatey hands. Unfortunately it was, just a bit, so I was basically rubbing chocolate and crumbs into the wound. It was not happy about this. I needed to clean it out the next day because it was looking a very threatening red. That is probably why it scarred.
My personal problem was the bread cutter. It had about 30 open blades and they were scalloped and VERY sharp. In fact when one fell out, we used it to cut the slits at the top of the bread and you had to do it very gently or they would go too deep, but that blade's the second part of the story.
The cuts that you would get from this thing depended on where you hit the blade and how quick your reactions were. If you hit between the scallops and yanked your fingers back before it hit you (the blades are going up and down very fast), it would give you a horrific cut that bled at the slightest pressure for days, but healed very fast because it was so clean. If the scallop got you, it ripped it open.
One time I added a loaf while it was on and my hand just kept going...clean cut at the top of my finger. They didn't give me stitches, but they should have because the skin proceeded to peel off it for 3 months. I guess that's how far down it had cut.
The second time, the aforementioned blade had fallen out of the machine about 2/3 along. When the bread came halfway through, you had to reach up and ease it through the rest of the way, holding the ends with your hands, unless other loaves were there on top to push it. Well, one day I was slicing a loaf of bread for a lady, reached up, and somehow reached up through the gap, with the pad of my finger landing right on the serration. There was this jolt and when I looked at my finger blood was literally running off of it. I actually got the bread out without wrecking it (I was alone) and handed it to the woman while wiping a bloody fingerprint off the plastic bag. I told her I didn't have AIDS or Hep B, but she wasn't fazed - turns out she was a nurse. Told me how to care for it until I got to the hospital. Luckily, though it was an ugly cut that bled and bled and bled (I actually wandered around looking for the manager instead of paging him - duh - and the front office made me sit down, apparently my face was white from shock and blood loss) I only needed a week off. After that I wore gloves.
But my personal favourite was once when I was in the freezer. I was pulling a sort of trolley thing of pies, and when I stopped it kept going. Later in the comp thing they determined the cart weighed about 80 pounds, and had momentum on its side. I realized it was going to hit this stack of things we kept cakes in and tried to pull my hand back, but didn't make it.
The cart crushed my finger against this thing. It was gross - all scraped and bruised and bloody. The first aid guy wouldn't even touch it until I had the first layer of bandages on it.
I went to hospital after my shift - yes, I finished my shift, timing was tight those days, and the next day's baking would have been thrown off - and they took a look. They were amazed that there could be that much bruising and swelling but nothing broken. They kept bringing other people to look at it. I think it was sprained though. I actually went on three week's comp for that one, and returned with one of those finger things on. Then I went to a tight bandage, which was annoying because it got dirty.
I still am amazed that these left me with nothing but faint scars. I guess someone was looking out for me, too.
DVS
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I'm going to, I'm going to. Your icky stories about blood and cuts aren't helping me any. LOL, glad to hear you are still in one piece, though.brioche said:
Stay calm. Waiting for the teacher story is going to affect you so much, that when I do post it, you're gonna say.."I waited for THAT crap?"
brioche
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DVS said:
I am quite calm, thank you - I was just reminding you so you wouldn't forget.
Yeah, they were pretty icky, but at least no one's fingers got cut off like the others in mine.
I'm going out tonight anyway - so you won't be bugged about it until at least tomorrow.
DVS
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OK, by popular demand...well, at the request of one teacher type person (brioche), I submit the following story. I hope it was worth the wait.
This story is from my senior year in high school. That was 1971, for those of you keeping track. The year was almost over and we were very close to being graduates. But, like most things, it isn’t over until it’s over so we still had to go to class.
Those last months, and especially those last weeks were cool. There were the times when you’d see all the girls sitting around signing each other’s year books, and some of the guys skipping study hall to go out driving around town, because that’s what seniors do.
But, some teachers got kind of nasty, when they found out you were skipping their class, so that kind of grounded a lot of our celebratory hopes of skipping the whole day. Those teachers seemed to think they were our ultimate keepers, and somehow destined to keep us on the straight and narrow, because the world we were going into was cruel and unforgiving…like a group of 18-year-olds could give a shit.
Oh, we had our friends in some teachers. One Phys Ed teacher was pretty cool and I heard the shop teacher was a nice guy. He had all of his fingers, by the way, so he must have been pretty good at what he knew best. And, I will always remember both my Science teacher and my Chemistry teacher. Mr. Seifert was pretty much an asshole. At least he didn’t seem to care for me a whole lot. That might have stemmed from my distaste for the smell of formaldehyde and also that I didn’t like cutting up a dead frog that reeked of it. Science class was right before lunch.
But, my Chemistry teacher, Mr. Brooks was cool. Oh, he could be mean too, if he saw the need, but there were times when we could get him onto telling one of his stories about when he was young and driving around in his ol’ model T. He was a good storyteller, and once he was started, only the bell at the end of the hour could get him to stop.
Speaking of telling stories, that reminds me of why I’m telling this one. One class I always enjoyed was Language Arts. Depending on the year in school, it was sometimes called English and sometimes it had a Roman numeral behind it, i.e. I, II or III. Well this was the III class. Language Arts III. At the beginning of the year, we had one teacher…Mrs. Robinson. She was a great teacher, but kind of a stick in the mud. Oh, I don’t think she was really that way, but she wanted us to learn. A fair share of teachers took that path, leaning more to the stern side instead of being a friend.
But, although I got along fine with Mrs. Robinson, for some reason she had to leave at the mid point of the school year. We were kept in the dark as to why she left. I guess that info was on a need to know basis and we didn’t need to know. We had a replacement teacher come in and take her place. And, this wasn’t just any replacement teacher. She was the wife of the vocal music teacher, Mr. Goodwin.
Now, Mr. Goodwin was one of those teachers that was a friend and we affectionately called him Mr. "G". So, when his wife became our Language Arts teacher, she quickly acquired the name Mrs. “G". And, if fit her fine. She was just like her husband…smart and quick to smile and willing to let her class be a little less formal.
Like I said in the beginning, this was close to the end of our senior year. Even though we were seniors and cutting some classes and fudging homework for others, we still knew we had those final tests to look forward to, in the last few weeks. They would be most of our final grades, so skipping them would be a stupid thing to do. And, every damn class had one. Each teacher would start off by saying what a good group of kids we had been but it had come time to take that final test. It was nothing we could study for, as it was just something we were suppose to know, from being in class for about nine months.
Mrs. G had a slightly different job. Because she had taken over the class a few months back, she didn’t have the whole year to grade us on. I don’t think Mrs. Robinson had given us final grades for her time as teacher, and Mrs. G seemed a bit lost because of it. Anyway, she said she had to give us a test. It was school rules or something.
Well, the day came and we all walked into class with no books. All we needed were pencils and some paper. Everybody took their normal seat. I was one of the lucky ones. My seat was next to a window. Those windows were perfect for daydreaming and that day the afternoon sun was warm. It was difficult staying awake.
Mrs. G came in and she said the same words other teachers had been saying all that week. We had been great students for her time there and she knew we would go on to be great members of society. OK, I’m paraphrasing…but I know she must have said something like that. They all do. I think it’s part of their job to send us off into life with a good thought about ourselves.
She started talking about the test and had the mimeographed pages in her hands, ready to pass out. But, just then, Jeri, one of the girls in the class said she had to go to the bathroom. She was excused and while we waited for her to return, we all talked about the past year and what we had planned for the coming summer months.
After a few minutes, the classroom door opened and Jeri was bringing in a cake. I didn’t know what was going on, but I guess the need to use the restroom was a lie, so she could get this cake. Another one of the girls stood up to help Jeri, and they carried the cake up and set it on Mrs. G’s desk.
Jeri, was a pretty smart cookie and I guess she and some others had planned to give Mrs. G the cake all along. As it turned out, it was Mrs. G’s birthday, and they hoped she would be so touched about the cake that she would decide not to give us the test. When I heard about it, I thought it was kind of lame, but I guess I was wrong.
Mrs. G thought it was wonderful and was very touched that the girls knew it was her birthday. She was so touched in fact, that she started to cry. It was almost surreal. I guess you really had to be there to experience it. And this was no small cake. There was enough for everybody to have some. I guess a cake works much better than an apple ever could.
I don’t think Jeri had thought of the possibility Mrs. G would cry and she looked a little guilty that she had even thought the whole thing up. But, she stuck to her guns and after a short trip to the bathroom to collect herself, Mrs. G came back into the room. And, I couldn’t believe my ears, but she said she was so touched that we would go to such trouble with the cake and all that she wasn’t going to give us the test. She said we were all wonderful.
I wonder, thinking back on that day, if she just gave us all an ‘A’ for the test. It was my understanding that we were required to take it, and it’s obvious that we didn’t. Maybe she averaged it out with the rest of our year’s scores, with a small enhancement for cake giving.
Mr. G died this past year, of cancer…a great personal loss, in my life. But, Mrs. G is still doing fine. Oh, I would never tell her the true story. That would only hurt her. No, her memories of that day are secure. I do wonder how Jeri found out it was Mrs. G's birthday, though. And, I wonder how Jeri feels now, if reminded of that day. Would she still think it was a good idea, or would she now feel more guilty about it?
This story is from my senior year in high school. That was 1971, for those of you keeping track. The year was almost over and we were very close to being graduates. But, like most things, it isn’t over until it’s over so we still had to go to class.
Those last months, and especially those last weeks were cool. There were the times when you’d see all the girls sitting around signing each other’s year books, and some of the guys skipping study hall to go out driving around town, because that’s what seniors do.
But, some teachers got kind of nasty, when they found out you were skipping their class, so that kind of grounded a lot of our celebratory hopes of skipping the whole day. Those teachers seemed to think they were our ultimate keepers, and somehow destined to keep us on the straight and narrow, because the world we were going into was cruel and unforgiving…like a group of 18-year-olds could give a shit.
Oh, we had our friends in some teachers. One Phys Ed teacher was pretty cool and I heard the shop teacher was a nice guy. He had all of his fingers, by the way, so he must have been pretty good at what he knew best. And, I will always remember both my Science teacher and my Chemistry teacher. Mr. Seifert was pretty much an asshole. At least he didn’t seem to care for me a whole lot. That might have stemmed from my distaste for the smell of formaldehyde and also that I didn’t like cutting up a dead frog that reeked of it. Science class was right before lunch.
But, my Chemistry teacher, Mr. Brooks was cool. Oh, he could be mean too, if he saw the need, but there were times when we could get him onto telling one of his stories about when he was young and driving around in his ol’ model T. He was a good storyteller, and once he was started, only the bell at the end of the hour could get him to stop.
Speaking of telling stories, that reminds me of why I’m telling this one. One class I always enjoyed was Language Arts. Depending on the year in school, it was sometimes called English and sometimes it had a Roman numeral behind it, i.e. I, II or III. Well this was the III class. Language Arts III. At the beginning of the year, we had one teacher…Mrs. Robinson. She was a great teacher, but kind of a stick in the mud. Oh, I don’t think she was really that way, but she wanted us to learn. A fair share of teachers took that path, leaning more to the stern side instead of being a friend.
But, although I got along fine with Mrs. Robinson, for some reason she had to leave at the mid point of the school year. We were kept in the dark as to why she left. I guess that info was on a need to know basis and we didn’t need to know. We had a replacement teacher come in and take her place. And, this wasn’t just any replacement teacher. She was the wife of the vocal music teacher, Mr. Goodwin.
Now, Mr. Goodwin was one of those teachers that was a friend and we affectionately called him Mr. "G". So, when his wife became our Language Arts teacher, she quickly acquired the name Mrs. “G". And, if fit her fine. She was just like her husband…smart and quick to smile and willing to let her class be a little less formal.
Like I said in the beginning, this was close to the end of our senior year. Even though we were seniors and cutting some classes and fudging homework for others, we still knew we had those final tests to look forward to, in the last few weeks. They would be most of our final grades, so skipping them would be a stupid thing to do. And, every damn class had one. Each teacher would start off by saying what a good group of kids we had been but it had come time to take that final test. It was nothing we could study for, as it was just something we were suppose to know, from being in class for about nine months.
Mrs. G had a slightly different job. Because she had taken over the class a few months back, she didn’t have the whole year to grade us on. I don’t think Mrs. Robinson had given us final grades for her time as teacher, and Mrs. G seemed a bit lost because of it. Anyway, she said she had to give us a test. It was school rules or something.
Well, the day came and we all walked into class with no books. All we needed were pencils and some paper. Everybody took their normal seat. I was one of the lucky ones. My seat was next to a window. Those windows were perfect for daydreaming and that day the afternoon sun was warm. It was difficult staying awake.
Mrs. G came in and she said the same words other teachers had been saying all that week. We had been great students for her time there and she knew we would go on to be great members of society. OK, I’m paraphrasing…but I know she must have said something like that. They all do. I think it’s part of their job to send us off into life with a good thought about ourselves.
She started talking about the test and had the mimeographed pages in her hands, ready to pass out. But, just then, Jeri, one of the girls in the class said she had to go to the bathroom. She was excused and while we waited for her to return, we all talked about the past year and what we had planned for the coming summer months.
After a few minutes, the classroom door opened and Jeri was bringing in a cake. I didn’t know what was going on, but I guess the need to use the restroom was a lie, so she could get this cake. Another one of the girls stood up to help Jeri, and they carried the cake up and set it on Mrs. G’s desk.
Jeri, was a pretty smart cookie and I guess she and some others had planned to give Mrs. G the cake all along. As it turned out, it was Mrs. G’s birthday, and they hoped she would be so touched about the cake that she would decide not to give us the test. When I heard about it, I thought it was kind of lame, but I guess I was wrong.
Mrs. G thought it was wonderful and was very touched that the girls knew it was her birthday. She was so touched in fact, that she started to cry. It was almost surreal. I guess you really had to be there to experience it. And this was no small cake. There was enough for everybody to have some. I guess a cake works much better than an apple ever could.
I don’t think Jeri had thought of the possibility Mrs. G would cry and she looked a little guilty that she had even thought the whole thing up. But, she stuck to her guns and after a short trip to the bathroom to collect herself, Mrs. G came back into the room. And, I couldn’t believe my ears, but she said she was so touched that we would go to such trouble with the cake and all that she wasn’t going to give us the test. She said we were all wonderful.
I wonder, thinking back on that day, if she just gave us all an ‘A’ for the test. It was my understanding that we were required to take it, and it’s obvious that we didn’t. Maybe she averaged it out with the rest of our year’s scores, with a small enhancement for cake giving.
Mr. G died this past year, of cancer…a great personal loss, in my life. But, Mrs. G is still doing fine. Oh, I would never tell her the true story. That would only hurt her. No, her memories of that day are secure. I do wonder how Jeri found out it was Mrs. G's birthday, though. And, I wonder how Jeri feels now, if reminded of that day. Would she still think it was a good idea, or would she now feel more guilty about it?
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brioche
Work in Progress
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2004
- Posts
- 2,029
That's a sweet story.
Thank you for writing it.
Jeri might very well have done it to get out of the test, but I think most teachers would have been touched in that situation.
For example, when I was leaving the 1/2 class I had to leave in September, I worked with the kids on a card for the teacher who was taking over. All the things on it were things the kids said. Then we all signed it, and when they gave it to her she cried. I cried too - during music or gym or something the EAs in my room had made ME a card from the kids. Well, that was nice enough, but then the kids came in, each with a Hershey's Hug in their hand, and they told me that whenever I missed them I should eat one of these Hugs and remember the class. Oh, man, I was a goner then.
I think what it comes down to is this - teachers spend their days giving to students. This is particularly true in the younger grades, especially JK by the way. You're the first teacher those kids have - you wouldn't believe how often you are called Mummy. When one of the students gives back, we are touched. Regardless of the motives, in your case. I don't know - I think the dynamic changes some in high school - but I wouldn't have any other job.
I groan about how tired I am when I do JK, for example - I lost 17 pounds in a month the first year I did Kindergarten - but I love every minute of it. Marble painting, reading books, singing, teaching them how to print - it's great. Yeah, you never sit down. Yeah, you don't have nails because you're helping 20+ kids with their shoes and boots. Yeah, you have to teach the boys to shut the door to the bathroom and see little tiny asses more than you'd like. But you also have all these little kids who get so excited about anything. "Boys and girls, today instead of singing a song we're going to start (insert new lesson here)"
"YAY!"
It's great.
But I'm blathering on again, so I'll shut up now.
Thank you for writing it.
Jeri might very well have done it to get out of the test, but I think most teachers would have been touched in that situation.
For example, when I was leaving the 1/2 class I had to leave in September, I worked with the kids on a card for the teacher who was taking over. All the things on it were things the kids said. Then we all signed it, and when they gave it to her she cried. I cried too - during music or gym or something the EAs in my room had made ME a card from the kids. Well, that was nice enough, but then the kids came in, each with a Hershey's Hug in their hand, and they told me that whenever I missed them I should eat one of these Hugs and remember the class. Oh, man, I was a goner then.
I think what it comes down to is this - teachers spend their days giving to students. This is particularly true in the younger grades, especially JK by the way. You're the first teacher those kids have - you wouldn't believe how often you are called Mummy. When one of the students gives back, we are touched. Regardless of the motives, in your case. I don't know - I think the dynamic changes some in high school - but I wouldn't have any other job.
I groan about how tired I am when I do JK, for example - I lost 17 pounds in a month the first year I did Kindergarten - but I love every minute of it. Marble painting, reading books, singing, teaching them how to print - it's great. Yeah, you never sit down. Yeah, you don't have nails because you're helping 20+ kids with their shoes and boots. Yeah, you have to teach the boys to shut the door to the bathroom and see little tiny asses more than you'd like. But you also have all these little kids who get so excited about anything. "Boys and girls, today instead of singing a song we're going to start (insert new lesson here)"
"YAY!"
It's great.
But I'm blathering on again, so I'll shut up now.
Blushing Bottom
purrrrrrrrrrfect pleasure
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2005
- Posts
- 4,118
Thank-you for your story.
It brought me back to my high school daze. All seniors were required to cut class and generally cut up. Fun was had by all until a vegetarian assistant principal decided to lower the boom and started monitoring the door which lead to the new establishment recently built next door...the first MacDonalds in town. He found his car leaning up against the flag pole or so I was told.
It brought me back to my high school daze. All seniors were required to cut class and generally cut up. Fun was had by all until a vegetarian assistant principal decided to lower the boom and started monitoring the door which lead to the new establishment recently built next door...the first MacDonalds in town. He found his car leaning up against the flag pole or so I was told.
DVS
A ghost from your dreams
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2002
- Posts
- 11,416
Hi again. I'm back with another story from my past. A couple of months ago, my sisters were grouping pictures, and putting them on DVD. To save them for the masses, no doubt, as well as future family members.
Mostly they are slides, as that seemed to be the format of the day, back when my dad was recording the history of our family, through the years. Seeing these slides, I came across a few that reminded me of this story. I'm so glad that there is proof this story is true.
When I was nine years old, we had our last big family vacation. The year was 1962, for anybody that’s keeping a record. We really went places that summer. I remember going to the Rocky Mountains, the Badlands and even up into Canada. But, what I really remember the most is Yellowstone National Park.
We were there in the heyday of the park. I hear it’s kind of run down, these days. And, there was a fire about ten years ago, too. We were there long before any of that, and it was a really interesting visit.
There were puddles of bubbling mud, dark blue pools of hot water and spouts of steam coming up from the ground in several different spots. One of the better known spouts of steam is OLE’ Faithful. She was a main attraction for us. And, she was right on schedule with her eruption, too.
But, most of the park is still wilderness, mostly forest that is home to many wild animals. One of those animals is the bear. I think there are both the Grizzly and black bear in Yellowstone. They tend to roam around the park, finding leftovers that visitors have left behind. And, that’s an increasing problem that has become worse over the years.
The bears are becoming bolder, because they have come to associate humans with tasty leftovers. They come very close to the campsites, and sometimes actually enter the sites, in search of something to eat. In some cases, it’s not leftovers that they find, but the campers themselves.
Back in 1962, none of this had happened, yet. But, the fear was there, just the same. There were signs all over the place that said not to feed the bears. But, it was a pretty common thing to do. And, the bears always seemed to be near by, but just out of sight, in the trees. As soon as the people would leave, they would make their move for some treats.
There is a road going through a lot of the park so you can drive through many areas to look at the wonderful scenic views. It’s not really a paved road, but mostly gravel and very well maintained.
We were there on a hot summer week and I’m sure it was in the upper 90s and very humid. Back then, not a lot of people had air conditioning in their cars, so we were riding along with the windows open, looking at the view.
There were a lot of other people doing the same thing, and it was kind of like a slow moving caravan of sorts, with people taking pictures as they went along. I think the speed limit of the road was 10 mph.
Every so often on this road, there were areas to park and setup a picnic lunch. We came around a curve and just up the road was one of these areas. I could see several cars parked to the side, and as we got closer, I saw a mother bear and her two cubs sitting about 20 feet from the road. The mother bear was lying down, and the two cubs were playing, as baby cubs will do.
Some others in our caravan pulled off to park and take pictures of the bears. When we got up to the area, we did the same thing. We pulled just beside the road, and were parked about 25 feet from the mother bear and her cubs.
It was very interesting to see these bears so close. They seemed almost oblivious of all the humans standing around, snapping pictures of them. The mother bear looked quite content laying there in the sun and the cubs were having a great time.
I don’t remember who said it, but someone in our car asked if we had something to feed the cubs. Nobody thought about the signs that were posted not far away that reminded visitors not to do just that. Instead, we were all looking for something the cubs night like to eat. Maybe we could get a good picture of one of the cubs that way.
Nobody could find anything, but my mother pulled out a bag of marshmallows from the glovebox. That was all we could come up with, so she opened the bag up. It was such a hot day that these marshmallows were all sticky and gooey
But, we were on a mission, and so my mother took one and tossed it as far as she could, towards one of the bear cubs. She had become the designated marshmallow tosser, because she was sitting in the front seat, by the window. I was in the middle, and my dad was driving. My three sisters were all in the back seat.
I don’t remember for sure when the cubs decided to check on these white things on the ground, but my mother kept tossing them, in hopes that one cub would take notice. But, because they were running all over the place, I don’t think it took long.
As it turned out, marshmallows are pretty high on the enjoyment scale for bear cubs. One cub found a few of them, and before long, he was looking all over the ground for more of those tasty white things. My mother was still tossing them, but her fingers were getting pretty sticky.
It was becoming difficult for her to let go of them, so some landed closer to the car than she really wanted. And, as mothers will be, she was starting to panic, but I thought it was cool when the cubs came closer and closer. And, mamma bear was just relaxing in the sun, as if nothing at all was wrong.
My mother, being in semi-panic mode had rolled the window up half way. This made it more difficult to toss out the sticky marshmallows, but she was doing OK. Then, one stuck to her hand so much that when she finally let go of it, it landed about four feet from the car. One of the cubs saw it land and quickly came up to get it.
Well, my mother was in full panic mode then, and she rolled the window up all the way. She was done tossing marshmallows, but my sisters and I were having fun watching, and so she gave in to tossing a few more.
But, instead of opening the window back up, she just opened the vent. For those of you who are young, back in those days, cars had vent windows that you could open and pull air into the car. That was most people’s air conditioning.
She opened the vent and tossed out a marshmallow. It didn’t go very far, and the cub was ready for it, when it landed. He knew where these tasty things were coming from and was becoming pretty bold to get more.
By this time, our car and my mother’s marshmallow tossing was the main attraction for all of the other park visitors. I’m sure there are pictures of our car in family photo albums to this day. Well, at least my mother’s arm with a sticky marshmallow attached, and a bear cub near by.
She was pushing the marshmallows out the vent window, and the inevitable finally happened. One of those sticky things got stuck on the outside of the window and she couldn’t get to it. But, the cub saw it and made a direct path for it.
My mother saw him coming and quickly closed the vent just as the bear cub stretched up and picked the marshmallow from the window of the car. And what’s one of the reasons you aren’t suppose to feed the bears? Because if you have something they consider especially tasty, they just want more.
This cub wanted more marshmallows and decided to look for more that might be stuck to the car. He climbed up onto the side of the car, and started sniffing around, while my mother and sisters were screaming, inside the car. I still thought it was the greatest vacation ever, because I was seeing a bear cub up close. He was only a few feet from me. For a boy of nine, that’s a pretty cool thing to have happen.
My dad, the ever-thoughtful photographer of the family, saw the chance to get a great picture. He got out of the driver’s side of the car and took some now memorable shots of the bear cub clinging to the rider’s side of the car. He was looking over the top of the car at him.
It was a short time of excitement for all involved and panic for my mother and sisters. It was a great experience for me and I’m sure the bear cub was having fun, too. And, don’t forget the great photos my dad got as he looked eye to eye with a bear cub, over the top of our car.
And while all of this was going on, mamma bear was still lounging in the sun, a mere 20 feet away. She never seemed upset or worried about the safety of her cub. God knows what could have happened, if she had been concerned.
I don’t know if you can imagine the excitement for me...a boy of nine...that summer afternoon in 1962. It was the year Marilyn Monroe died and the year a new guy by the name of Johnny Carson replaced Jack Parr as the host of the Tonight show. It was the first year we would see Walter Cronkite anchor the CBS Evening News. But, I guess you really had to be there because it was also the summer vacation I’ll never forget.
Mostly they are slides, as that seemed to be the format of the day, back when my dad was recording the history of our family, through the years. Seeing these slides, I came across a few that reminded me of this story. I'm so glad that there is proof this story is true.
When I was nine years old, we had our last big family vacation. The year was 1962, for anybody that’s keeping a record. We really went places that summer. I remember going to the Rocky Mountains, the Badlands and even up into Canada. But, what I really remember the most is Yellowstone National Park.
We were there in the heyday of the park. I hear it’s kind of run down, these days. And, there was a fire about ten years ago, too. We were there long before any of that, and it was a really interesting visit.
There were puddles of bubbling mud, dark blue pools of hot water and spouts of steam coming up from the ground in several different spots. One of the better known spouts of steam is OLE’ Faithful. She was a main attraction for us. And, she was right on schedule with her eruption, too.
But, most of the park is still wilderness, mostly forest that is home to many wild animals. One of those animals is the bear. I think there are both the Grizzly and black bear in Yellowstone. They tend to roam around the park, finding leftovers that visitors have left behind. And, that’s an increasing problem that has become worse over the years.
The bears are becoming bolder, because they have come to associate humans with tasty leftovers. They come very close to the campsites, and sometimes actually enter the sites, in search of something to eat. In some cases, it’s not leftovers that they find, but the campers themselves.
Back in 1962, none of this had happened, yet. But, the fear was there, just the same. There were signs all over the place that said not to feed the bears. But, it was a pretty common thing to do. And, the bears always seemed to be near by, but just out of sight, in the trees. As soon as the people would leave, they would make their move for some treats.
There is a road going through a lot of the park so you can drive through many areas to look at the wonderful scenic views. It’s not really a paved road, but mostly gravel and very well maintained.
We were there on a hot summer week and I’m sure it was in the upper 90s and very humid. Back then, not a lot of people had air conditioning in their cars, so we were riding along with the windows open, looking at the view.
There were a lot of other people doing the same thing, and it was kind of like a slow moving caravan of sorts, with people taking pictures as they went along. I think the speed limit of the road was 10 mph.
Every so often on this road, there were areas to park and setup a picnic lunch. We came around a curve and just up the road was one of these areas. I could see several cars parked to the side, and as we got closer, I saw a mother bear and her two cubs sitting about 20 feet from the road. The mother bear was lying down, and the two cubs were playing, as baby cubs will do.
Some others in our caravan pulled off to park and take pictures of the bears. When we got up to the area, we did the same thing. We pulled just beside the road, and were parked about 25 feet from the mother bear and her cubs.
It was very interesting to see these bears so close. They seemed almost oblivious of all the humans standing around, snapping pictures of them. The mother bear looked quite content laying there in the sun and the cubs were having a great time.
I don’t remember who said it, but someone in our car asked if we had something to feed the cubs. Nobody thought about the signs that were posted not far away that reminded visitors not to do just that. Instead, we were all looking for something the cubs night like to eat. Maybe we could get a good picture of one of the cubs that way.
Nobody could find anything, but my mother pulled out a bag of marshmallows from the glovebox. That was all we could come up with, so she opened the bag up. It was such a hot day that these marshmallows were all sticky and gooey
But, we were on a mission, and so my mother took one and tossed it as far as she could, towards one of the bear cubs. She had become the designated marshmallow tosser, because she was sitting in the front seat, by the window. I was in the middle, and my dad was driving. My three sisters were all in the back seat.
I don’t remember for sure when the cubs decided to check on these white things on the ground, but my mother kept tossing them, in hopes that one cub would take notice. But, because they were running all over the place, I don’t think it took long.
As it turned out, marshmallows are pretty high on the enjoyment scale for bear cubs. One cub found a few of them, and before long, he was looking all over the ground for more of those tasty white things. My mother was still tossing them, but her fingers were getting pretty sticky.
It was becoming difficult for her to let go of them, so some landed closer to the car than she really wanted. And, as mothers will be, she was starting to panic, but I thought it was cool when the cubs came closer and closer. And, mamma bear was just relaxing in the sun, as if nothing at all was wrong.
My mother, being in semi-panic mode had rolled the window up half way. This made it more difficult to toss out the sticky marshmallows, but she was doing OK. Then, one stuck to her hand so much that when she finally let go of it, it landed about four feet from the car. One of the cubs saw it land and quickly came up to get it.
Well, my mother was in full panic mode then, and she rolled the window up all the way. She was done tossing marshmallows, but my sisters and I were having fun watching, and so she gave in to tossing a few more.
But, instead of opening the window back up, she just opened the vent. For those of you who are young, back in those days, cars had vent windows that you could open and pull air into the car. That was most people’s air conditioning.
She opened the vent and tossed out a marshmallow. It didn’t go very far, and the cub was ready for it, when it landed. He knew where these tasty things were coming from and was becoming pretty bold to get more.
By this time, our car and my mother’s marshmallow tossing was the main attraction for all of the other park visitors. I’m sure there are pictures of our car in family photo albums to this day. Well, at least my mother’s arm with a sticky marshmallow attached, and a bear cub near by.
She was pushing the marshmallows out the vent window, and the inevitable finally happened. One of those sticky things got stuck on the outside of the window and she couldn’t get to it. But, the cub saw it and made a direct path for it.
My mother saw him coming and quickly closed the vent just as the bear cub stretched up and picked the marshmallow from the window of the car. And what’s one of the reasons you aren’t suppose to feed the bears? Because if you have something they consider especially tasty, they just want more.
This cub wanted more marshmallows and decided to look for more that might be stuck to the car. He climbed up onto the side of the car, and started sniffing around, while my mother and sisters were screaming, inside the car. I still thought it was the greatest vacation ever, because I was seeing a bear cub up close. He was only a few feet from me. For a boy of nine, that’s a pretty cool thing to have happen.
My dad, the ever-thoughtful photographer of the family, saw the chance to get a great picture. He got out of the driver’s side of the car and took some now memorable shots of the bear cub clinging to the rider’s side of the car. He was looking over the top of the car at him.
It was a short time of excitement for all involved and panic for my mother and sisters. It was a great experience for me and I’m sure the bear cub was having fun, too. And, don’t forget the great photos my dad got as he looked eye to eye with a bear cub, over the top of our car.
And while all of this was going on, mamma bear was still lounging in the sun, a mere 20 feet away. She never seemed upset or worried about the safety of her cub. God knows what could have happened, if she had been concerned.
I don’t know if you can imagine the excitement for me...a boy of nine...that summer afternoon in 1962. It was the year Marilyn Monroe died and the year a new guy by the name of Johnny Carson replaced Jack Parr as the host of the Tonight show. It was the first year we would see Walter Cronkite anchor the CBS Evening News. But, I guess you really had to be there because it was also the summer vacation I’ll never forget.
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DVS
A ghost from your dreams
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2002
- Posts
- 11,416
I see the view count going up, but it's difficult to tell if anybody is actually reading these.Jezebel77 said:
There isn't any sex involved (the story of my life!!), and of course, this is a sex oriented site. I have more stories, if there is an interest. I just don't want to be constantly bumping my own thread up in hopes someone will see it. I'm not trying to shove these stories down anyone's throat. OK, no pun intended.
Thank you for posting your comments. And, shit...go for it. Post your own stories. You might be suprised to find out just how uncommon your life has been. We often think our lives are boring. But, sometimes, in the eyes of others, it's totally different.
