Tag Archives: blackboard

Chalk

Chalk: (n) a soft white limestone used for blackboards

His first name was Page and his second was Unus. His parents apparently thought this was funny, because once Unus is translated from the
 Latin, his name became “Page One.”

I liked Page. He was odd.

Most kids in school knew he was odd, which disqualified him from consideration. He was highly intelligent, which is the booby prize often given to odd people. Page had quirks.

Page loved to eat cold kidney beans out of a can.

He loved to have crab apple fights in his backyard.

But he hated the sound of squeaky chalk on a blackboard. It made him crazy–not fake, “pretending to be upset” crazy. No, his blood pressure went up, his face turned red, and he gripped the sides of his wooden schoolroom desk as if he were going to tear it apart.

We had one teacher who always had squeaky chalk. I don’t know if it was the cheap stuff or the expensive–but every time he wrote on the blackboard, there was an accompanying atonal melody of squeaking which most of the class ignored.

Except for Page and me–and only me because I was concerned about Page.

One day in the midst of a particularly elongated session of trying to solve a problem on the board with the squeaking chalk, Page got up from his seat, quietly walked to the front of the room, took the chalk from the teacher’s hand and threw it against the wall, breaking it into several pieces. He turned to the class and said, “Doesn’t that sound drive you crazy?”

He was met with a roomful of blank faces.

The teacher took him to the principal’s office, where he received a lecture on self-control and was given in-school suspension for five days. During his stretch for the crime, I saw him one day on his way to the cafeteria. He was smiling.

I was confused. Why would Page be so happy about his punishment? Then I realized.

No squeaky chalk.

 

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Accordion

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Accordion: (n.)a portable musical instrument with metal reeds blown by bellows, played by means of keys and buttons.

It’s just another thing the Beatles did.

As a young boy, I had run across traveling evangelists who usually had a wife who played the accordion because it granted them a portable musical instrument so they could go into places that did not have a permanent piano or organ. Matter of fact, I have sat through my share of hymns played on this ridiculous squeeze box, and felt, after about fifteen minutes, that I was testing the borders of my sanity.

I don’t know if it is possible to play the instrument well, but it always sounded like it was being played poorly. The combination of whine and the sound that fluctuated from rock and roll decibels to the whisper of lovers in the back seat of a car was aggravating to the human ear and made you wish for the pleasantry of fingernails on the blackboard.

But unbelievably, John, Paul, Ringo and George put together a song and used the accordion in such a way that it almost appeared to have real life and function. It was in We Can Work It Out. I remember turning to one of my friends, nearly gasping, as I asked, “Is that an accordion?”

Yes. The Beatles had taken the cursed sideways keyboard, complete with its bellows, and turned it into something cool.

What I learned from that experience is that you must never turn your back on things that seem doomed to irrelevance or obscurity. Often it’s not the instrument that is truly significant, but rather, the hands that caress it.