Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a write a piece involving a school bus, a guidebook to pine trees, and a painted rock. This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings are found in numerous print and online publications. New under her writerly belt is THREE HEARTS, a memoir eight years in the making about her son’s last days and how she did/didn’t cope with his death and the aftermath. Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589197.
Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.
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by Cathy
MacKenzie
When I grew up, I became a teacher instead of
the preacher Daddy pushed me to be.
Mommy wanted me to be a mother and raise a brood of ten kids like her and, she said, “Be like the wife of your brother.”
I said, “No way! Neither’s the life for me.” And I wandered fields of corn and wheat, pondered my future that looked oh so bleak, for I was weak—though I did stand tall, stood my ground despite my feet in quaking shoes.
Years passed oh so fast...
Back then, in those times and in that place, we instructors could sub as bus drivers, and so it was that one hot sweltering day in June I took the seat of deceased Pete Hilliard and steered twenty-five kids to home.
On the way, while at an unnecessary stop sign on a deserted dirt road, I spied Pete’s Guidebook to Pine Trees. No time to leaf through the pages but how wonderful it would be to detour for an excursion with these unruly kids who lived off the grids—perhaps pinecones might drop from a tree and knock sense into them so dense.
“Hey, kids,” I shouted into the din, “wanna have some fun?” I wasn’t known to be a fun-type of teacher (would never have lasted as a preacher), so the kids sat still (probably against their will) and frowned until one screamed, “Yes, let’s have some fun!”
And that’s how the sunny warm day turned into an evening of thrill and chill...
Henry found a painted rock (unknown in those dark ages) hidden behind a scraggly bush. ’Twas a plumpy penguin—ha, apropos in today’s grumpy trumpy times—but once he screeched of his find, the other twenty-four whined for theirs. Alas, that sole rock was just that: an anomaly (no more to be found), which enraged the rest of the bunch who turned into a gang of sorts, almost driving me to escape out of my shell to hell.
“Kids, come on, be the better soul,” I did screech. “Painted rocks are not yet in fashion. But, hey, if you want to get ahead of the times, let’s all search for perfect stones, and then I can drop each of you home. You can explain to your mother or father that you were tardy after school, too busy trick or treating for rocks, but then I—the great saviour-school-bus-sub—came along to drag you home, without a nag or fuss or muss.”
I paused for effect, checked each child one by one, but I’d scored a homerun! All listened acutely without spouting blather.
“And when you get home, you can gather paints and paint your rocks. Tomorrow, we’ll hide them for another kind soul to find. And that’ll make us all happy, right?”
Dumbfounded, they stared as if I were God or some sort of alien creature instead of their teacher, and then they clapped and stomped their feet, happy for fun homework (no doubt they’d cheat!).
And, dear friend, that is the end of the story of the school bus, the guidebook, and the painted rock. Thankfully, not one child got struck by a cone and not one did scorn, so I consider that day a win in every way.
Except...
Soon after, right or wrong, at the breaking of dawn’s
light while bothersome birds sang their insufferable song, I quit teaching. Alas,
mother and father and brother were long gone by then, never were they that strong—unlike me, standing tall in shoes that never
quaked again, preaching to strangers in pews.
***
The Spot Writers:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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