Tag Archives: junior high school

Cram

Cram: (v) to fill something by force

 It is impossible that all of the memories we have of another person are going to be good. Matter of fact, a good portion of the people we encounter may end up touching our lives in more negative ways than positive.

Yet it is useless for us to hold onto grudges, believing they grow more valuable over time, like a fine wine. funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Case in point:

Much of the time I spent with my mother was not particularly beneficial to my soul. I suppose this article would be more interesting if I went into the details of those unfortunate moments. But since I have sifted through them, I will spare you the unnecessary remembrance.

What I would like to do is recall one Thursday afternoon—many, many years ago—when my mom showed up to the junior high school to drive me across town to the gymnasium, where I was going to attend basketball practice. I was just thirteen—frisky, ornery and always looking to do something beyond the pale.

I had invited all my friends from the team to catch a ride with me in our family sedan. Little did my mother know, when I asked her if it was alright for some other guys to come along, was that I had invited fourteen.

Now, she was not a woman given to enjoying, enduring, and certainly never planning a prank. I don’t know why, on this particular day, she didn’t put her foot down and object. (Maybe it was because her foot was on the gas pedal.)

But one by one, my friends crawled into the trunk and the back seat, laying on top of each other, giggling like first graders, complaining and breathing heavily, until finally I inserted myself into the front seat, which now held six people including my mother, barely able to close the door behind me.

Once we all were in, she chose to take a long, dramatic pause. Now that I, too, am a parent, I’m sure her thinking was:

A. What in the hell am I doing?

B. Won’t it be just as much trouble to get them out of the car as drive them?

C. Where is the town cop this time of day? and

D. Could I actually make a stand on this without totally humiliating my son and becoming known as one of “those” adults?

She simply reached up, put the car in drive, and took us the two-and-a-half miles—very, very slowly—to our destination.

She was surrounded by adolescent laughing, gasping, spitting and snorting.

She never said a word.

She never took her eyes off the mirrors.

We arrived, and miraculously, were able to disengage from one another’s flesh, run into the building and start bouncing the balls.

I didn’t thank her, I didn’t look back, and we never spoke of it again.

But there is one day in my memory when my mother, with all her quirks, allowed me to cram fourteen friends into the Chevrolet—without yelling or fussing.

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Cornet

Cornet: (n) a valved wind instrument of the trumpet family.

Mr. Rallihand.

He was my junior high school band director.

I didn’t think much about him—he was just another teacher. When you’re that age, you look at all those who are educating you as mean funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
eighty-year-old grown-ups.

Yet I did get him to smile—because unlike many of my fellow-band-mates, I chose not to play the saxophone or clarinet as my primary instrument.

I picked trumpet.

He explained to me what a noble instrument it was—how it beckoned armies into battle and punctuated the victories of the Roman legions.

(I lost interest.)

He told me where to go to find a trumpet to rent.

I gave the information to my mother, and she came back with a horn. Now, I was no expert on the mechanics or appearance of trumpets—but this one was smaller. When I took it to band class, Mr. Rallihand frowned at it like it had just tooted foul gas.

He said that this was not a trumpet but rather, was a cornet. He then launched into a lengthy explanation, of which I only remembered two thoughts:

  1. Small
  2. Harder to play

So as I squawked out my first notes on my cornet and Mr. Rallihand patiently instructed me on how to squeeze my lips into the mouthpiece to produce tone, I had the perfect out.

“But Mr. Rallihand,” I whined, “it’s smaller. And hard to play.”

I think he regretted sharing that with me.

Finally, one day he walked in carrying a new trumpet which the school had just purchased for the band program. He handed it to me, and I made my way back to the row of the “trumpeteers.”

I was sad to the point of anger. Not only was I no longer special with my trumpet-with-shortcomings, I also now had no excuse for sounding like crap.


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Clean

Clean: (adj) uncontaminated and pure; innocent.

I didn’t take my first shower until I was in junior high school.

Our house had a bathtub. I remember, as a boy, sitting in that tub until my skin started to prune up. This told me two things: first, I had been in the water too long. But secondly, there was a chance I was clean.

But the first time I stepped into that shower after junior high school football practice, I realized I had never gotten the back of my neck clean sitting in that tub.

Matter of fact, a friend standing nearby, who should have been minding his own business, saw that there were little streams of dirt flowing down my backside.

He thought this was hilarious.

Being one who liked to share his joy, he pointed it out to all the nearby fellows showering. I was embarrassed.

I tried to explain that I was a bather, not a “shower-er,” but that sounded even worse.

I scrubbed the back of my neck the very best I could, went out, changed clothes and left as quickly as possible.

I grew up a lot that one afternoon, because I realized that just because we think we’re clean doesn’t mean that every place on us–or in us–has been cleansed.

Sometimes it takes a shower hitting us at just the right place to expose hidden dirt.

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