The Owl
There’s an expression I once heard that reminds me how important our words can be. While you may believe you are tossing a pebble at someone, they may be getting crushed by a huge boulder. We often never really know how an off-handed comment or a quick decision affects another person.
I loved the smell of autumn. There was a crisp, burnt leaves, kind of feel, and once I got through the trauma of going back to school, I was able to enjoy it. It was Halloween week, which meant that in a few days, Howard and I would be dressing in some kind of quickly thrown together costumes, trick or treating for candy, and continuing the observance of our yearly quest for more than we collected the year before.
As I was walking with him to school, I thought about the test I didn’t study for , and the don’t get caught by the girls games we would invent at lunch recess. I was in the “smart class” in third grade, but never felt like I belonged. I know how I got there though. I was put in the top second grade, because I must have done well on the achievement tests they give at the end of first grade, and was too young at that age to realize that I wasn’t going to be a good student. Somewhere in second grade, I decided I was not as smart as many of the other kids in my class. My teacher, Mrs. Brown didn’t encourage me as I remember. I was a “sloppy worker” who pushed too hard on my pencil when writing, and then smeared the graphite all over the paper with my left hand as I swept from side to side. By the end of an assignment, the edge of my hand was black, and dark fingerprints and smudges were everywhere. Why this didn’t seem to happen to the left handed girls or to Steve F. was one of several mysteries, which to this day I can’t solve.
At the end of second grade, the school decided to do an experiment, where Mrs. Brown would follow the class to third grade. Although I probably didn’t belong with this class after a less than stellar second grade performance, on to third grade I went, still in the “smart class” and still feeling like didn’t belong there. As a third grade student, and throughout my school career, I was pretty mediocre. I lacked confidence in my ability to do well, which was mixed with just enough laziness to make it a self fulfilling prophesy. How I made it through college and graduate school is another mystery to me, but not my mom. She always believed I could be “smart in school”, if only I’d “apply myself.” The laziness was empowered by the excuse that I wasn’t good in school anyway, so why try? It has taken a lifetime to overcome those thoughts, and I’ll let you know when I get there!
After going through the morning and early afternoon, we were finally going to have some fun. Oh yeah, I did have some fun playing out at recess. The girls chased us and when they caught us, we had to “go to jail.” The object was not to get caught, and I could outrun any of these girls running backwards with my eyes closed. So why was I always caught, and why didn’t I mind? Even at eight years old, I knew on some level that girls weren’t as yecchy as some of my friends said. I liked being caught, and I liked being taken to jail!
“Boys and girls, I know you’re going to like this next activity. We’re going to make Halloween decorations. You may choose whether to make a witch or an owl.” I dismissed the witch immediately as way too hard. As with most of the other things going on in school, I was “not good in art” either. The witch had something going on where her hair was to be curled with the handle from a pair of scissors which I knew was for Linda K. and Arlene H., but not for me. The owl was pretty basic stuff. Trace the pattern, cut out the owl. Even I couldn’t mess this up! A nice pressure free afternoon, just trace, cut, and done, until I heard the sentence. The one that knocked my easy rest of the day into high a stakes activity. “Now do a good job boys and girls because I will hang these up in front of the classroom, and your parents will be able to see them when they come to the P.T.A. meeting tonight.” In those days the P.T.A. stood for Parent Teacher Association. They were monthly meetings to keep all the moms and dads up to date on how poorly I was doing.
I loved my mom more than anything. More than my baseball cards, my All Star Baseball board game, or even watching the Lone Ranger on television. All she wanted was for me to “do good” in school. She cleaned the house, bought the groceries, cooked the food, washed my clothes, and took me to buy new shoes. All she asked of me was to try to “get good marks.” Well if I couldn’t get good marks, I could sure make this silly owl. I could just see her now. Looking at all the owls until she saw mine. It might not be as good as some of the other ones, but it was her Craigie’s. She’d love it anyway, just like I would.
Mrs. Brown passed out the paper, patterns, and scissors, and I was ready to go. For whatever reason, after the first 10 minutes or so, I was already behind. This tracing wasn’t as easy as I thought, and as a left hander with less than refined fine motor skills, (remember the handwriting?) it just took me longer. It didn’t help that I was running my mouth too much, and showing off for any girl who would look my way. Jail bait for the next recess. Even as a kid I liked to make people laugh, and that was how I got my recognition and confidence boost I guess. It sure wasn’t my report card. Craig continues to mind everybody’s business, but his own. He is not working up to his capability. The story of my young life, and in some respects my old life too.
I looked over and noticed that Joanne G., (who I went with in second grade) was already curling the witch’s hair, and I wasn’t even done tracing yet! Gotta get going, gotta get this owl done. Ok, No more talking. Where has the time gone? I was finally done tracing and was beginning to cut the owl out. Once again for some reason the lefty curse that never seemed to infect the girls was working it’s evil magic on me as I attempted to cut. Of course in those days there were no such things as left handed scissors, and whenever I tried to cut, the paper, it would fold up in the dull blades of the scissors, but would just not cut. “I’ll just get this thing started by tearing it a little,” I thought. “We’ll be starting to clean up in a few minutes boys and girls,” warned Mrs. Brown. “Oh no, not the two minute warning!” I panicked silently. I was able to cut a little bit along the lines of my traced owl, before the black construction paper was getting folded again, but not cut. Mrs. Brown was already starting to hang finished witches and owls on the narrow strip of corkboard that ran along the front of the room. “Look how neat (cool) those witches look!’ I envied. “The hair is curled, and they look like they were done by an adult or something.” I looked at my own creation, which by this time was beginning to look the worse for wear. The more I tried to cut with those crappy scissors, the more the paper seemed to fold. “Ok class, time to clean up.” The final gun had sounded, and I was not even halfway finished cutting out my owl.
My mind quickly raced to images of my mom looking for my contribution to the class Halloween decorations, which she would never find. I weighed different options.
1. Tell Mrs. Brown I needed more time.
2. Stay after school to finish the owl.
3. Ask for help. Maybe she’ll finish it for me real fast using those big super sharp teacher scissors that she keeps in the drawer and only Susan G. is allowed to use.
4. Continue with the tearing along the traced line strategy.
So which is the absolute worst of the four options? Can you guess which one my eight year old left handed, can’t cut out, black fingerprint on all my work, show off, and get put in jail by the girls self chose? If you guessed #4 you win a cigar, but don’t smoke it in the house. “I won’t let the fact that I can’t cut keep my owl from taking its rightful place with the others in Mrs. Brown’s Halloween gallery. So tear I did. More owls and witches were being hung on the cork strip. “They’re all so good,” I thought, but as long as mine is up there it’ll be ok,” I rationalized. Mom will like it just because it’s mine. If she cried the time I gave here that half finished, not painted plastic fish model, she’ll have to like this! “There!” I was done tearing. My owl had emerged from its previous incarnation of a traced pattern to become..... A pretty sad looking owl which had been pulled and forced into the world.
Most of the class was beginning to put on their coats, a sure sign that time was way up. I darted and dodged in and around my classmates who were packing their things, and telling of the bags and bags of candy they would be getting the day after tomorrow. I hastily put my shaggy creation at the bottom of the small pile on Mrs. Brown’s desk, which represented the last few decorations still to be hung. “At least I got it done.” Exhaling a sigh of relief, and knowing that my owl would soon be taking its shaky, but deserved place among the rest of the class, I left the room, and headed for home.
That night in bed I thought about my owl. I bet he felt like me, not belonging. The other decorations represented their artists, neat, sharply cut, imaginative. My owl was quickly traced and torn in a battle against time, my left hand, and less than fantastic motor skills. Well, at least it’s there and mom will see it. Somehow she’ll still love it.
The next morning, not too much was said about the owl while getting ready for school. My mom did say that Mrs. Brown had again suggested, I needed to work much more neatly, and stop wasting time. I couldn’t wait any longer before asking the question that had been in my thoughts through the night. “Did you see the Halloween decorations?” “Yes,’ my mom answered, “The witches and owls were pretty spooky.” I was afraid to ask what she thought of my owl. Could I handle the disappointment of hearing how I needed to work neater and stop wasting time? I decided not to ask. Maybe if I took another look when I got to the classroom, the owl would look ok, and I’d feel better about asking my mom if she saw it when I got home.
As I walked to school, there was the usual conversation about what we’d “be” for Halloween, and how many bags we’d like to bring home. My thoughts continued to focus on my poor owl, and whether he had weathered the meeting, and his first night without me. Just then, I had a terrible thought! What if my tattered creation was so bad that other parents pointed it out for being so bad? In my eight-year-old imagination, I could see the parents of the perfect girls covering their mouths to stifle a laugh when they saw my owl. What would my mom think? Would she be too embarrassed to admit that the unfortunate creature was her son Craig’s creation? Would she just endure the humiliation in silence, or explain that her son needs to work more neatly, and stop wasting time. As I walked into our classroom, most of the kids ran over to where their owl or witch was hanging, pointing and laughing at one another’s decoration before Mrs. Brown whooshed us with her arms to our seats to unpack for the day. I looked up on the wall, and for some reason didn’t see my owl. “I’m sure it’s at the very end or something,” I assured myself. “Maybe it’s in the middle, so it wouldn’t stand out so much,” I considered. After a few minutes looking at each owl, I had to admit that mine was not up there. My thoughts again went back to the previous night. I now had an indelible picture in my mind through most of the morning. I saw my mom looking at each owl and witch thinking to herself, “Where’s Craig’s? No that’s not it, how about this one?” All I could imagine were her feelings as she went from decoration to decoration, and finally realizing that my owl wasn’t among them. As silly as this sounds now, at the time, it was very upsetting.
I muddled through my morning work, before finally working up the courage to ask Mrs. Brown where my owl was. If she didn’t want it, at least I could take it home or something. Like a disabled child, it also needed extra love and care. My owl might not be pretty enough for the classroom display, but it would still have a happy life in my junk drawer. I approached Mrs. Brown’s desk as the class was getting reading to switch rooms for math. “Um Mrs. Brown?” I asked quietly, “Where’s my owl?” She looked at me with what I remember was an expression of pity and impatience, and answered, “Craig, to tell you the truth, it was so raggedy, I had to throw it out.”
I loved the smell of autumn. There was a crisp, burnt leaves, kind of feel, and once I got through the trauma of going back to school, I was able to enjoy it. It was Halloween week, which meant that in a few days, Howard and I would be dressing in some kind of quickly thrown together costumes, trick or treating for candy, and continuing the observance of our yearly quest for more than we collected the year before.
As I was walking with him to school, I thought about the test I didn’t study for , and the don’t get caught by the girls games we would invent at lunch recess. I was in the “smart class” in third grade, but never felt like I belonged. I know how I got there though. I was put in the top second grade, because I must have done well on the achievement tests they give at the end of first grade, and was too young at that age to realize that I wasn’t going to be a good student. Somewhere in second grade, I decided I was not as smart as many of the other kids in my class. My teacher, Mrs. Brown didn’t encourage me as I remember. I was a “sloppy worker” who pushed too hard on my pencil when writing, and then smeared the graphite all over the paper with my left hand as I swept from side to side. By the end of an assignment, the edge of my hand was black, and dark fingerprints and smudges were everywhere. Why this didn’t seem to happen to the left handed girls or to Steve F. was one of several mysteries, which to this day I can’t solve.
At the end of second grade, the school decided to do an experiment, where Mrs. Brown would follow the class to third grade. Although I probably didn’t belong with this class after a less than stellar second grade performance, on to third grade I went, still in the “smart class” and still feeling like didn’t belong there. As a third grade student, and throughout my school career, I was pretty mediocre. I lacked confidence in my ability to do well, which was mixed with just enough laziness to make it a self fulfilling prophesy. How I made it through college and graduate school is another mystery to me, but not my mom. She always believed I could be “smart in school”, if only I’d “apply myself.” The laziness was empowered by the excuse that I wasn’t good in school anyway, so why try? It has taken a lifetime to overcome those thoughts, and I’ll let you know when I get there!
After going through the morning and early afternoon, we were finally going to have some fun. Oh yeah, I did have some fun playing out at recess. The girls chased us and when they caught us, we had to “go to jail.” The object was not to get caught, and I could outrun any of these girls running backwards with my eyes closed. So why was I always caught, and why didn’t I mind? Even at eight years old, I knew on some level that girls weren’t as yecchy as some of my friends said. I liked being caught, and I liked being taken to jail!
“Boys and girls, I know you’re going to like this next activity. We’re going to make Halloween decorations. You may choose whether to make a witch or an owl.” I dismissed the witch immediately as way too hard. As with most of the other things going on in school, I was “not good in art” either. The witch had something going on where her hair was to be curled with the handle from a pair of scissors which I knew was for Linda K. and Arlene H., but not for me. The owl was pretty basic stuff. Trace the pattern, cut out the owl. Even I couldn’t mess this up! A nice pressure free afternoon, just trace, cut, and done, until I heard the sentence. The one that knocked my easy rest of the day into high a stakes activity. “Now do a good job boys and girls because I will hang these up in front of the classroom, and your parents will be able to see them when they come to the P.T.A. meeting tonight.” In those days the P.T.A. stood for Parent Teacher Association. They were monthly meetings to keep all the moms and dads up to date on how poorly I was doing.
I loved my mom more than anything. More than my baseball cards, my All Star Baseball board game, or even watching the Lone Ranger on television. All she wanted was for me to “do good” in school. She cleaned the house, bought the groceries, cooked the food, washed my clothes, and took me to buy new shoes. All she asked of me was to try to “get good marks.” Well if I couldn’t get good marks, I could sure make this silly owl. I could just see her now. Looking at all the owls until she saw mine. It might not be as good as some of the other ones, but it was her Craigie’s. She’d love it anyway, just like I would.
Mrs. Brown passed out the paper, patterns, and scissors, and I was ready to go. For whatever reason, after the first 10 minutes or so, I was already behind. This tracing wasn’t as easy as I thought, and as a left hander with less than refined fine motor skills, (remember the handwriting?) it just took me longer. It didn’t help that I was running my mouth too much, and showing off for any girl who would look my way. Jail bait for the next recess. Even as a kid I liked to make people laugh, and that was how I got my recognition and confidence boost I guess. It sure wasn’t my report card. Craig continues to mind everybody’s business, but his own. He is not working up to his capability. The story of my young life, and in some respects my old life too.
I looked over and noticed that Joanne G., (who I went with in second grade) was already curling the witch’s hair, and I wasn’t even done tracing yet! Gotta get going, gotta get this owl done. Ok, No more talking. Where has the time gone? I was finally done tracing and was beginning to cut the owl out. Once again for some reason the lefty curse that never seemed to infect the girls was working it’s evil magic on me as I attempted to cut. Of course in those days there were no such things as left handed scissors, and whenever I tried to cut, the paper, it would fold up in the dull blades of the scissors, but would just not cut. “I’ll just get this thing started by tearing it a little,” I thought. “We’ll be starting to clean up in a few minutes boys and girls,” warned Mrs. Brown. “Oh no, not the two minute warning!” I panicked silently. I was able to cut a little bit along the lines of my traced owl, before the black construction paper was getting folded again, but not cut. Mrs. Brown was already starting to hang finished witches and owls on the narrow strip of corkboard that ran along the front of the room. “Look how neat (cool) those witches look!’ I envied. “The hair is curled, and they look like they were done by an adult or something.” I looked at my own creation, which by this time was beginning to look the worse for wear. The more I tried to cut with those crappy scissors, the more the paper seemed to fold. “Ok class, time to clean up.” The final gun had sounded, and I was not even halfway finished cutting out my owl.
My mind quickly raced to images of my mom looking for my contribution to the class Halloween decorations, which she would never find. I weighed different options.
1. Tell Mrs. Brown I needed more time.
2. Stay after school to finish the owl.
3. Ask for help. Maybe she’ll finish it for me real fast using those big super sharp teacher scissors that she keeps in the drawer and only Susan G. is allowed to use.
4. Continue with the tearing along the traced line strategy.
So which is the absolute worst of the four options? Can you guess which one my eight year old left handed, can’t cut out, black fingerprint on all my work, show off, and get put in jail by the girls self chose? If you guessed #4 you win a cigar, but don’t smoke it in the house. “I won’t let the fact that I can’t cut keep my owl from taking its rightful place with the others in Mrs. Brown’s Halloween gallery. So tear I did. More owls and witches were being hung on the cork strip. “They’re all so good,” I thought, but as long as mine is up there it’ll be ok,” I rationalized. Mom will like it just because it’s mine. If she cried the time I gave here that half finished, not painted plastic fish model, she’ll have to like this! “There!” I was done tearing. My owl had emerged from its previous incarnation of a traced pattern to become..... A pretty sad looking owl which had been pulled and forced into the world.
Most of the class was beginning to put on their coats, a sure sign that time was way up. I darted and dodged in and around my classmates who were packing their things, and telling of the bags and bags of candy they would be getting the day after tomorrow. I hastily put my shaggy creation at the bottom of the small pile on Mrs. Brown’s desk, which represented the last few decorations still to be hung. “At least I got it done.” Exhaling a sigh of relief, and knowing that my owl would soon be taking its shaky, but deserved place among the rest of the class, I left the room, and headed for home.
That night in bed I thought about my owl. I bet he felt like me, not belonging. The other decorations represented their artists, neat, sharply cut, imaginative. My owl was quickly traced and torn in a battle against time, my left hand, and less than fantastic motor skills. Well, at least it’s there and mom will see it. Somehow she’ll still love it.
The next morning, not too much was said about the owl while getting ready for school. My mom did say that Mrs. Brown had again suggested, I needed to work much more neatly, and stop wasting time. I couldn’t wait any longer before asking the question that had been in my thoughts through the night. “Did you see the Halloween decorations?” “Yes,’ my mom answered, “The witches and owls were pretty spooky.” I was afraid to ask what she thought of my owl. Could I handle the disappointment of hearing how I needed to work neater and stop wasting time? I decided not to ask. Maybe if I took another look when I got to the classroom, the owl would look ok, and I’d feel better about asking my mom if she saw it when I got home.
As I walked to school, there was the usual conversation about what we’d “be” for Halloween, and how many bags we’d like to bring home. My thoughts continued to focus on my poor owl, and whether he had weathered the meeting, and his first night without me. Just then, I had a terrible thought! What if my tattered creation was so bad that other parents pointed it out for being so bad? In my eight-year-old imagination, I could see the parents of the perfect girls covering their mouths to stifle a laugh when they saw my owl. What would my mom think? Would she be too embarrassed to admit that the unfortunate creature was her son Craig’s creation? Would she just endure the humiliation in silence, or explain that her son needs to work more neatly, and stop wasting time. As I walked into our classroom, most of the kids ran over to where their owl or witch was hanging, pointing and laughing at one another’s decoration before Mrs. Brown whooshed us with her arms to our seats to unpack for the day. I looked up on the wall, and for some reason didn’t see my owl. “I’m sure it’s at the very end or something,” I assured myself. “Maybe it’s in the middle, so it wouldn’t stand out so much,” I considered. After a few minutes looking at each owl, I had to admit that mine was not up there. My thoughts again went back to the previous night. I now had an indelible picture in my mind through most of the morning. I saw my mom looking at each owl and witch thinking to herself, “Where’s Craig’s? No that’s not it, how about this one?” All I could imagine were her feelings as she went from decoration to decoration, and finally realizing that my owl wasn’t among them. As silly as this sounds now, at the time, it was very upsetting.
I muddled through my morning work, before finally working up the courage to ask Mrs. Brown where my owl was. If she didn’t want it, at least I could take it home or something. Like a disabled child, it also needed extra love and care. My owl might not be pretty enough for the classroom display, but it would still have a happy life in my junk drawer. I approached Mrs. Brown’s desk as the class was getting reading to switch rooms for math. “Um Mrs. Brown?” I asked quietly, “Where’s my owl?” She looked at me with what I remember was an expression of pity and impatience, and answered, “Craig, to tell you the truth, it was so raggedy, I had to throw it out.”
posted by Craig A52 @ 9:25 PM
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