I don't think it was the dead duck. It wasn't that big a deal.... Ok, maybe it was. But, I'll never know. Stan Trask died last year and the answer to my question died with him.
1976. Connie and I were married in April in a snow storm and after a mind-muddling, second guessing honeymoon in Bermuda (Do you think we should have gotten married? Maybe it was too soon? Do you really love me? Do I really love you? Maybe I still love my old boyfriends... ah, the first year of marriage. Wouldn't go through it again for anything... except her.), we moved to our little apartment in Bar Harbor. I was the Superintendent of the Water Pollution Control Facilities... the sewage treatment plants. Connie thought I was an executive, big title and all. The first day I returned home covered in stinking sludge, she refused to let me in the apartment, made me strip naked on the back stoop and cried inconsolably. "I thought you would carry a briefcase..." And so, to save my new marriage, I began seeking a new job.
Connie was an elementary school teacher. I had my secondary education teaching certificate. We'd have vacations and summers off together. It didn't require much deductive reasoning to determine that public education was our path forward. Connie's other plan was for us to move into a comfortable little doublewide in her parents backyard. I desperately typed cover letters and sent resume's around the state, around the clock. Finally, in late summer, an opportunity for a science teaching position presented itself in Waterville. And Connie secured a position in the same school district teaching reading in the elementary school. Goodbye Bar Harbor- Hello Waterville!
We moved into a second floor flat off Cool Street and we were so very cool. My students were six to ten years my junior. My fellow teachers were typically 20 to 30 years my senior. I was a kid teaching kids and we were all figuring it out as we went along. The Principal, Stan Trask, was a tight ship, awkward-but-lovable administrator. They called him "The Bear". He had the ability to present an "I feel your pain", moist behind the eyelids, blink, blink, blink, "Really... I'm your friend", persona; on demand. It's an attribute that all politicians possess or covet.
My class assignments ran the gamut. Senior level Environmental Science. Junior level Health. Sophomore level Biology, and Freshman General Science. The freshman classes were all 13 year old young men, behaviorally challenged, under achievers... Boneheads. I loved 'em.
We disassembled car engines, built flat plate solar collectors, learned about wilderness survival skills, took field trips. My goal was to engage them, excite them, keep them coming to class... measurable learning results criteria be damned. One day, while cross country skiing on the frozen Messalonskee Stream, I came upon a dead cormorant. Lesson Plan! I knew the boys would be all over this. The next day we examined it, probed it, counted the feathers, looked at the contents of it's stomach. The boys were enthralled, turned on, self directed learning. A successful class. It was these types of unfortunately rare experiences that made me love teaching. Most education was mandated rote memorization, teaching to the test, boring, mindless.
I don't know why I placed the dead duck on the teachers chair and slid it under the desk except that my junior teacher friend and fellow freshman football coach, Fred Nassar, was scheduled to occupy the room the next period and we used to prank each other. As my class was exiting he strode purposefully into the room. Fred was short, stout, muscular and he walked with long, exaggerated steps.
He threw his briefcase on the desk. "Get out of my room, Foss" he growled.
Without a seconds hesitation, he pulled out the desk chair and sat down heavily... right on the duck. Even as I write this, 35 years later, I can't control my laughter. The duck emitted a loud farting noise and Fred' arms and legs went rigid as he looked down to see the ducks head protruding from his crotch. He scrambled to his feet as I bolted for the door. "You're dead, Foss!" he yelled as he grasped the duck by the neck and sprinted after me into the hall.
I rounded the corner first and tore down the hall... only to find Stan Trask standing motionless, watching me. I stopped cold in my tracks, but Fred rounded the corner, the duck firmly in his grip, lost his footing and slid across the highly polished floor, crashing into a bank of lockers on the opposite wall. He also spied the principal, regained his footing and walked, head down, back into the classroom. I avoided Stan's glare and, also head down, walked past him to my next class.
Perhaps this incident might have been overlooked... but on that day, for some reason, I just decided to let it all hang out. At the next break, I retrieved my duck alone with a multitude of blows from Fred and headed to the teachers room where I pinned it spread eagle on the bulletin board with a sign that said "State Bird of Latvia". It was discovered, amidst loud squeals and hysterical laughter, by my teacher friends Laima (a Latvian) and Liz during their lunch break. I couldn't stop laughing (then or now) even as Laima berated me. "Glen, you are such a FOOL! What ever possessed you to do such a stupid thing!" To this day, I can't answer that question.
Perhaps it was the duck, the combination of my two sophomoric pranks or maybe, as Stan explained several months later, with crocodile tears in his eyes, it was the drastic cut in the school budget. "Hate to let you go. You're a fine young teacher." Fred got the same speech.
I walked home dejected. What were we going to do now? I wasn't looking forward to telling Connie. Our French-Canadian landlord, Louie, met me in the driveway. "Glen, my daughta's coming home in two months and I need the apartment. You gotta move out."
"Louie, I just lost my job!" I pleaded.
"Moo Gee! Sucks to be you. Two months. Sorry. You gotta go." he replied.
I stumbled up the stairs and went directly to the cupboard where we kept a bottle of scotch... for medicinal purposes. I hadn't even poured a shot when I heard the sound of screeching tires in the driveway. Out the window, I watched Connie bail out of the barely stopped vehicle. She left the drivers side door open and ran across the parking lot crying. Oh God, perhaps she had already heard I had lost my job... or maybe that we were losing the apartment. She was clearly upset. I met her at the top of the stairs.
"I'm pregnant... with TWINS!" she sobbed.
What happened next? I finished the bottle of scotch... and over the next months, our lives unfolded in unforeseen and exciting new directions; Another story for another time.
This was just one of those days...
1976. Connie and I were married in April in a snow storm and after a mind-muddling, second guessing honeymoon in Bermuda (Do you think we should have gotten married? Maybe it was too soon? Do you really love me? Do I really love you? Maybe I still love my old boyfriends... ah, the first year of marriage. Wouldn't go through it again for anything... except her.), we moved to our little apartment in Bar Harbor. I was the Superintendent of the Water Pollution Control Facilities... the sewage treatment plants. Connie thought I was an executive, big title and all. The first day I returned home covered in stinking sludge, she refused to let me in the apartment, made me strip naked on the back stoop and cried inconsolably. "I thought you would carry a briefcase..." And so, to save my new marriage, I began seeking a new job.
Connie was an elementary school teacher. I had my secondary education teaching certificate. We'd have vacations and summers off together. It didn't require much deductive reasoning to determine that public education was our path forward. Connie's other plan was for us to move into a comfortable little doublewide in her parents backyard. I desperately typed cover letters and sent resume's around the state, around the clock. Finally, in late summer, an opportunity for a science teaching position presented itself in Waterville. And Connie secured a position in the same school district teaching reading in the elementary school. Goodbye Bar Harbor- Hello Waterville!
We moved into a second floor flat off Cool Street and we were so very cool. My students were six to ten years my junior. My fellow teachers were typically 20 to 30 years my senior. I was a kid teaching kids and we were all figuring it out as we went along. The Principal, Stan Trask, was a tight ship, awkward-but-lovable administrator. They called him "The Bear". He had the ability to present an "I feel your pain", moist behind the eyelids, blink, blink, blink, "Really... I'm your friend", persona; on demand. It's an attribute that all politicians possess or covet.
My class assignments ran the gamut. Senior level Environmental Science. Junior level Health. Sophomore level Biology, and Freshman General Science. The freshman classes were all 13 year old young men, behaviorally challenged, under achievers... Boneheads. I loved 'em.
We disassembled car engines, built flat plate solar collectors, learned about wilderness survival skills, took field trips. My goal was to engage them, excite them, keep them coming to class... measurable learning results criteria be damned. One day, while cross country skiing on the frozen Messalonskee Stream, I came upon a dead cormorant. Lesson Plan! I knew the boys would be all over this. The next day we examined it, probed it, counted the feathers, looked at the contents of it's stomach. The boys were enthralled, turned on, self directed learning. A successful class. It was these types of unfortunately rare experiences that made me love teaching. Most education was mandated rote memorization, teaching to the test, boring, mindless.
I don't know why I placed the dead duck on the teachers chair and slid it under the desk except that my junior teacher friend and fellow freshman football coach, Fred Nassar, was scheduled to occupy the room the next period and we used to prank each other. As my class was exiting he strode purposefully into the room. Fred was short, stout, muscular and he walked with long, exaggerated steps.
He threw his briefcase on the desk. "Get out of my room, Foss" he growled.
Without a seconds hesitation, he pulled out the desk chair and sat down heavily... right on the duck. Even as I write this, 35 years later, I can't control my laughter. The duck emitted a loud farting noise and Fred' arms and legs went rigid as he looked down to see the ducks head protruding from his crotch. He scrambled to his feet as I bolted for the door. "You're dead, Foss!" he yelled as he grasped the duck by the neck and sprinted after me into the hall.
I rounded the corner first and tore down the hall... only to find Stan Trask standing motionless, watching me. I stopped cold in my tracks, but Fred rounded the corner, the duck firmly in his grip, lost his footing and slid across the highly polished floor, crashing into a bank of lockers on the opposite wall. He also spied the principal, regained his footing and walked, head down, back into the classroom. I avoided Stan's glare and, also head down, walked past him to my next class.
Perhaps this incident might have been overlooked... but on that day, for some reason, I just decided to let it all hang out. At the next break, I retrieved my duck alone with a multitude of blows from Fred and headed to the teachers room where I pinned it spread eagle on the bulletin board with a sign that said "State Bird of Latvia". It was discovered, amidst loud squeals and hysterical laughter, by my teacher friends Laima (a Latvian) and Liz during their lunch break. I couldn't stop laughing (then or now) even as Laima berated me. "Glen, you are such a FOOL! What ever possessed you to do such a stupid thing!" To this day, I can't answer that question.
Perhaps it was the duck, the combination of my two sophomoric pranks or maybe, as Stan explained several months later, with crocodile tears in his eyes, it was the drastic cut in the school budget. "Hate to let you go. You're a fine young teacher." Fred got the same speech.
I walked home dejected. What were we going to do now? I wasn't looking forward to telling Connie. Our French-Canadian landlord, Louie, met me in the driveway. "Glen, my daughta's coming home in two months and I need the apartment. You gotta move out."
"Louie, I just lost my job!" I pleaded.
"Moo Gee! Sucks to be you. Two months. Sorry. You gotta go." he replied.
I stumbled up the stairs and went directly to the cupboard where we kept a bottle of scotch... for medicinal purposes. I hadn't even poured a shot when I heard the sound of screeching tires in the driveway. Out the window, I watched Connie bail out of the barely stopped vehicle. She left the drivers side door open and ran across the parking lot crying. Oh God, perhaps she had already heard I had lost my job... or maybe that we were losing the apartment. She was clearly upset. I met her at the top of the stairs.
"I'm pregnant... with TWINS!" she sobbed.
What happened next? I finished the bottle of scotch... and over the next months, our lives unfolded in unforeseen and exciting new directions; Another story for another time.
This was just one of those days...
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