STAPLES

I don't often look back at high school teaching. Oh, sometimes. The old buds I taught with. The extra curricular activities I sponsored or worked. And, yes, some students.

But just today as the calendar turned away an all too quick April this year, I commented that I loved to teach school in the Spring.

Mainly because of improved weather and Summer on the way, but those were not the only reasons.

I taught seniors for so long that I identified with that class more than any other. They were on the threshold, their term papers were finished, many were exempt from semester exams. While they may have had senioritis, so did I.

I got to enjoy their lasts moments of high school life. Their plans for their individual futures and college life awaiting. The eyes that held a look just a little longer on the faces of friends and even teachers.

And I got to teach them Thornton Wilder's Our Town. It seemed fitting. For many would be leaving their town. Lots vowing never to return. At least to live there. Their town was to them a nice town on the way to a better town. Most didn't particularly care for the play. At the time. But like their old teacher, I think many learned later the lessons of the great American play.

If they didn't, I also taught the great modern American play, Death of a Salesman. I like to think their appreciation for Miller's drama was enhanced by their own growing older themselves.

At the other end of high school life, those on the brink of being mature were my Honors English I students, anticipating their last Summer without driving privileges, For them, A Tale of Two Cities. The French Revolution, Madam LaFarge and Corday, and the greatest sacrificial character in fiction, Charles Darney's savior, Sydney Carton.

Yessir, I miss it a little today. I'm reminded of some students who loved one or the other at the time, and as they said in the last episode of Wonder Years, "and [I] look back and wonder".

"IT WILL COME BACK"

At least that's the talk of Those Who Know. You know, about the economic recession. You know, about stimuli programs. About bail outs. About debt. About the government sticking its nose into business corporations. About piling more debt on debt. But it will come back.

It always does. Cyclic. Economic downturns spiked by tweaks of interest rates. Consumer confidence. Business acumen.

But this feels different. Granted we've never experienced anything like this in our memories. So that makes it worse.

You either have these rosy predictions. Those long haul predictions of return to normalcy. Or you have those who have blinders on. The disheartened. The pessimists.

And that's me. I never considered myself much of an economist. I shied away from the subject in junior college because I feared the teacher, later a friend. I should give him a call to get his take on the whole fiasco where a country tries to spend its way out of huge indebtedness. But he's a realtor now. I'm not sure he would want to talk to me.

Yet, I'd expect I would be able to get through. The phones don't ring in most real estate offices any more.

YOU CAN TELL IT LIKE IT IS

But only if your left of center.

That was made crystal clear at the Miss USA contest when Miss Cali, Carrie Perjean, gave an honest answer. To a question that was posed for the purpose of political posturing.

Why else would the unknown Perez Hilton, a homosexual judge, have asked the only remaining contestant who attends a Christian college such a question? From what I understand, no other contestants were asked any such questions. Most, in fact, are usually given soft ball questions to test how quickly they respond.

But when Miss Perjean gave a very respectful but honest answer about her personal views, well, she might as well have fallen down on stage. Oh, I forgot, that happened in the last two Miss USA contests. So her gaff was much worse according to judges.

With her answer, Carrie took second place. But was the big winner of the evening as far as I'm concerned. And am I concerned? Yessir. When you don't have the freedom to express your opinion in the dignified manner she did, when there's only one opinion tolerated (yes, as in tolerant) and that's a minority left wing politically correct stance, then you bet I'm concerned.

Thank you, Miss Perjean, for the class you displayed. You didn't even counter the third grade ranting that Hilton vitrioled after he and the other judges robbed you of your crown. I'm sure it will continue in your direction. But stand tall. You were right. Those like Hilton were dead wrong.

A GONG COULD HELP

Get attention. I remember The Gong Show on tv. Hated it. But loved the idea. I still wish I had a gong to hit to get rid of annoyances. I have so many, though, I think I would be fined or run out of the neighborhood.

I went to a funeral of a friend today. He had a unique whistle that could be heard all over his neighborhood. That's the way he called his kids and later grandkids home. No one quite had one like it.

My uniqueness is a squeak I somehow make by slurping my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I was hoping it was hereditary but probably like Horst's whistle it will be buried with me. No one can master. I can't teach it. But it's all mine and like the gong attention getting. But I like it.

Gong. Whistle. Squeak. All annoying. All unique.

A CAN OF NYLONS ANYONE?

Only two instances when we've traveled across the pond have we ever encountered thieves. We almost had a third in Panama City recently. And it involved hosiery.

Once in Berlin a bodyguard of our Governor was pick pocketed by two obviously stupid teenage girls. He retrieved his wallet.

Once in Poland at night a pair tried to team up to distract and swipe a purse from a good friend of ours. They failed, too.

In a Panama City airport, we were awaiting boarding a flight to Santiago, Chile, last month. I had to wear support hose since I was fewer than 10 days removed from some leg surgeries. I wasn't able to keep them up.

So I was pulling on them because they had dropped below my knees. Rear end up in the air, I was tugging at the hose drooping on my left leg, exposing my wallet in my left pocket. Every time I would pull them up, my jeans would push them down. Evidently a pick pocket thought he would seize the moment. But I felt his presence near, popped up, and he left quickly before trying to pry my wallet.

I looked for him. Nowhere Man as The Beatles sang. There were only two gates nearby and he wasn't close to either. I figure he saw my aerial view, left the walkway, thought he'd snatch, nearly got caught, and vammanosed out of there.

So I'm glad I had my radar up. I'm also glad my nylons didn't come in a can. When I would take them off, how would I ever get them back in there?

WHAT DO THEY TALK ABOUT?

A long time ago in a teen universe far away, I used to wonder, "What do they talk about?"

Is he trying to be funny? I don't see her laughing a lot. Is he flattering her? I don't see her blushing? Is he bragging about his accomplishments? I don't see her eyes rolling in her head. I don't see her yawning.

They just seem mesmerized. How do I mesmerize?

So I tried it. I just wouldn't say much of anything. Let her talk. I'd follow her lead. She didn't. No mesmerization. I took her home. Early. She didn't seem to mind.

I observed. They weren't saying much. They were close. They were just looking at each other.

So I tried it. "What're you looking at?" "You," I combined both approaches.

"What for?"

"Cause I like looking at you."

"Well, stop it. You're weirding me out."

I took her home earlier. She approved.

No third time. I quit trying to mesmerize. I decided it might happen after awhile. But I never got to after awhile. I missed mesmerizing.

I took myself home early.

I did mind.