By Robert J. Baker
Stories informed via a professional tale teller of this existence at the street of existence,
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Extra resources for County Road 13
F. Hutton ad. I was bending over the barrel, sack half full, when I was labeled, identified, accused. I considered crawling into the barrel, yet I sensed people were waiting for a reaction. Should I have pretended I was deaf? No, the mother already knew I was normal in that respect. Should I have dropped the scoop and trod majestically to that wayward child? Should I have given her my sternest scowl, the one I reserved for teenage terrorists I taught in junior high? Without a word I could have had that snippet bawling.
There was this sale on men's dress slacks at the local clothing store. Eager for a bargain, I was met in the store by a downy-cheeked clerk who inquired if he could help. Eagerly I mentioned the advertised slacks. " I stopped, petrified, silenced, shamed. Here I was, evidently a decrepit dinosaur, trying to act and camouflage myself as a graceful gazelle. How disgraceful. Without a word, I turned and left, tail between my legs, but too ashamed to even whimper. Although I did not literally shake the dust off my feet, I never returned to that store again.
At the first parent-teacher meeting, I cornered his father and inquired as to the possible cause of Sam's antagonism. " I explained to Sam's father that there wasn't a good deal I could do about that. The father, sprawled on a chair as he waited for an interview with another teacher, simply shrugged his shoulders. Meeting the father did help me suffer through that year with Sam; heredity is pretty powerful stuff. Our "Shakespeare" was wrongwords hurt. James was more correct: "The tongue also is a fire.