Posts
There are few things I can say with absolute certainty, but of one thing I'm clear; I like order. I don't like excessive newspapers, magazines and mail laying about the house, and all articles of clothing must be put in their proper places. Dishes need to be washed and put away before I can turn the lights out at night, and the bed must be made with almost military precision before I enter the shower stall for my morning cleaning ritual. So fastidious am I that my mother has remarked in the past that I live in the nicest hotel lobby she's ever seen. My car interior is equally orderly; any CD not currently residing in the CD player must be placed in the little compartment between the front seats specifically designated for storage, and you will never find empty bottles, cans, papers or other clutter laying about. Even the tasteful Subaru suede-covered operators manual is tucked under the passenger seat out of sight. In other words, I'm a bit anal.So anal am I that I was fairly confident I could remember all of the contents in my plastic under-bed storage box containing what I consider to be important papers and stuff (the box is, predictably labeled, "Stuff"). I say was confident because, while searching for an autographed photo in my possession of actor Richard Crenna (don't ask), a small manila envelope appeared before me, marked in pencil with my name, "Grade One Report Card" written beside it, and below that a name that temporarily froze my blood;"Mrs Fleenor".
Mrs Fleenor was my Grade One teacher, and while the picture accompanying this article is not her, that is more or less how I remember her. It's possible I'm exaggerating my childhood memories but she always struck me as stern, unforgiving and abrasive, and the type of woman who bathed with lye soap and a nail brush. Mrs Fleenor was the one who called me out in front of the class because I put my construction-paper Santa Claus on the community bulletin board without attaching his mittens with Elmer's glue first. Mrs Fleenor was the one who told me the picture I drew of myself for a school art project wasn't right because I didn't Crayon my hair yellow (blond) enough. Mrs Fleenor didn't like that I used my Grand-dad's King Edward cigar box as a pencil box. Mrs Fleenor put me in the cloak room as punishment (for an offence of which I've conveniently forgotten), and accidentally left me there during recess. Mrs Fleenor frequently criticized the way I held my pencil. In my mind, Mrs Fleenor was a real b**ch.
Unfortunately, the grading and comments from Mrs Fleenor on the newly-found report card do not bear out the "b**ch" theory, so I called Mom to ask what she remembered of my former teacher; "she was a nice lady; she always liked you and said she could never understand why you didn't get along with her", was Mom's recollection. Reading through the report card seems to back that up; in addition to getting consistently high marks in every area including "attitude". Her remarks to Mom and Dad every quarter contained glowing words; "very mature", "exceptionally attentive", "well-behaved", "enthusiastic", "very polite at all times", "uses time wisely", "considerate", "neat and carefully prepared", "reads in a natural conversational tone" and "shows great interest in learning" pepper that first-year report card. Face it; that's a dream resume for a six year old child.
So why didn't I see eye-to-eye with Mrs Fleenor? If I'm completely honest with myself I think I know the answer. She could have well written the following and not gotten an argument from me; "stubborn", "headstrong", "opinionated", "does not respond well to criticism" "easily offended" and "a-general-pain-in-the-ass" didn't make their way onto my report card thus showing her kindness. If "anal" was an appropriate adjective at the time she could most definitely written that without contradiction. For those other affronts I imagine she caused to my dignity? Utter nonsense. To complete the task properly my construction-paper Santa should have had his mittens glued on, to this day I don't hold a writing utensil correctly causing considerable irritation to my bank manager who claims my signature is never the same twice, and since when is it an insult to be told your hair wasn't Crayon'ed blond enough?
Sorry, Mrs Fleenor, I just didn't get your good intentions. Thanks for all the unremembered things you did for me, wherever you are.
