Saturday
was a reunion for my high school class for everybody's 65th
birthday. I have never gone to a reunion. Mainly because I didn't
have much of social life in high school, and there are few that would
come to reunion who I would like to see. I didn't go to this one, but
Lucy found out about it and went. When Lucy announced to one of the
girls that she was married to James Sonntag, she replied, “O I'm
sorry!”
There
was one lady there who I remember well and thought at the time that
she was a classy lady. She reminisced to Lucy that she knew me in the
5th grade in Miss Peterson's class. Maybe this illustrates
another reason I won't go to reunions, I really don't want to
remember Miss Peterson.
Before
I explain the reason, I need to say something about myself. I have
always had a gift of music in my head, literally. It varies from time
to time, but some strain of classical music in some degree always
seems to be there, sometimes in a great symphonic glory, better that
even a live performance. The classical composers, Beethoven and
Brahms were my favorite, and Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture was a big
thing. Often when I was working on something, I might talk to myself,
but just as frequently, I would spontaneously begin singing what was
in my head, Beethoven's 5th, Handel's Messiah, or whatever
was playing.
In
school I really tried to be a good student, not only academically,
but also I wanted to be well behaved and stay out of trouble. The
problem was that in the midst of a nice creative project, my
happiness might burst out in music. It was never very loud, but must
have been loud enough to be noticeable. My other teachers before this
didn't seem to take notice of this, but Miss Peterson took notice and
was determined to correct it. A rule of strict silence was enforced.
The punishment was to sit in the very back apart from the other
students. I remember one day in particular. Everyone was working on
some project, and there was a low buzz of conversation. Without
really being aware of it, I started talking or singing to myself,
when like an earthquake, or some unpredictable natural thunderous
calamity, I hear the voice of Miss Peterson, “James, go to the
back!” I drug my desk to the back.
I
think I spent at least half that year in the back. I was so afraid of
Miss Peterson, that one day in the back I tried to hold back having
to pee, not wanting to ask to go to the bathroom. I failed and peed
my pants. At the end of class, I stayed seated until everybody else
left, so I don't think anyone found that out.
I
didn't like Miss Peterson.
