by Tim McGrath “The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life may appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique: and that was the dilemma of being human.” from The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce It's the both/and, not the either/or…. He was the kid in second grade who wore his sister’s pajama bottoms to school; the ones with little pink flowers. He was also the kid whose sour smelling little body made him the outcast; the one to surely be avoided. He was the kid who followed me home after school one day. For some reason we had named him “Good ‘ol Charlie”. Truth was, I didn’t know his name. He knew mine. “Tim, can I come to play at your house? My mom says it’ll be OK.” “Uh, sure,” was all I said. What was I thinking? Good ‘ol Charlie: pants wetter, paste eater; the one who put dirt on his bologna sandwich pretending it was pepper. Playing at my house. I hope nobody finds out. “Hi, mom. This is good ‘ol Charlie. He’s going to play here for a while.” “Well, hello, Charlie, nice to meet you. Would you two boys like a snack? There’s a new can of Charlie’s Chips that came today.” “My name’s not Good ‘ol Charlie, it’s Danny,” he said. “I don’t like it when people call me Good ‘ol Charlie.” We grabbed the can of chips and headed to my room. I’d been spending time organizing my penny collection in those blue cardboard trifold holders that have the little holes you push the pennies into. They were organized by the type: Indian head cent, the early “wheat pennies”, and later Lincoln head cents. I had collected a lot of the wheat pennies, and had just got one for 1955, the year I was born. “Hey that’s cool,” Danny said. “We were both born in 1955. What day were you born?” “September 4,” I replied. “Sunday,” he softly said. “I was born on June 18, Saturday.” “How did you know I was born on Sunday?” I asked. “Oh, it’s just something I do. You can ask me any date, and I can tell you what day it was. I can just see it in my head. It’s weird.” It was weird. And also quite remarkable. Of course, I had to test it out. So, as we played, I’d ask him random dates, and he instantly replied with the day of the week. He even knew the days of the week for dates in the distant future. We ended up spending a lot of after schools together at my house that year. I thought it was odd, though, that whenever I asked if we could play at his house, he said his mom didn’t feel good, and so he didn’t want to today. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe the tomorrow after that. He didn’t want to talk about it. Fall became winter, then melted into spring. June came, and finally with it, the last day of school. I was excited to think we could spend our summer days together. “Danny, what’s your phone number? I can call you and we can play. You can ride your bike to my house, and we can play forts, army, cops and robbers, eenie-ienie over. We’ve got all summer to have fun!” “Uh, our phone isn’t working, but yeah, OK,” he said. “See you next week?” I asked. He nodded, then headed for wherever it was he lived. That was the last I ever saw or heard from him. When summer finally came to its sorrowful end, I headed back to Boulevard Elementary as a newly minted third grader. I thought maybe I’d see him in class, the hall, out on the playground. After a couple days it dawned on me that Danny was really and truly gone. I missed him. From time to time, I still think about those days when my assumptions about the way he looked, dressed, and smelled were so wrong. The reality was he was smart, funny, kind; just sort of different. I realized in spite of our differences that we were a lot alike. Then there was junior high and high school…. I loved dodgeball. I was good at it, too. The dodgeballs of choice in junior high gym class were the dusky red rubber kickballs like we had used back in elementary school when out for recess. None of the foam jobs used today. That meant if you really wound up and let one fly, they could take somebody out, leaving large red welts. That, of course, was the point. When I’d show up for gym, and see the red balls in the center of the gym, I knew I was in for some fun. There were others who were less than enthusiastic. In fact, they were probably terrified thinking of the humiliation they’d soon face. One of them was Roger. He was painfully shy, slightly built, had thin, wispy brown hair, thick glasses, white, almost translucent skin, and delicate hands. The kind of kid we didn’t want to be like. He was always the last chosen for a team. The outcome of these contests was predictable. As the game progressed, each of the teams were winnowed down to the last surviving member. More often than not, Roger would be one of the last standing. During the game, he would find a corner to hide in, arms folded in front of him, hoping he would somehow be taken out early by a stray shot. Usually, however, he’d make it to the bitter end, and be the last one on the team still standing. It was just a matter of time before whomever was left on the other team would put him out of his misery. In reality, it was painful to see his suffering. Most of us hoped some jerky kid on the other team wouldn’t think it the height of hilarity to whip the ball at him intending to knock him down. I think the gym teacher was hoping for a merciful end, as well. I had to believe that as junior high wound down, Roger was breathing a sigh of relief knowing we wouldn’t be playing dodgeball in high school gym class. One day early in my high school career, I was strolling down the hall, using the excuse of needing the bathroom in an attempt to escape the drudgery of a mindless stint in study hall. As I got to the door of the choir room, I stopped because coming from the interior of that mysterious place was the sound of someone playing the piano. But they weren’t just plinking out some simple tune, it was a beautifully thrilling rendition of some classical piece. I thought perhaps it was the choir teacher practicing for an upcoming concert. I stepped in the door to get a closer look, and there was Roger. His back was to me, but I saw those delicate fingers racing over the keyboard, coaxing beautiful music from the clunky school piano. Roger, the kid who had been lost and terrified in a junior high gym, was now completely mastering this lovely piece of music. But that wasn’t all. On my way home after track practice one spring afternoon, I wandered through the school cafeteria. As I stepped from the gloom of the hallway into the bright late afternoon sun streaming into the cafeteria, I noticed there were people dressed in unusual uniforms and wearing some sort of helmet. It looked like they were chasing each other up and down some sort of long mat, and they had what looked like skinny little swords. That’s when it dawned on me, they were fencing! I’d never realized we even had such a thing at school. The two combatants finally finished their contest, and with a practiced hand swooped off their helmets. There, red-faced, sweating and breathing hard was Roger. His vanquished opponent congratulated him on his victory. The coach agreed, giving him a hearty clump on the back. I was dumbfounded to see this kid who just a couple years earlier stood trembling in gym class now finding his way in things I didn’t have a clue about. Masterful came to mind. Embarrassing, too, to think we had written him off as a misfit, nerd, weirdo. He had just chosen a different way. Like Danny from those long-ago days of elementary school, I realized Roger wasn’t just that trembling kid in junior high gym class, but also talented and smart. Probably interesting, caring, funny, charming. Just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to make it through those tumultuous years as best he could. Like the rest of us. Fast forward a few years…. I was doing one of my student teaching experiences in special education when I met Glenn at the Lincoln Activity Center, an adult workshop for developmentally disabled adults. When I laid eyes on him that first day, I stood and gaped. He was huge. Probably six-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds. Hands like baseball mitts. He grabbed my hand, engulfing it in his own gigantic paw. I thought he might shake my arm clean off my body in his enthusiasm at meeting me. The Activity Center was a place where the adult clients, the developmentally disabled adults, did small repetitive jobs such as assembling clips on clothing hangers as part of the daily routine. They were learning to follow instructions, learning to stick with a task, produce something useful, being successful. Glenn had a hard time. He’d struggle with how to put the clips in the right way, then when he had to redo them, would get frustrated. He just wasn’t interested in putting clips in hangers. He was interested in telling jokes. Two jokes, to be exact. He would tell and retell them frequently throughout our days together, laughing uproariously each time, as if it was the first time he’d heard them. Then there was the music. A couple days a week, before the end of the day, we’d have a time for music. Most times, it was a sing along. That’s when I experienced something completely unexpected about Glenn; what it was he really wanted to do. Marty, one of the teachers, would invite Glenn to sing and play for the group. Knowing how Glenn struggled in many ways, I thought perhaps he knew a couple notes, and maybe a few simple children’s tunes. Nope. Glenn loved old timey country western music. He started out by playing and singing The Yellow Rose of Texas; expertly riffing out the chords and complicated bridges, all the while belting out the words in a beautiful baritone. That transitioned into ballads by Marty Robbins and Patsy Cline. I must have looked shell shocked, because Marty explained to me that Glenn had this uncanny ability to sing and play almost anything he heard. Marty also explained Glenn was completely self-taught. This man who had trouble putting metal clips in plastic clothes hangers, was playing and singing songs that brought him and others great joy. Another example of someone showing me that we really are all unique and complex. Alike in so many ways. In this day when many things have become needlessly polarized, and we fall into the ugly trap of seeing each other through the lens of us vs them, who’s in, who’s out, and what tribe we belong to; the words of the character Brian in the 1985 film The Breakfast Club bring a timely reminder: “You can see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each of us is a brain, an athlete, a basket case, and a criminal…” The dilemma of being human. And to the young guy in the new Camaro in front of me at the intersection who thought it would be a great idea to burn out, slinging stones and gravel all over my truck, you are still an idiot.
16 Comments
Mike Post
4/21/2023 07:51:21 am
Well written!
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4/21/2023 08:17:04 am
Oh the memories brought a smile to my face. And the ending brought a giggle ,with a oh my i hope that person in the car learns to look around and learns he’s not they only uniqueness in the world!
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Chris Shafer
4/21/2023 08:36:23 am
Wow, Tim. This is a masterpiece! My new favorite, for sure. So touching, sweet, insightful and kind. Thank you for this, it has deeply touched my heart.
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Nita Speese
4/21/2023 09:33:48 am
What a different world this would be if we all kept these realizations forefront in our minds!
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4/21/2023 11:36:19 am
Thanks, Tim, for using your unique experiences to remind us to look deeper than outward appearances.
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Steve Breuker
4/21/2023 11:42:42 am
Nice one Tim! Hope you hear from a publisher soon.
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LUIE BRADLEY
4/21/2023 11:57:06 am
Lovely story 😁
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Cousin Shawn
4/22/2023 11:28:31 am
Oh Tim. Wonderful. I am always reminded, when I stop and truly look at people, that despite my preconceptions, how unique and special we all are. You have a wonderful gift of non-judgemental yet instructive storytelling. Please continue to share this with us!❤️
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Betsy Jasperse
4/22/2023 08:22:22 pm
Tim, your writing is not only humorous and colorful, it is poignant. Loved the message.
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4/23/2023 01:50:59 pm
I loved dodgeball, too!
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Lori Slate
4/23/2023 05:40:50 pm
Thank you Tim. You are and always will be an inspiration to all
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Tonya Howe
4/24/2023 05:13:20 am
Tim, I always like your stories and I love this one most of all. I have tears of happiness that you shared it with us.
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Don Mick
4/24/2023 07:39:12 am
Nicely written, and an important reminder. As a forty year education, I saw a lot of examples like this, and unfortunately, a lot of people who suffered because they were ‘different’.
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Kathy Morrison
4/24/2023 09:19:18 am
As always, Tim, I look forward to your stories. These people presented such valuable lessons in your youth, which you embraced, and undoubtedly were part of what shaped you into the incredibly gifted teacher that you are and the sort of adult that we need more of in this world. And PS. I lost it laughing at your closing thoughts.
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Short Holwerda
4/25/2023 12:28:57 am
Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, to see what You see. Each one fully known and deeply loved.
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Bob Pinder
4/26/2023 07:15:10 pm
What a wonderful reminder to live full of grace for those around us. Even the idiots.
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