Twenty-five years after I last darkened the door at my old high school, I came back for a reunion. I was stunned at what I would find.
The front door looked about the same, just with more coats of paint on it. Built in the early 1970’s, the brown and tan brick building had been remodeled about ten years ago. Gone were the tobacco-soaked carpets and pea-green walls. But one thing that they had not removed was the funky smell. The smell of thousands of prepubescent teenagers who had traveled through these halls. I looked around, expecting to see familiar faces. But most of those faces had retired or died. A handful of my old teachers remained. A quarter of a century and untold students had aged them, though. The past few years had aged us all.
I signed into the front office and got my “Visitor” name badge. I was a guest of my old History Teacher, Miss. Bumgartner. It wasn’t until she called me last month that I discovered she had a first name: Sheila. Sheila Bumgartner. Seemed like a friendly name. She was a friendly teacher back in the day. And a darn good one.
Miss. Bumgartner (excuse me if I don’t call her Sheila; it doesn’t seem quite right), was one of those special kind of teachers. You know, the one who challenged you to be better than you were. But she did it in a convincing, kind way. She had a natural leadership style around her. Her classroom was alive and vibrant. She taught those of use who cared that an education was more than vomiting facts up for a test. No, she gave us the gift of learning to think for ourselves. It’s a gift that served me well in college and later on in life.
She immediately challenged my by saying, “Remember that time you got a 95 and I told you that you could do better?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Even at the age of 43-years-old, I respected her. I thought Miss Bumgartner was ancient back in the 1980’s. She was only five years older than my class.
“I’m proud of you, you really turned out well.”
I kind of blushed. Never one to take compliments well, I smiled and tried to change the subject.
“Michael, I’ve followed your career. I love your books. You’ve done this little school proud.”
Little wasn’t a word to describe my old high school. When I graduated, it had over 2,700 students. Our class was bigger than some small Mississippi towns.
“You want a tour?”
I nodded “sure,” and we walked around the halls. “You going to make me carry one of those big hall passes?”
Miss Bumgartner laughed as we walked through the cafeteria.
The old psychadelic mural from the 1970’s was gone. My classmates and I guessed the kids who painted it were on mushrooms and not the kind served in the cafeteria. Miss Bumgartner and I walked into the gym, which was now named for my old coach. “I ran a lot of suicides on that floor.” The coach had succumbed to cancer ten years after we graduated. The world was a lesser place without his quiet leadership.
A smallish lady in glasses came up to us and said hello. Miss Bumgartner introduced me, “Frances, this is Michael Marsh.”
Frances was the principal of the school and smiled as she shook my hand. “You write the best short stories.”
I tried not to blush again. I then thought of my english teacher who told me I couldn’t write.
Bless her heart.
Frances’ walkie talkie buzzed and she scurried off to deal with some discipline problem. Miss Bumgartner and I headed back torward her room. “What ever happened to Miss Frascino?”
Miss Bumgartner smiled, “She retired a couple of years ago and is now teaching college students remedial english.”
“I should take her class.”
We came up to the stall where my old locker was. I said to Mrs. Bumgartner, “May I have a moment?”
I walked over and put my hand the metal door. Dented and battered, it had housed the stuff of 24 other kids since I had crammed my book bag in it so many years ago. I got down on my knees and felt the baseboard at the bottom. All these years later, even with the new tile floor, it was still loose. I wrestled it for a moment and pried it loose. There, slightly yellowed, was a sheet of paper. Slightly shocked, I picked it up and slowly climbed to my knees. It was a note I had left to myself 25 years ago. It was my own personal time capsule.
My hands were shaking as I unfolded it.
There, in my own handwriting, was who I was going to be in 25 years. I read the note slowly to myself.
1. I am going to become a famous author.
Check.
2. I am going to marry Rachel Jones.
Check, but we got divorced after five years. So that didn’t quite count as a check.
3. I am going to be rich and famous.
Check, kind of. In 1988 money, I’d be rich. Most of my money goes to Rachel now anyway. But I guess I’m famous. You can walk by a bookstand in an airport and see my name. There was a movie coming out from one of my stories, too.
4. I am going to play college football.
No. Didn’t happen. Too slow. And I discovered writing hurt less on Sunday morning than college football. I became a writer instead.
5. I am going to have two kids.
Check. Got two of the best boys ever. It was the two things Rachel and I got right.
6. I would drive a Firebird Trans Am.
Little did I know Pontiac would die an inglorious death. Poor Bandit would have to drive a Camaro now. I drove a Honda.
I looked at my little list and smiled.
I took a pen out of my pocket and wrote down six new items on the back of my list. I folded it up carefully and placed it back behind the baseboard. I’d come back in 25 more years and check on my progress. And then I emerged from the locker stalls to a waiting teacher.
I looked back at my old locker and thought what the next 25 years would bring. And I wondered how much of my new list would come true.
“Can I buy you lunch in the cafeteria?” I asked.
“I normally don’t date students, but maybe just once. Just stop calling me Miss Bumgartner. It’s Sheila.”
“OK, Sheila. It’s a soy burger on me.”
We then walked to my favorite teacher’s classroom so I could teach her kids about how dreams can come true.
