Abio Episode 10: The College Nudge - February 18 2024

Sunday, February 18, 2024 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 1,251 words

Abio episode 10: The college nudge

What nudge got me to college of my own accord?

So far, my autobiography has been mostly about my girlfriends. The easiest thing to remember about teenage years is love. Recalling my relationships helped me keep the events of my young adult life in order. Where did I work while dating each new friend? Where did I live? As well, the individual relationships, when taken in sequence, creates a clearer picture of the life lessons I learned about romance.

Cheryl and Cheri wanted different things, marriage, berth, and birth, and I was not cut out for that.

I understand the motives – take me from my parents, find us a home of my own, share adventures, and give me someone to love unconditionally, even if it isn’t you.

I learned this:

Before making a long-term commitment, be certain that you’re both happy with what the other person wants.

Many hasty decisions in my life led to disaster. “This ice will hold me.” “I can make this jump.” “We can get away with it once.” “It’s safe to pet a strange dog on a chain.” “That rope will hold you.” “This table can’t be that heavy.” “I know how to cut a bagel.” “I can navigate a cemetery on my motorcycle.”

I can’t say that college was nudged sheerly by love. The first thing I realized was that this whole hippy Free Love Movement was a crock of bull. Free love is an oxymoron. We were making a Boom Boom.

Besides the romance lessons, being fired from the friendly leather factory was the most significant nudge of my youth and has stayed with me the longest. “Miss six days in six months, and you’re fired.” That was the plant rule and everybody knew it. I broke it to joyride in my first car ever.

I can still see the red bald face of the vice president the next morning in his red V-neck sweater blocking the front door with his palm up. “You’re fired, get off the property.” He turned away.

I drove away with a string of car payments, joyless and guilty as charged.

My work ethic changed that day. Never again did I skip work or school for the rest of my life. No fake sick stuff – my carbon years, four years at Penn State, six years at AT&T, thirty-one years at Benicia High, 36 at the Benicia Herald, two years at Hayward, Sonoma, Touro, Brandman, trimming Christmas trees, working in the oil fields, barely a missed day. That scowling old V-neck codger in his red sweater is my hero.

In third grade, I was headed in a different direction. Mom would leave for work and my grandmother, Minnie, let me miss 53 days of school to stay home and watch soap operas with her.

She wrote all the attendance notes saying that I was still healing from the tragic car accident when I was four and a half and my brain swelled up like a melon and I forgot everything that came before. Our family doctor advised my family to keep their eye on me for ten years. For the next 10 glorious years I might go nuts at any minute.

OK. Fine by me. No one wanted to upset me. “Go outside and play, Stevie. The women are cleaning, washing dishes, cooking, do laundry, vacuuming, women stuff. You go play with your trucks in the sandbox.” I deeply regretted that wasted sandbox time later when I lived alone.

Grandma Minnie had a lot of books, 78s, and a wind-up Victrola with pins for needles in her small house. We read together every day. She didn’t want me to fall behind in school. I learned how to read by sitting nestled in her wicker rocker. I followed her finger while she spoke the words. Pecos Bill, Uncle Wiggly.

When she saw I was drifting off, she’d switch to singing softly, “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral.” Soon I was in dreamland. She could move me without waking me.

I read the Hardy Boys, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and every dog book in the library on my own. I felt good about my reading, but we did neglect good attendance.

High school did not nudge me toward college or good attendance because I disliked the beatings. I had some nice teachers, and one gave me a nudge, but mostly I got paddled a lot, usually for whispering. Corporal punishment was the name of the game in those days, and many teachers were ready to give it a whack.

I was paddled by my math teacher, my science teacher, my history teacher, the vice principal, the principal, the wrestling coach, the librarian, the bus driver, and the most brutal of all, the woodshop teacher, Mr. McDoogle, the man who made the paddles for all the other teachers. He offered one of two designs, the “bee sting,” or the “beaver tail,” basically a double-thick yard stick or a board, with handles.

Friends and I once got five whacks from McDoogle. He swung like a golfer. By the third swat, we were on our sides, begging for mercy. He said, “Stand up and take it like a man, or I’ll give you five more.”

At our graduation, Autumn, a senior girl got her diploma so pregnant that the principal had to assist her on the steps, compliments of Mr. McDoogle, who resigned and became a state trooper.

My nudge came from a terrible teacher named Mr. Phillips. He was my history and social studies teacher for three years straight. The best grade I could ever get from him was a C, never a C+ and I liked his class.

He had an earned reputation for teaching primarily to the smart, obsequious students who fought over front row seats, children of college graduates and professionals from the hill whose paths were already paved. He tended to neglect the horseshoe.

I was in the horseshoe, that dark semi-circle ring of kids that goes along the sides of a classroom and around the back. We formed a perfect C.

In senior year, I put my foot down. With no college plans, this was my last chance to prove myself to myself. Can I learn all these subjects if I try?

The summer roster showed that I would get Mr. Phillips again in American History. I would show him what I was made of.

Every night I studied. I took notes on every chapter. I memorized the preamble. I had the Bill of Right right, and all the amendments understood.

When class started, I still couldn’t bring myself to horn into the inner sanctum that clustered around his desk and chose my usual seat by the door, figuring I’d woo him with shear intellect. Besides other kids seemed far more eager to speak in detail than I did.

I excelled in the assignments. I got A grades on our chapter quizzes, homework, A’s on both semester tests. I was counting on earning at least an A-/B+.

My report card read As and Bs right down the line until U.S. History: D.

What? I hurried to Phillips’ room. He was alone at his desk. “Mr. Phillips! There’s a mistake. I got straight A’s both semesters and ended with a D. How?”

He thought for a moment and said, “Because you didn’t speak up enough in class.” Then he returned to his paperwork, dismissing me.

I walked away thinking I might become a school teacher so I can not be like him.