Unless you are in
the fun house at the carnival, mirrors don’t lie. I am reminded of that every morning, as a
Gillette Sensor razor rakes swaths of Edge shaving cream and mostly-salt-and-scant-pepper
whiskers off my face. And during that just-before-sunrise
routine—staring back at me—is the reflection of a 69-year-old man who can’t
believe that 70 candles will be on his next birthday cake, if he’s lucky.
Saturday
morning was different.
Thanks to my
friend Will Bacon, I was thinking more junior high than senior citizen. In their Atlanta home, he and Angie were
going through a spring-cleaning, decluttering exercise and came across a photo
of one of his mom’s eighth-grade classes.
With a click on my computer, I was catapulted back to 1962 and standing
with three rows of awfully young-looking students.
Over
on the right, in the back, was Will’s mom, Nanelle Bacon. Until she died four years ago, she never
failed to ask me: “Do you have your homework?” I was always quick to reply—as I did back
then—“Yes, ma’am.”
Years
ago, fire destroyed the old high school on East Plum Street which had become
our junior high. The smell lingers even
today, but I’m not talking about the smoldering rubble. With the least prodding, such as a dusty
photo, my nostrils recall the almost sweet scent of the red sawdust-like sweeping
compound the custodians sprinkled and then pushed with a broom across the
oil-soaked pine floors.
At the same time,
I can hear those floors squeak under the heavy steps of well-polished wingtips,
worn by our teacher’s husband, James E. Bacon.
His principal’s baritone voice could make our teenage world skid to a
stop. I will never forget the day I
discovered that behind his often stern demeanor and tucked beneath his starched-white-shirt-and-black-necktie
façade was a generous heart.
French was a
popular eighth-grade class, but your seventh-grade English teacher had to
recommend you. Mrs. Peterson balked at
my request, so I asked whether we could discuss the matter with the
principal. When we got to his office,
she said, “Mr. Bacon, this young man
barely has a grasp of English. I don’t
know how he could possibly handle a foreign language.”
Mr. Bacon
pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose.
Peering over the black frames, he asked, “Son, do you really want to
take French?”
“Yes, sir!” I
exclaimed.
Readjusting his
glasses, Mr. Bacon said, in his commanding voice, “Mrs. Peterson, I believe we
should give the boy a chance.”
Fifty-six years
later, yes, I know what some of you are thinking.
Mrs. Peterson
might have been right.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
