Carpe Diem

As I enter the kitchen, Wanda is reading an article in the morning paper.  When she does not look up to acknowledge me, I head to the coffee pot.  After pouring a cup, I sit across the table from her.  “Okay, what’s up?”

She rewards me with a teasing smile. “Remember Iza Putz?”  The timbre in her voice causes me to laugh. She knows the mere mention of Iza’s name sends my mind racing.  Accepting her game playing, I remain quiet.  True to her nature, she cannot wait to give me the punch line.  “She’s dead!”

The amusement in her voice tells me it is not Iza’s passing that needs my attention. “Okay, what gives?”

“Her Obit says she seized her final moment at the Trump Hotel in New York City.”

We both laugh, but not because of her passing.  We have many fond memories of Izza.  It is her mantra that has us laughing – “Seize the moment!” As our laughter settles, my mind races back to the 1974-75 school year. Iza’s hunger to seize the moment nearly brought about the demise of a great teaching career.

Her final year of teaching French was my first year as a Speech teacher. Due to a lack of space and the influx of baby boomers, Principal Newman anointed me a floater. The new addition to the Junior High would not be ready until late March.

My last-hour Speech class was assigned her room.  A maze of boxes and collectibles from forty-five years of teaching lined the walls and stood on, under, and beside nearly every writing table in her room.

Her closets were crammed to the breaking point. Every inch of shelf space not used for books, held memorabilia. A pair of Eiffel Tower bookends were the only items on one shelf.  A Frenchmen she dated during the summer of 1939 gave them to her.  Before the two could complete plans for a life together, the German Army seized France.  During their occupation, Pierre became part of “La Resistance.”  Captured, he was sentenced to death by a firing squad.  As she never lost her love for him, she never married.

Nesting French dolls of various sizes, dress, and colors marched along several book shelves.  In the front of the room, centered above the classroom clock on a small shelf, was the only State trophy her French Teams had ever earned.  Surrounding the trophy and clock were twelve cloakroom hooks.  Each held a different colored beret.

Covering all of these items was a thick layer of dust. Even her prized French posters were not immune. Starting in the 1930’s, and interrupted only by the Great War, she traveled to France every summer. From the various provinces, she collected theater, bicycle, and restaurant posters. Each exemplified some aspect of the French culture that she admired.

Although the dust on these was thick, their muted colors and designs were still as brilliant as the day she purchased them. Besides lining her classroom walls in two rows above the side chalkboards, three dozen more hung from the long florescent light fixtures. Amazingly, left these beauties had been left untouched by her student’s sometimes less than stellar behaviors.  Not a one was marred!

Each told a bit of her travel history, and of the proud people whose language she loved. Although I envied her owning them, I envied more the pleasure she must have received in finding them. Her room left the impression she had visited every inch of France. I knew she had stories to tell.

During a pre-school workshop, I asked her about the posters. It was as if a lightning bolt had hit her. She moved quickly and totally into a dreamlike state.  It left me wondering if she might ever return. Her fondness for these posters, and the memories they held, appeared overwhelming. I didn’t speak of them again until just before Thanksgiving.

“If you’re willing to part with any of your posters, I would love to purchase one when you retire.” When she paid no attention to my request, I thought I had committed a faux pas. In my awkwardness, I blurted out, “Perhaps you’re saving them as a retirement policy.”

This brought an immediate response. “Oh no, I could never sell them.” In the end, she was true to her word. Each staff member received one as a parting gift. Mine is a steamship leaving port and bound for America. It is framed and hanging in my living room.

To put it succinctly, her dusty collection of posters and nick knacks conjured up images of a long-forgotten storeroom in some old museum. It was partly chaos, partly disturbing, but mostly fascinating.

During that previous summer, the custodial staff did “a controlled cleaning” of her room. When I asked Principal Newman to explain “a controlled cleaning,” he laughed.

“Two summers ago, the custodial staff failed to return all of her boxes and piles to their rightful places. It put her in a panic which lasted nearly a month. Once she got everything back to its rightful place, her peace returned. In deference to her upcoming retirement, we gave her room only a light dusting. Nothing was moved.”

For my tardy students, this meant either sitting behind boxes stacked on the last row of writing tables, or setting them on the floor.  Every time we did take them off, she promptly returned them. Perhaps the most pressing problem was Iza’s use of the chalkboard. It left thick layers of dust stuck to the boxes, shelves and tables.

Despite these problems, my teaching seemed to progress smoothly. Not so for Iza. A gambit with one of her first hour French student had not paid off. Making matters worse is what I can only describe as nature’s twisted sense of humor.

By her early sixties, she began to receive one of nature’s aging problems – weak neck muscles.  Soon she exhibited wrinkles and was given the unglamorous nickname, “Turkey Neck.” Topping it off were stress lines etched from teaching in the great depression, 3 wars, the 60’s demonstrations, and now the 70’s drugs and sexual promiscuity. Adding to her look of death warmed over were gnarled and shriveled hands and fingers.

One staff member, whose name shall remain anonymous, labeled her appearance, “a badge of infamy.” He claimed any dime store fortuneteller could predict a disastrous end. Unfortunately, his quips got a few laughs in the teachers’ lounge.

Common sense should have brought retirement to Iza when the rule of 90 kicked in.  Iza, however, was not predisposed to common sense her final years of teaching. In fact, she became a hopeless romantic.

My first inkling came when she described events surrounding one of her province posters. It had been given to her by someone other than Pierre. As I listened, the phrasing and tone in her voice matched those of a young woman regretting a lost love. It caused me to wonder how many broken hearts she had scattered along the byways of France.

Her romanticism also carried over into retirement.  Franklin Roosevelt, a man she dearly loved for presenting a strong and jaunty image while leading the nation through the Great Depression and WWII, was “A man of infinite wisdom. If Franklin proclaimed sixty-five to be an ideal retirement age, then that’s what it is going to be for me.” I did not have the heart to tell her that Roosevelt chose sixty-five because most workers in those years died before reaching sixty-five.

At any rate, the first half of that year saw her using nearly all of her energy disciplining one Chance Garner. Among his antics were removing bulbs from the overhead projector and interrupting lectures with innocuous questions about the weather and lunch menus. His most dangerous action involved tossing an orange against the chalkboard when her back was turned. It came so close to her head, the hair overlapping her ear furled up in a flutter. This brought gasps even from his friends.

One act that constantly gained him detention hours was sneezing loudly. Always he claimed it was the chalk dust. Unfortunately, his sneezes always came out as “Awe Shit,” rather than “Ah Choo.” These antics set the tone for other students to be disruptive in her classes.

Chance was a born leader – charisma, good looks, and intelligence. These brought high expectations from his parents and Iza.  She had taught his older brother Clarence.  He is the one who led her French team to its only state championship. Chance, however, wanted to be his own man, not a second Clarence.

After a pre-school pep talk by Principal Newman, Iza confided in me. “The perfect ending for my teaching career would be another state championship for the French team.” It was this dream that clouded her judgment in speaking with Chance Garner the previous spring.

That meeting caused her last year of teaching to turn out badly. By Thanksgiving, she was constantly butting heads with him. When Christmas vacation arrived, she tried tossing it off with a bit of wit and wisdom. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’ve been cast into Dante’s inner circle.”

I loved her analogy.  Unfortunately, her problem was indeed beyond the point-of-no-return. Despite having spent nearly every day of first quarter serving detention, Chance owed Iza an additional forty-five hours.

In late November, Chance’s parents gave up. Ten teacher conferences in three months were too much. Although they no longer supported Miss Putz, they also refused to support their son.

After Chance got kicked off the football and wrestling teams, a student I rescued from certain expulsion shared this insight. “He believes Iza ruined his life. Says, ‘She’s turned me into a detention freak.”‘

This thinking led Chance to stew and doodle during his hours of detention. His finest works were of Miss Putz and Miles, the Dean of Discipline.

Miles was portrayed as a Nazi Storm Trooper; Iza was the Wicked Witch of the West. Their contorted facial expressions depicted revenge and ruthlessness.

Art truly was the only bright spot in Chance’s life.

At age four, he began drawing copies of political cartoons. When his father explained what these cartoons represented, Chance fell in love with portraying wacky behaviors in a single frame. By six, he was drawing caricatures of friends and family members doing dumb things at the dinner table, in the yard, or on vacation.

In ninth grade, his single frames demonized Iza and Miles. He used them to decorate the bathroom walls. Each parody showed a different, helpless animal, cowering under their discipline. It did little good. Putz and Miles were oblivious. They never entered these stalls.

Students, however, were impressed. They loved Chance’s satire. His cartoons became unique symbols for the rebellious 70’s. Soon students began pasting them into their three-ring binders.  Chance became an underground hero.

A group spokesperson even approached him. “Hey, man, like you gotta, you know, lead us in a protest against detentions. Like a walkout man.” A skinny seventh-grade girl started a fan club. “He’s so cute.” These events did nothing to lift Chance’s spirits.

By the end of Christmas vacation, he was desperate to make Iza pay for his suffering. My informant shared Chance’s thinking, “She made him the Detention King of Milfoil Junior High.”

When New Year’s Eve approached, he was no closer to a get-even scheme.  He saw no reason to celebrate until “a final solution” was found.  To this end, he called his cohorts to his father’s ice fishing shack on the frozen fields of Lake Minnewiska.

It was there, with the help of marijuana, he swore to develop a

Machiavellian plan good enough to bring down Miss Putz. For her part, Iza confided in me the last day before winter break, “I’m going to use this vacation to unravel what’s gone wrong.”

From the day she graduated State Teacher’s Normal School in 1929, Iza dearly loved teaching. Her proficiencies were Latin and French. With Carpe Diem as a motto, she encouraged students to seize every moment. On the last day of Chance’s eighth grade French, she believed she was doing so.

Principal Newman had tried in vain to enroll Chance in a new, innovative program for at-risk ninth graders: WE/CEP, a Work Experience/Career Exploration Program. Newman felt WE/CEP would put Milfoil Jr. High on the cutting edge by reducing Minniwiska’s high school dropout rate. He believed Chance an ideal candidate. As he put it to the staff, “Chance is the most contrary, ill-behaved student in the history of Milfoil Junior High.”

Chance liked the idea of WE/CEP. However, his parents detested it. They insisted he stay in “normal classes.”  They said, “WE/CEP’s just part of a liberal agenda to reward bad behavior.”

When Iza heard of his remaining in “normal” classes, she decided to approach him on the last day of eight grade French. “Would you stay for a moment?”

Now Chance was already making plans to disrupt her classroom during ninth grade.  His “Sure!” must have been to get more insights.

Because the Garner family was special to Iza, she wrote off his eight-grade deportment as adolescent growing pains. All she could think of was Chance’s older brother, Clarence, the smart one, who achieved so much success while leading her French team to its state championship.

She divulged to me in early September, “Chance has that same innate language ability.” She saw in him the opportunity to re-live her golden year and leave teaching with a second state championship.

When Chance entered French as a seventh grader, Iza saw it as fortuitous.

She remembered his parents footing the bill for the French team’s stay at a grand Minneapolis hotel. This had spurred her students to even greater efforts. She felt Chance’s entry into her seventh-grade class was ‘kismet. “His parents have the money; he has the genetics.”

Chance’s mother taught Latin and Greek at St. Jude’s College. His father was ambassador to Colombia in the late ’50s and early ’60s. Both parents spoke four languages fluently. Chance, Iza believed, would be her final hurrah. It was the reason she offered him the French Team captain’s position that beautiful spring day.  Her offer only emboldened Chance’s decision to rebel against parents, an older brother’s shadow, and Iza’s “cast in stone” teaching style.

The Iza of 1975 was not the same person who began teaching in 1930. Her role model was Anne Sullivan, Helen Keller’s teacher. Iza’s decision to invest in Chance happened just after her eleventh reading of The Miracle Worker.

When Iza was in her early teens, her mother took her to a lecture by Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller. The knowledge of what Anne had accomplished, and Helen’s gratitude, dazzled the young Miss Putz. She told me: “That night, before falling asleep, I clutched my autographed program and vowed to become a great teacher like Anne Sullivan. The next morning, I framed it. It has hung above my bed ever since.”

In 1959, Iza spent a portion of her summer vacation attending three performances of the Broadway production, The Miracle Worker. In 1962, as president of the Anne Sullivan Fan Club, she received a ticket to the premiere film of that year, The Miracle Worker. She subsequently purchased an educational copy of the film for student viewing.

Iza began her story of that fateful spring day by saying, “I kissed my fingertips before touching my good luck relic as I headed off to school. I believed offering him the team captain would turn him around.”

As she continued to speak, I realized the gambler in Iza believed she was seizing an all-in moment. “After class that day, Iza called him aside. ‘I know this year hasn’t always been smooth, but work with me, help the French team win a second state championship. I’ll see to it your next year will be rewarding.”‘

As she was telling me the story, she stopped abruptly and became wide-eyed. Quickly her expression changed to one of awkward awareness. “I can honestly say Chance looked dumbfounded when I made the offer. At the time, I thought it was having a profound effect on him. Now I believe I allowed myself to be duped.”

From what Iza said, Chance must have been thinking, “don’t blow this one.” Believe me, Chance is quick on his feet and has the ability to take advantage of any situation. He surely saw an opportunity to gain the upper hand with Iza. His, “Sure, I’d love to,” must have caused the eternal optimist, the romantic in Iza, to miss a big tell.

Iza’s gambling instincts came from watching her father win at Friday night poker parties. She would sneak out of her bedroom and lie behind the balcony railing overlooking the parlor. “I often fell asleep to the clinking of glasses, chips, laughter, and shuffling cards. It was far better than going to silent movies.” This kind of talk from Iza always brought a faraway look.

A former counselor told me, “Iza arrived in Minnewiska when MUSIC was in its prime. She wanted to join. Now MUSIC was both an acronym and the euphemism male teachers used to cover their drinking and gambling habits. To minimize suspicions, they moved the game from home to home each month. Gambling and drinking were still a “no-no” for teachers, even in progressive Minnewiska.

When Iza learned MUSIC stood for Men’s Unique Social Interest Club, she dropped her quest and began learning Zion Czech, a complicated Bohemian card game played Saturday evenings by the women of the First Bohemian Reform Church. Within six months of joining, she talked the ladies into playing for a penny a point. Three years later, when she had most of their money, she convinced them to raise it to five cents. As she had them hooked, five cents it was.

Throughout the years, Iza kept a special ledger of her winnings. To ensure the game continued, she periodically revealed her total. It always made the other women more determined. For Iza, her winnings were evidence of the gambling instincts she inherited from her father. It was this conviction that clouded much of her decision-making during her final year of teaching.

When Iza called to wish me Happy New Year, she divulged, “I’ll be playing my cards close to the vest from now on.” She felt taken-in by Chance’s accepting the role of team captain.  She now clearly saw how he used his position to disrupt her class without paying the consequences.

It was in late November that Chance’s father set out his ice-fishing house on Lake Minnewiska. Shortly thereafter, a series of business trips took him out of town.  This gave Chance the opportunity to adopt the fish house as a home away from home.

Located in the middle of Lake Minnewiska’s 400 acres of ice, he soon discovered it had its own unique alarm system.  Whenever someone drove out onto the ice, a distinct rumbling and thundering of waves moved ahead of it. These reached the fishing house long before the vehicle. When his mother came out to check on him, the fish house door and window flew open, along with schoolbooks. By time she arrived, everything smelled fresh and looked appropriate.

After a few spot checks showed discipline and decorum, his parents no longer felt supervision necessary. In fact, they came to see the house as a healthy outlet, a great way to keep him out of trouble during the long winter months. Well, he and the boys did some fishing, even bringing home a few now and then, but fishing was not their game. It was smoking Mary Jane. Nickel bags were easy to come by.

On New Year’s Eve, Chance’s buddies arrived early. The heavy smoke from his purchase of Hawaiian Gold soon lifted the boys to new heights. A stoked stove kept their fishing holes open. In the annals of Minnewiska ice fishing, this night is now known as “Maui Wowie Night.”

Midway through their twenty-four-hour marathon, one of the rods actually hooked a lunker. As each boy easily tired of fighting it, they passed the rod around.  When they finally got the fish up to the hole, it would not fit through. This electrified them.

My informant, Royce, one of the Fish House Five, began enlarging the hole.  As he did so, he proclaimed, “Geez, this works great!” He was speaking about the new, deluxe, heavy-duty ice chopper Chance’s father had purchased. In the flurry of flying chips, the chopper flew from boy to boy as chopping was tiring. During the third handoff from Chance to Royce, it slipped through Royce’s fingers, sinking to the bottom of Lake Minnewiska.

The loss caused no small amount of consternation.  Chance demanded of Royce, “How the hell we gonna land it?”. More colorful speech like, “You dumb shit,” followed. Wanting to hear no more, Royce left and returned with his father’s sledgehammer. While he was gone, the others ripped up part of the flooring. They envisioned needing a huge hole for their trophy fish.

After Royce’s return, ten minutes of pounding followed.  Without warning, a four-foot piece of ice broke off. Royce and his father’s sledgehammer slid in. The shock of thirty-two-degree water caused Royce to let go of the hammer and grab onto an ice chunk. For the first few moments, his friends argued about whether to pull in Royce or the fish. When a modicum of sense prevailed, they quickly hauled him out. He was not “a happy camper.”

Before retrieving the fish, they tied a rope around the ice chunk. After dragging it out into the darkness, they were ready to retrieve their monster. Royce could only watch and shiver; hovering over the wood burning stove.

What they finally dragged up was a five-foot-plus carp. Royce told me, “The thrill of it flopping around is hard to explain. We were struggling to keep it from returning down the hole. Everyone was shouting something different.  “His enthusiasm to relive those moments has always help me remember his words. I share them whenever my wife and I need a good laugh. “Shit, man. Look at the size of that mother x%&#er.”

“@!qt, man, that’s the biggest x%&#ing fish anyone ever caught.”

“*#%am right. Mother x%&ing huge!

Apparently, these and other uncommonly clear insights flowed earnestly, along with ideas on how to make the most of their trophy.

“Nail it outside, above the door,” advised a shivering Royce. The boys knew the winter’s cold would keep it frozen for a long time.

“Like, hey, man.  Like, we could hook a lure in the upper lip. . . like freeze the jaws wide open… like, you know… make it look like it is lunging.” This suggestion flowed from another fuzzy mind.

“Yeah, we could attach the pole to the roof and let the line hang down.” They all believed Ross’ suggestion way too cool. Then someone said, “Let’s throw it on Wanda’s porch.” A wave of boisterous laughter followed.

Wanda was and is a beautiful blond. Her pouting lips are every boy’s dream. On this evening, the boys puckered their lips and gasped at each other, smiling and smirking. In truth, they were each secretly visualizing Wanda’s tempting lips touching theirs.

It was this “Wanda” suggestion that sent Chance into a wave of delirium. He began dancing and stomping on what remained of the wooden floor. The beat of his stomping electrified the others.  He became a tribal dancer all were proud to imitate. They sensed a vision, a scheme for using the fish.

Chance whooped, “This’ll fix old lady Putz and Miles.”  The boys immediately began congratulating him. They had not seen Chance this jubilant in months. “It’s my chance to get even,” he began shouting and howling, fists pumping the air and hitting the low ceiling. Soon each hit punctuated a remark. Royce was so excited while telling me, I envisioned some featherweight boxer downing a heavyweight.

Soon Chance’s rhythmic dancing turned into bouncing on both feet, landing heavier and heavier from midair twirling. The boys all joined in his howling and matched his rhythmic bouncing and twirling. Soon all their heads were numb from numerous head-butts on the low ceiling. The deep, ritualistic sounds, vibrating from the hollow, wooden floor, became mind bending.

After catching his breath and calming himself a bit, Royce said, “Because of the effects of marijuana, we were like frenzied zombies vowing to follow Chance to the ends of the earth.” It was indeed a heady moment for the Fish House Five.

When the dancing became too much, Chance flopped down on one of the overturned fishing buckets. Quickly the others gathered around, intent upon hearing his plan. As Chance believed Miles, the Dean of Discipline, a coconspirator with Iza, they were excited to know what was going to bring the two of them down.

Here I should tell you; Miles is a large, burly fellow. Although the physical stereotype for a Dean of Discipline, he is a soft hearted, kind person. Most students relish his early morning smiles, handshakes, and hugs. He is a gentle giant forced into disciplining socially unacceptable behaviors. The actions of pubescent males with raging testosterone, unless well-schooled by parents, often go well beyond the limits of classroom decorum.

Besides testosterone and drugs driving the behaviors of the Fish House Five, the latest psychobabble drifting through the schools influenced them. “Parents, discipline your child softly so as not to destroy the fragile psyche, or kill the creative soul.” Chance and his friends used this belief to great advantage.

Immediately Chance shouted, “You guys remember ‘Carp Lips?”‘  How could they forget! He drilled it into their heads as a nickname Miles. Chance got the idea while sitting in his usual chair outside of Miles’ office.

One Friday afternoon Wanda’s father came storming out mumbling, “What a bunch of crap.” At first, Chance thought he said, “carp,” the guys’ secret nickname for Wanda. In his mind, Chance decided Miles should be appointed Wanda’s adviser. For this responsibility, Chance dreamt up different carp lip poses Miles could teach her.

As ringleader of the Fish House Five, he burned the assistant principal’s new moniker into their minds, instructing them in the art of mimicking carp lips while holding a deep drag of Mary Jane. His Fish House Five Classes paid off. They went forth like Hari Krishna chanting a salvation mantra. Sucking, pouting lips proclaimed, “carp lips” whenever the hallways were crowded.

‘Carp lip’ graffiti began appearing in bathroom stalls. It brought titters from the innocent. The severely disciplined began leaving Miles’ office assuaging their anger through pursed lips while emitting sucking, gulping sounds. The more serious the punishment, the greater the gusto. Teachers found it funny. Not only was it a final gasp of defiance before doing detention, the action mimicked guppies at feeding time.

However, the dancing and stomping on this New Year’s Eve was only half the fun and entertainment for the Fish House Five. The instigator, the greatest disciplinary problem in the history of Milfoil Jr. High, had figured out what to do with their prize fish. Putting his plan into action, he threw the carp out into the dark and cold.

“Hey, whaddaya doing?” they shouted in unison.

“Listen up. Old lady Putz and Miles messed with me for the last time.

Today payback begins! Tonight, I know how I’m going to get even.”

Because the early morning temperature hovered near fifteen below, his prize froze quickly. Fortuitously, the tail curled up. He carried it home in the burlap bag his father used when bringing home rough fish for garden fertilizer. At home, he buried the sack and fish in a snowdrift behind the garage.

The next day, the first school day after Christmas vacation, he grabbed his father’s old army duffel bag, stuffed in the trophy, and headed down to the bus stop. At school, he went directly to Miss Putz’s room.

During her final year of teaching, she always unlocked her classroom door before heading down to the lounge for a cup of coffee. Rarely did she make it back until moments before class was to start. As students knew this, they no longer bothered coming in early for homework assistance.

Emotionally drained, Miss Putz was no longer a morning person. This day was no exception. Chance had the room to himself. He headed straight to the closet nearest her desk. While opening the door, he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Believing a shadowy figure lurked outside the back window, he paused to look intently. When nothing moved, he returned to his dirty deed.

Miss Putz, being short in stature, never kept needed supplies on the top shelf. That is where Chance placed his prize. In the two and half years he had been taking French, she never used it. Tearing out old, musty, long forgotten lesson plans, he shoved in his prize. Even with a curled tail, the diagonal fit was tight. After replacing the original materials, he departed, believing he had covered his tracks.

Walking tall and proud that morning, he told his friends, “With all the junk in her closet, she’ll never notice until it’s too late. She’ll think it student odors.” He then instructed them to spread a rumor: “Old Lady Putz has a rare skin cancer.” As Iza never used deodorant, he knew the lie would work to his advantage.

He was right. With the upper shelf left undisturbed, the fish rotted slowly, emitting repulsive odors similar to silent flatulence. When my students began complaining, one of the Fish House Five blamed the odor on winter stuffiness and junior high body odors. As Chance had ordered, he also added, “I heard Putz’s got a rare skin disease. Maybe the odor’s from her.” It got a laugh.

When I could take the smell no longer, I began opening a back window, even though it was ten below. I taught while standing in the draft of fresh air. Most students wanted to move forward because of the cold, but the odor kept them back.

When I asked Iza, “Don’t you smell anything?” she shook her head. She must have been fearful it was her.

A week prior, a colleague put a can of deodorant in her mail slot, pushing her to bathe every other day. Neither the deodorant nor the bathing slowed the lounge talk concerning Iza’s rare skin disease.”

As the smell grew worse, my students began hinting it was coming from the closet nearest her desk. I asked my informant if he knew anything. This was one of the few times he lied to me. I confronted Iza again, “Have you checked your closet?”

“I did and I found nothing!” I penned a note to Parker, the head custodian, “Check Iza’s closet for dead mice.” Some students suggested it was the annual mouse problem. Later I found this just another Fish-House Five rumor.

“Hey, Frick. I checked that mouse problem. Everything’s fine,” was Parker’s authoritative report. Parker had been twenty years as Milfoil’s head custodian. Some of the older teachers said he had been a troublemaker back in his student days.

My intuitive side gave a halfhearted “Thanks!”  This was because of the disdain in Parker’s voice. Two days later when I could take it no longer, I shut the door after my last hour class assembled. “I need your help. We are checking the front closet.”

I could hear murmurings of “finally” and “it’s about time.” Chance’s stoolie complained we were wasting valuable study time. The others gave him dirty looks.

Starting with the bottom shelf, I systematically pulled out years of accumulated junk, attacking the closet like some hound dog sure of his scent. Rising dust and dirty hands soon made me realize her materials had not been touched for a long, long time. Neither Parker nor Iza had done any searching. My students were grateful the problem was about to be resolved.

Their armloads of materials began piling up in the rear of the room, under an open window – a chance to get a breath of fresh air. Within minutes, I reached the top shelf. With each stack of books and lesson plans pulled out, the odor became more pungent, more biting. My stomach muscles began contracting. Next in line was Wanda. When I handed her an armload, she fainted. The overpowering smell, seeping out in noxious waves, was truly unbearable.

In that moment, a gagging student caused my queasiness to ramp up a notch. Before I could get down, all my helpers were in the hallway, leaning arm’s length against the wall, retching uncontrollably. Half-digested school lunch ran everywhere.

Before leaving, I lifted Wanda and carried her out. Some students and teachers from adjoining classrooms, out to view the commotion, began applauding. Others gasped. From the latter’s perspective, I was holding Wanda like a new husband would carry his bride over the threshold. Her lovely blond tresses fell over my shoulder and swirled around my neck. She had snuggled in.

Quickly Parker and his two assistants began a mop brigade. Since Parker’s nasty cigar habit deadened his sense of smell, none of the hallway puke, classroom retch, or foul closet odors bothered him. Removing the offensive item was done with routine.

The next day I stopped him. “Did you have the courage to unwrap it?”

“Sure did.” This time his words were tinged with contempt.

After a long pause and no further information, “Okay, what was it?”

“Dead carp… big one too.” Now there was genuine pleasure in his voice.

Immediately I felt his cheerfulness associated with the prank.  Naw, it can’t be.  However, the next day, when Parker and Chance walked the hallways like long-lost buddies, I began my own investigation. Upon discovering Chance had done the deed and Parker knew about it, Principal Newman gave Chance a five-day suspension. Parker, who passed Iza’s window the morning Chance left his parcel, received a reprimand and a demotion to take effect at the beginning of the next school year.

Rather than be demoted, Parker quit and hired a ghostwriter to edit his twenty-year collection of teacher and student antics. His School House Yarns became an instant hit. A TV sitcom based on his book, followed. Parker got the leading role.

Although Iza Putz never achieved her second state championship, the fish ordeal allowed her to put aside her disappointments and finish teaching in peace.

In tenth grade, Chance began cartooning teacher foibles for the school newspaper. After graduation from MADS, the Minneapolis Art & Design School, he began a career as a political cartoonist. Using his caricatures of Iza as the conservative, and Miles the flaming liberal, he soon had a syndicated hit. Success brought an appreciation for time spent in detention.

According to the morning obit, it was Chance who gave Iza her final moment of glory. He asked her to join him on the podium during his acceptance of the United Nations’ International Political Cartoon Award. He spoke highly of her methods for encouraging students to be all they could be.

Following his words, Iza spoke on how much it meant for Minnewiska to have fostered such talent, and what a great honor it was to have taught him. The article detailed her gracious and complementary remarks.

After returning to the grand hotel suite Chance had purchased for her, she passed away in her sleep. Found in the morning, she was smiling peacefully and clutching two framed programs.  One in a turn of the century wooden frame; the other in a new, artsy, metal frame.

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