A shout-out to Mrs. Miller

Today’s National Blog Month topic is, who was your biggest influence growing up, and why? I’m going to forgo talking about my awesome parents, my natural #1 choice, to give props to Mrs. Miller.

Mrs. Miller was the only teacher I had whose reputation preceded her. It was the summer of 1982, and my best friend James and I were huddled in his bedroom discussing our homeroom assignments. Instead of being excited that I would finally be an eighth grader, I was fidgeting as James regaled me with tales of the new teacher in town.

“She only wears black, and she never smiles. They call her the Dragon Lady.”

It took some doing to be the most feared teacher in a faculty loaded with nuns, but Mrs. Miller had accomplished the task entirely sight unseen. And her first day did not disappoint. She was prim and proper, with glasses to match, and scared the whole class straight. What set the tone best? Probably when she said, “and don’t bleed on my carpet.”

It wasn’t until later that we appreciated the genius of what Mrs. Miller had done. By breathing fire, the Dragon Lady established she had teeth, while giving herself the latitude to gradually reveal she was . . . nice.

Mrs. Miller was smart enough to realize we were young and impressionable, and that canned lesson plans were not the best way to reach a 14 year old. So she taught us how to outline by helping us plot a bank robbery. She earned the respect of the rabble rousers she dubbed The Infamous Five. She admonished us to live by her catchphrase, “you must rise above.”

I learned more grammar from Mrs. Miller than in eight years of high school and college. And she taught me as much about character as she did about nouns and verbs. She also served as an unfortunate lesson in disillusionment.

You’d think Mrs. Miller would have been recognized with a Teacher of the Year award. Instead, she left St. Mary’s a few years after I did. I’m guessing she was a bit too much of a noncomformist for them. Whatever the circumstances, it was a hard lesson for me. I thought excellence was rewarded. And that the powers that be weren’t morons.

If I was still a student and Mrs. Miller was being forced out, I would have stood up on my desk for her, like those kids defending their shafted teacher in Dead Poet’s Society.

After all, Mrs. Miller always said “you have to rise above.”

Help bring back a classic children’s book!

Today we’re supposed to blog about our favorite writers, so I’d like to talk about Jolly Roger Bradfield. I’m confident that you never heard of him, which is a shame. He wrote and drew one of my favorite books, Benjamin Dilley’s Thirsty Camel, as well as several other children’s books.

In my mind this guy should have been up there with Dr. Seuss and H.A. Rey (Curious George), but sadly his work has been largely lost to obscurity and the out of print department.

But hurray! a small boutique press named Purple House Press has obtained the rights to Jolly Roger’s library, and has already republished Pickle Chiffon Pie and The Flying Hockey Stick (both highly recommended!)

I contacted Purple House Press and asked/begged to have Benjamin Dilley’s Thirsty Camel reprinted next. I was told that the likelihood of this happening would depend on (a) the market and (b) more people like me asking for it to happen.

So, how about helping to give Jolly Roger Bradfield his due? Pick up a copy of Pickle Chiffon Pie and The Flying Hockey Stick, and send an email to phpress@att.net asking, nay, demanding that Benjamin Dilley makes its proud return next.

Trust me, you’ll thank me for it.

7 songs from my personal soundtrack

1. Sing to the Mountains by the Singing Nun

There was a guitar-playing nun who led the songs at the grade school I went to, and she bucked the tradition of the sombre music that made up the Mass back then. As a little boy I felt this was how you should sing to God: with joy.

2. Crocodile Rock by Elton John

This makes me think of record players and playing with my sibs in the basement.

3. O Holy Night by Nat King Cole

The warmth of family, the wonder of Christmas, and the days when snow was welcome.

4. What I Like About You by the Romantics

Ah, the 80’s: the best decade ever for music. It was happy, uninhibited, stupid fun. Like the kind I had with my awesome gang of high school friends.

5. Sometimes I Just Have to Say Your Name by Del Amitri

Ah, the 90’s: when grunge tried to destroy music by sucking the joy out of it. Thankfully, 1992 saw the release of my favorite album, Change Everything by Del Amitri. Though most of it leaned toward the bitter side (which agreed with me in my mid-20’s), it ends with this hopeful tune.

6. My One and Only Love by Sting

Gina and I’s wedding song. 

The very thought of you makes/my heart sing . . .

7. The Riddle by Five for Fighting

A song about a father and his son, and going from someone who asks advice to being the person who gives it. For me, an example of what music does best: transcends, transports and transforms:

Here’s a riddle for you/find the answer/there’s a reason for the world/you and I

My irrational fear of . . .

When I was young there was a popular children’s show called Romper Room. It’s mostly remembered for when the hostess saw the audience through her “magic mirror.” But I remember it for the recurring nightmare its opening credits gave me. 

The show began with a Jack-in-the-box and the song “Pop Goes the Weasel.” There was nothing unusual about the Jack-in-the-box, except that it was out to get me. I dreamt I was strapped to an operating table and the Jack-in-the-box was the doctor. He had a scalpel, a maniacal grin and no surgical license. You’d think I would have stopped watching Romper Room and stuck with Sesame Street.

I haven’t had that nightmare in years, but it’s one of the few I remember. Here’s hoping Ryan doesn’t get a Jack-in-the-box for Christmas.

Chuck and Katie, together again

Heather is my oldest friend. I’ve known her since kindergarten. Heather’s mom, Rose, watched me after school. Our families go way back.

Heather’s dad, Charlie (I called him Chuck) was quite the storyteller. He was a jovial guy who always tried to outdo me. A real character. We lost Chuck about half a year ago, but it wasn’t unexpected. He had two decades’ worth of medical problems and was running on sheer force of will.

But now comes news that Heather’s younger sister Katie has passed. Katie suffered from multiple sclerosis and lost the battle today. Our thoughts and prayers go out to Heather, Rose, Steve, Katie’s husband and her son, and all of their friends and families. She was far too young.

When Charlie passed, I imagined him regaling St. Peter with his corny jokes, putting his big bear arm around him and greeting him, “Hey, Pete.” Now I see Chuck with a warm, wide smile, welcoming his daughter home.

The marshmallow man

When I was a kid, I had two beefs with my older sister, Mary.

First, she always got to watch what she wanted on our family’s sole tv. I don’t know if, being the firstborn, this was part of some birthright, or where mom and dad were hiding during our many heated disputes. You’d think with three boys we’d have had no part of Little House on the Prairie, but somehow the words “because I’m the oldest” were enough to squash any revolt. At least she liked the Dukes of Hazard, the A Team and Magnum P.I.

The other stunt Mary pulled involved our overnights at Granma’s. Granma always bought us Lucky Charms to have for our bedtime snack. Mary would promptly dump the box out and separate the charms from the oats. She’d stash half the charms in a sealed cup like some hypoglycemic squirrel, rendering the mix less “magically delicious” than tragically deficient.

This abuse of power on Mary’s part stayed with me through the years. It was only recently that I returned to the marshmallow cereals of my youth. While pouring a bowl of Count Chocula, I thought what anyone would: there really needed to be a higher ratio of marshmallows to oats. I walked the bowl to the trash and scooped out five or six spoonfuls of oats, and when I still ran out of marshmallows, I ditched the soggy ones too. That’s been my routine every morning since.

It’s good to be an adult.