Welcome to a series of stories that basically make up my autobiography. It’s not entirely thorough, but I’ll do the best I can with the memories locked away inside my head. Could be therapeutic for me. Could be humorous for you. Either way, enjoy…
Previously on Life Story… I started seeing a therapist on a very regular basis. But let’s put that on the back burner for now…
Seventh grade at Woodrow Wilson Middle School was every bit as exciting as sixth grade.
For those of us in the marching band, it was finally time to take our instruments outside. We weren’t just stuck playing on the stage in the auditorium anymore. It was time to march. The only real public performance that I remember taking part in was the Grandin Road Thanksgiving Parade. And I only have the distinct memory of doing it once. Maybe the parade from our eighth grade year was canceled for some reason. But in seventh grade, it was cold. I’m not sure that cold is a good enough word to cover it. I was a little afraid that my lips would freeze to my trumpet’s mouthpiece.I had a math teacher named Mr. Jordan. This was a teacher who, for some reason, struck me as being one who really didn’t want to teach all that much. Don’t get me wrong, I learned the math I was supposed to learn in order to pass the seventh grade. But in my memory, Mr. Jordan was always handing out worksheets, then going to do something on the computer. I think each classroom had just been given its very own Mac that year, so for him, it was a new toy. And he was always, ALWAYS, yelling at Buck, telling him to stop drumming on the desk!
For English (or Language Arts or whatever they called it) I had Mrs. BA. She had two last names and, for the life of me, I can’t remember what the B or the A stood for. I don’t remember the reasoning behind it, but we had story time in her class several times a week. Throughout the school year, she read to us John Christopher’s Tripod Trilogy. Mrs. BA was also in charge of what passed for the school newspaper. Aside from some of the stories I wrote in fifth grade, that was probably my first real exposure to writing.
I don’t remember much about my other classes, other than the fact that we dissected owl pellets in Life Science. I’m really unsure of what the exact definition of an owl pellet is, but I remember it looking like a dried up turd with small animal bones inside. That actually made it kind of cool.
Always fun, middle school.