Communicative technologies have made everyone a critic, appreciative, admonitory or simply off the wall. Educators at all levels have always been evaluators, trained to give useful feedback. My fifth of seven principals would always give his staff “two to glow and one to grow”. Dr. O administered our back-to-basics curriculum with a tight focus on procedures and schedules. Time on task was paramount, with little allowance made for distractions.
My library lessons went over well enough, but my sketchy grasp of everyday physics created a number of inadvertent diversions from the “feet flat and eyes forward” mindset of both the student body and staff. One time I carried a clipboard and freshly sharpened pencil through a swinging door and ended up with the pencil point embedded in my behind. Another time I rode a ladder in my workroom down from its top step to the floor below while stacking puppet boxes above the library workroom cabinetry. Even though the library was in the middle of the building, and isolated behind two sets of doors, the commotion was enough to bring the nearby kindergarten teachers and the entire office staff running. My assistant, Pat, however, remained at her desk. She greeted the would-be rescuers with, “She’s most likely ok. I don’t even go check anymore if it’s just a bunch of noise and a few squeals.”
Bumps and bruises were commonplace, but my pride suffered even more frequently. Shortly before Dr. O left, another teacher and I decided to spruce up the teachers’ lounge, unpainted in 1995 since the original coat laid down in 1983. Dr. O approved the project as long as it didn’t take in-school time or involve on-duty personnel. My co-worker and I would provide the labor after school and the district supplied the paint—standard contractor’s issue in five gallon plastic tubs. While my partner was taping the cabinet and counter edges late one afternoon, I decided to stir up the paint where it had been delivered to just inside of the cafeteria doorway. The floor in that room was linoleum; better to mix the paint there than risk the carpet in the lounge. That did mean, though, that I had to get the tub across the hallway, also carpeted. The bucket was too heavy to carry, so I looked around the cafeteria for options.
The custodian’s long, low floor cart stood next to the milk refrigerator. I pulled it to the doorway to the hall but forgot to set the brake (a little metal flange that flipped down to compress the tire’s tread enough to prevent its turning) on the second of the two front wheels. I swung the paint bucket by its handle up to the cart but not quite high enough. The lower end of the bucket collided hard with the flat base of the cart. The cart rolled away, the lid flew off the bucket and five gallons of Navajo white billowed onto the blue carpet. At that moment, Dr. O stepped out of the front office eight feet across the way to see me standing ankle deep in thick, creamy paint. With no word of censure, he swallowed hard, sighed and radioed to the custodian. “John, please come to the front office and bring the shop vac. We need to assist Mrs. Finkelstein—again.”
