Skipping School

I was raised by a good, God-fearing woman who did her best to keep me out of prison and on the straight-and-narrow road to heaven.  As a decidedly boring boy, I did a pretty good job following Mom’s teachings…with a few notable exceptions.

Trying to raise me right, Mom had warned me that, if I did bad things, I would regret it.  Well, it turns out, Mom was right.  I did misbehave, and I did regret it…but not for the reason you might think.

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By my senior year in high school, I was well aware what a mild-mannered, well-behaved young man I had been up until then, and how very boring I was.  I was closing in on the end of my prep-school career and if I was going to have some misbehaviors to laugh about in later years I needed to do something.  Talking to a buddy of mine named Norman I came up with a totally insane idea.

I would skip school. 

Hey, for me that was pretty crazy. 

Told you I was boring…and it gets worse.

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Whereas, when many of my classmates skipped school, they went to St. Louis or Memphis to attend a concert or get into more trouble, or acquired alcohol or other intoxicants, my plans, up until the actual morning of my descent into crime, was to run around in the woods at the farm or just stay home and watch TV.

Yeah.

The morning dawned for my evasion of education and I snuggled deeper in my comfortable bed, intending to sleep-in before kicking off my reign of terror.  Suddenly I was startled awake by the sound of the telephone.  In those days before cell phones or answering machines, if you didn’t want to receive phone calls you just ignored the ringing until it stopped.

The problem was the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. 

Debating my options, I climbed out of bed and walked to the jangling machine that was interrupting my day of planned freedom, and looked at it, willing it to stop ringing…but it didn’t.  It rang and rang and rang.

Mustering up my best, “I just dragged myself out of my death-bed” voice, I lifted the hand-set off its cradle and croaked, “He-e-ell-o-o.”

From the other end of the line, my ear was assaulted by, “Hey, Bud-eee!  What the heck are you doing?!”

It was my buddy, Norman.  He was more experienced in school-skipping than I was and had decided to join me, probably to rescue me from my lame plans.  That would have been great except that it raised another problem.  Norman’s parents lived behind the business they owned and operated.  They would be there all day and would quickly notice if my pal stayed home.  He had to go somewhere and was going to take me with him.

“What are you doing?” he berated me.  “It’s our day of freedom!  Get dressed, Bud-eee!  I’ll be there in a couple minutes!”

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As I said, Norman was more experienced at school-skipping than I was, but he was enough of a friend that he did not put pressure on me to compromise my ethics by trying to talk me into drinking or the like.

When I slid into Norman’s passenger seat, he asked, “What do you want to do on your day of freedom, Bud-eee?”

I smiled.  I had come up with a crazy plan…an absolutely insane plan…for me.  I suggested, “Let’s go to Call of the Wild.”

Call of the Wild is now a well-known men’s club in the area, with strippers, lap-dancers, and, if rumors are true, worse.

It is now.  It wasn’t then.

Call of the Wild was originally the brainchild of a world-traveling adventurer.  He had hunted around the planet and had chosen to display his trophies in realistic dioramas, which he had put together into a sort of museum.  That formed the basis of Call of the Wild.  He had added booths where creative Ozark craftspeople could show off their skills and entertain people at the same time.  All of that was accompanied by a souvenir shop.

THAT was the Call of the Wild I wanted to go see.  It was all very natural and family oriented.

Get it?  Boring.

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After walking through the museum and watching the only craftsman who was there that day, a glass-blower, we climbed back into Norman’s car and headed back to Malden, and our farm.

My partner in crime and I hiked around the farm and did my chores.  Yes, we did my chores, for cryin’ out loud.  Then we went into the woods to a place where I had cut a wild grape vine so that I could use it to swing from one side of a gully to another and back.

“Ah-eee-a-a-a-ah!”

Then we went home.

As he dropped me off, Norman reiterated his instructions for covering up our misbehaviors.  I nodded, world-wise and experienced now in committing serious crimes.  I was ready to utilize the full power of my high IQ to keep from making those stupid little mistakes that I had learned watching Dragnet.  You know, the stupid mistakes that so often lead to criminals getting caught.

The next morning I went to school just like any other day and found my way into the office.  I needed to get a pass so that I could get into my classes after being out.

“Hi, Scott.  Where were you yesterday?” Mary Janet, the smiling school secretary asked.

I summoned up just enough of my death-bed voice to sound like I was on a slow path to recovery, “I was sick.”

“Do you have a note from your mom?”

This was the tough part.  Mom was a teacher.  Worse yet, her classroom was only a hundred yards or so from the very office we were standing in at that moment.  This is where my drama class experience would come in handy.  Working up an expression that said I was disappointed in myself, I said, “I forgot to get one this morning.  Can I bring it tomorrow?”

Mary Janet nodded, unconvinced, and wrote out the required pass, marking it, “unexcused” and handed it to me.

I don’t think any of my teachers even asked to see it.

I was proud of myself.  I had done it!  I had joined the number of hard corps criminals who had skipped school and gotten away with it.  I was still a little nervous though.  One of the other teachers, or even Mr. T, the high school principal who attended church with us, might mention my absence or sickness to Mom.

They didn’t.

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About a week later I was pretty-well over my fear of being caught, but then…

I was in my room reading.  I could hear Mom in the basement starting a load of laundry when I heard her voice, “Scott?  Come here.”

She didn’t sound mad so I assumed she had a chore for me to do.  She didn’t.

When I stepped into the laundry room, Mom turned and held out a tiny slip of paper to me.  “What’s this?”

I knew what it was immediately.  It was the pass Mary Janet had made out for me so I could get into class after being absent.  Mom asked, “Did you skip school?”

I drew in a deep breath.  I was a brazen criminal now.  I had blatantly defied authority.  I had taken control of my life and skipped school and very nearly gotten away with it.  

I hung my head like a whipped pup and replied, “Yes, ma-am.”

“Were you sick?”

I plucked up my courage again and looked at Mom.  When my eyes met hers, my new-found courage collapsed.  “No ma-am.”

“Did you just need a day off?”

I nodded sheepishly, “Yes ma-am.”

Dark clouds covered the sun.  Fear rose in my throat.  Surely I was in big trouble.  Mom would ground me or, worse yet, tell Dad.

Instead, Mom nodded knowingly, “Well, if you ever need another day off, let me know.  I’ll give you a note so you won’t get another unexcused absence.”

I turned to walk away and breathed out.  “Yes ma-am.

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I don’t know if it’s something they teach in “Mom School” or what, but Mom had done the one thing that took all the excitement out of breaking the rules…she had sanctioned it.

I never skipped another day of high school.

Thanks Mom.

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