Coaching The Olympic Champion

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not one to mince words. Oh, there used to be a time when she was as sweet as Mother Teresa. Mabel's mom even said so. But those days are long gone. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a downright crotchety ol' gal these days. She does not suffer fools gladly. And by 'fools,' that means people who do not do things the way Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would like them to do things.

This afternoon, for instance, when Mr. S paid a visit to my classroom. Oh, don't go thinking he was invited. Because my time after school is precious. Perhaps I've touched on that topic lately. I stay after to get caught up with my work. And to exercise by walking the hallowed halls of Newmentia for 30 minutes. So when the #1 son dragged in Mr. S, I was not a happy Clampett. Mr. S proceeded to sit on top of one of my student desks. Whoa, Nelly! Blow that whistle and throw a flag! I do NOT allow students to sit on the desks, and I do NOT allow my own personal children to sit on the desks. But in the quest for world peace, I bit my tongue when Mr. S plopped his nether regions on my furniture. Mr. S is not a wee gnome. He is six foot six. Of course the desk objected. Objected by collapsing one leg a good three notches into the metal leg-holder sleevey thingy. With a bit of a metallic screech. I liken the sound to the scream a plant lets out when you slice it through the stem. Only louder.

Mr. S slid off the desk. He had to. It was canted at an angle that would have discombobulated the people going down with the Poseidon. Shelley Winters would have slid off it with no regrets and no hesitation. Because it was a dangerous, steep angle, my friends. And no self-respecting child would deign to sit there. Heck, no child of any mental state would sit there, even if commanded to do so by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Mr. S caught himself with his daddy long legs, and said that it was about time for him to go. Uncharacteristically, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom yelled, "NO! You're not going anywhere! Not until you fix that desk." Mr. S looked perplexed. How dare I demand that he fix his blunder! I suppose not many people go toe to toe with Mr. S. Except Mabel. I know she has it in her.

Mr. S tugged at the leg. He tugged at the desk. He put his foot on the foot of the leg, and pulled on the desk. He was ready to give up. But no. I harangued him within an inch of his life. "You're not leaving until it's fixed. Carry it down to your room and YOU deal with it. Bring me one of your desks to replace it." The #1 son injected his two cents. "He has a one-piece desk." Whatever. My argument was working until logic reared its ugly head. Mr. S was a bit startled by my outburst. I don't know why. We've been lunch buddies for years. He should know my mettle by now. He finally made the desk right. No small thanks to me coaching him like an Olympic desk-bending champion. Enough is enough. Don't sit on my desk and tell me it is straight.

I'm mad as heck, and I'm not going to take it anymore!