Delicate ripples licked the side of the rowboat. The old wood creaked and groaned, awakening to the day. The sun was just cresting the pines in the East. I manned the oars. They squeaked softly in the morning freshness. Grandpa had put me in charge of the oars since he was getting on in years. He fiddled with the fishing gear, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his worn angler's hat.

It went kind of slowly, the time, the whole day. (It's seemed to do so ever since.) My grandpa told me that's how it always is. I guess he might be right, but I wonder.

Grandpa told me about me stories as we floated on the lake. He conveyed his ramblings to me with the slight remorse of hindsight. As I listened to his tales I grew closer to him. Before, I thought he was a little reticent and lacking tenderness. Of course I wouldn't have put it in those terms back then. I probably would have said "out of his gourd," or something offhand and not very accurate. I wouldn't say that now. I know more now, not much, but enough.

He wasn't a cruel man or anything like that. He just always seemed a little distant, even to the point of insensitive. My mom had never been that close to him, and I guess some of this rubbed off on me. He tried to do what fathers were supposed to do: he was always home for dinner; he bought my mom pretty new clothes on more than just special occasions. But something seemed to be lacking.

"I'm home," he used to call in a faintly enthusiastic voice as arrived from work, he told me. He'd take off his grungy work clothes, bathe quickly, and then plod deliberately to the porch where he spent time gazing out through the trees and patting their lab, Donovan, on the head. It wasn't sacred, alone time. He hadn't made himself off limits. He just liked to be out there. My mom could always go out and talk to him there. But rarely did she. His interaction dulled when he was on the porch petting the dog. His mind slowed to the swaying of the pines, and his voice whispered like the wind through the trees. On the porch, he was lost to the immediate.

Grandma didn't much visit him there either--when she was alive, I mean. She had passed away over three years ago. Grandpa was seventy- one when she died.

Grandpa had changed since her death. Not drastically, for he was old and had already seen much. But the death of his wife of forty-eight years possessed an impact that nothing had prepared him for.

It was one of those milestone events that are inexpressible. They register, not in a changed personality, but in an acquiescence and melancholy in one's eyes. Her death caused a momentary studder in the path of Grandpa's life. As he paused, he glimpsed a piece of wisdom. I know this because, afterwards, his stride shortened an inch and his shoulders stooped more, almost imperceptibly. Grandpa's eyes were that much more recessed, and a glassiness glazed them in pensive moments. With her death, he relinquished slightly more of himself to another world that only the old are familiar with.

The glassiness in his eye was the lost spark of Grandma's endearing humanity. As a candle holder can be gorgeously wrought, intricate and ornate, once the candle is lit, a mystic vibrancy comes forth that overshadows the beauty of the object alone. It was this vibrancy that Grandpa's eyes no longer reflected. They now resonated with the soft glow of qualities that were uniquely his.

Grandma's funeral was all she could have hoped for, sweet, tender, and not mournful. She always made a point that she didn't want her funeral to be bitter and lugubrious. She was a woman who had embraced life. Death was a natural part of life, and to be upset about it baffled her. At least she let on that it did. I don't really believe it though; she was too collected and head-strong a person. Baffled was just her personal, stubborn stand against the inevitable sadness of death. By failing to accept it, she tried to make death that much less real; she tried to take Death's sting away from him. Denying the unpleasantries in her own little way is what made her human.

The ceremony took place on a spring meadow not far from the home where Grandma and Grandpa had vacationed for nearly forty seasons now. Grandma had spent many happy hours in that meadow, reading the favorite writers of her college days, watching Donovan bound through the grass and pounce on invisible foes, or playing with me as a tyke. This spot had been her choice for the funeral.

The meadow was selectively adorned with darling bunches of wildflowers. A glorious, central bouquet radiated flowers and stems in all directions. Below, a Chinese urn contained my Grandma's ashes. A leaping blue dragon grinned and twisted and frolicked over the urn's surface, subduing the funeral's sadness with its enthusiasm. An intimate group, ten or twelve local friends, along with my mother, myself, and my Grandpa, gathered under a crystal sky that sent down the fragile warmth of early spring. Several read poems, and my Grandpa gave a sort of stoic recounting of life's drama that was touching, not in the sentiments conveyed by his words, but by his sincerity. Gradually the group dispersed.

By late afternoon, Grandpa had returned to the meadow where the ceremony was held and delicately spread Grandma's ashes over the green grass and wildflowers, per her wishes.

Lathrop is where my mom grew up. George and Lucille remained there until '66 when they moved to the vacation house in Maine. So the bulk of my mom's formative experience took place along small streets in a sheltered world. Never brave enough to set forth out of Lathrop, my mom ended up marrying the son of a factory worker at the age of nineteen. This man, Bill Jacobsen, was my father for four years, until he abandoned my mother and left her in sole charge of my upbringing. I don't know much more about him, and Grandpa didn't care to speak on it.

My mom, Elaine Stillsworth, grew up an only child. For an only child the actions and statements of parents become magnified. The development of parent and child roles becomes more distinguished, distinct from being just a family member. A father takes on the aura of Father. With the greater reliance my mom placed on her father as one of the sole influences her life, his actions carried more weight. If he did something good, it was magnificent. If he did something that hurt, it was devastating. In his position, he needed to tread very lightly if he wanted to keep my mom's psyche intact.

At the time he didn't realize this. Or possibly he did and his stand was that a person is responsible for himself. Someone who vacillates with the ebbs and flows of others won't be a happy person, Grandpa said. Treading lightly remained outside his behavioral repertoire. So my mom ended up sad sometimes.

One event that left a lasting mark on my mom's delicate character happened when she was only seven. It doesn't seem like much to me now, but I guess for a child it could be something.

It was early afternoon, and Lucille (Grandma) had sent my mom out to play in the garden while she worked in the kitchen. Elaine (mom) took her pail and her plastic shovel and played in the dirt quite contentedly for an hour or two. George (Grandpa) came home from work, talked to Lucille briefly, and then went outside in a congenial mood to see Elaine, intending to help her gardening efforts or to explain how plants grow or something like that. When he arrived outside, he saw Elaine sitting cross-legged, happily splotched with soil. She looked up toward him and grinned as he neared. George noticed dirt on her face and lips and became dismayed. He demanded bluntly, "What the hell are you doing with the dirt?" and stooped to investigate. "I ate it," Elaine responded triumphantly. "See," she said as she eagerly held up her spoon.

"Dammit!" he grunted as he whisked her brusquely inside. Elaine hung haphazardly, slung over George's arm as he paced toward the kitchen. Elaine's face got red. She was hanging upside down and suffering the full weight of her body against her stomach, where George's arm bore her. She received some relief when George curtly disposed of her on the kitchen floor and started dialing Doc Lewis. George set her down to make the phone call, but his hand still tightly gripped her own, too tightly.

Doc Lewis said she'd probably be fine but if George noticed anything strange he should bring Elaine in to see him.

At this point Elaine was confused and disconcerted, having been uprooted discourteously from her place of play in the garden for some unknown breach of conduct. She had no idea what she had done wrong. Her system had been shocked by her father's rashness and her own abrupt mood change.

Previously warm, happy, and cozily snug in the dirt, she was alarmed and startled by an action that she had not before recognized as a possibility. She didn't realize one could be so roughly removed from a happy mood. That sort of thing shouldn't be allowed. Apparently happiness was no defense against physical unpleasantries. She was perturbed and began to wonder if there was no place of complete security, if from any place in her life she could be suddenly and violently uprooted for no clear reason.

While George thought he had acted with appropriate parental concern and resolve, Elaine didn't receive that notion. She wasn't familiar with all the manifestations of parental concern. If something was good, it played itself out in a good manner. If something was bad, which she was now beginning to think her garden excursion had been, it resulted in unhappy consequences. Her young mind hadn't yet conceived of discomforting actions resulting in a desirable end, a sentiment that has somehow endeared itself to adults. She hadn't yet fathomed why George had acted so, and what she received from the occasion was not a sense of a parent's love and concern but an edginess and fear of somehow triggering the same sort of violent occurrence at a future time. The nervousness engendered by this experience stuck with her.

George of course had no reason to believe that what he had done was somehow wrong. Most parents would have acted the same way. He felt solid and secure at having taken care of his baby, his charge, with such dispatch. It gave him a piece of his role as parent and that role helped to fit him into the world. George was finding more ways to assimilate himself with the foreign and autonomous operation of the world. Pieces of connection, like fatherhood, voting, church, etc., cemented him to the globe that he had been unwittingly slapped against by God's hand. Only now, in the late summer of his life, was the glue really beginning to set and his flailing limbs became permanently secured.

After the doctor had been called and Elaine's mouth scrubbed raw, George did not once think about how Elaine felt during her ordeal. Elaine stood timidly after her scouring, quiet now and a little leery. George didn't concern himself with this; he felt satisfied and was thinking more about how he was going to reward himself for such a sterling parental performance during his afternoon gauntlet. He figured he'd read the newspaper for a while. Lucille could take care of Elaine now. He'd done his part.

It didn't occur to George to think about Elaine's feelings. George was just too self-absorbed. Or he didn't think such a situation could impact a child's mind because there wasn't anything there to impact yet. Grandpa couldn't remember which.

My mom carries the memory of the garden experience with her to this day. I don't mean to imply that this experience has haunted her and given her nightmares and induced in her paranoid delusions from the age of seven. I'm just relaying that it did leave an impression on her. Despite George's initial disregard of that possibility, the garden uprooting was one of the many experiences that shaped my mom.

An event in her sixth grade year undoubtedly did so too, less from what she feared but more by her mom's reaction.

Elaine was a somewhat diffident child, Grandpa said. Maybe it was genetics, or maybe she stopped breastfeeding too soon, or maybe the frightening visage of Boo Radley had spooked her in a dream and left a lasting imprint. Whatever it was, Elaine presented herself as meek. Sixth graders capitalize on meekness. (Like my high school English teacher once chided sarcastically, referring to high schoolers but it's even more appropriate for sixth graders, "Yeah, that's right. If you see the chance for ridicule, jump right in.") The sixth graders would see the opportunity for an easy victim and not hesitate. At least this is what Elaine feared.

The elementary school Elaine went to was on the small side; it was a small community, like I said. The classrooms were actually divided up by grade (it wasn't a one-room school house), but the number of students was few. Grandpa told me in Elaine's grade he thought there were seventeen kids. Of these seventeen, she was easy to pick on.

To an adult kids' experiences usually aren't a big deal, but to Elaine the following anecdote filled her world.

Lucille had decided to cut Elaine's hair for her. She thought she could do a good job and save the family a few dollars. So one afternoon she set Elaine down on the toilet in the bathroom and started cutting. It was coming out pretty well for a while, but Lucille made a hasty snip and cut a big chunk out. Lucille surveyed the mistake and deliberated as to the best course of action. Elaine didn't have any clue that something had gone awry and sat placidly; having her hair cut felt good, she was thinking. Lucille decided that she had better try to rectify her mistake and began chopping away much more of the hair, fairing pretty well in her attempt to fix the damage. When all was said and done, Elaine checked out the work. She thought she looked like a little boy with a bowl cut and of course started immediately to cry.

Lucille suggested that Elaine looked cute with her new cut. It was a style that was very popular in New York, she proposed. This support of course didn't mean a thing to Elaine, who continued sobbing at the frightful sight of the boy who stared back at her in the mirror.

Lucille went about cleaning up the pile of hair that now littered the bathroom floor and made no intimation to Elaine that anything had gone wrong at all. But Elaine wasn't fooled. She knew Lucille had screwed up, but what could she do. She didn't have any recourse against her mom for a bad haircut.

So the deed was done, and now Elaine had to live with it. She spent that evening alone in the solace of her bedroom. As she sat, she pictured herself at school the next day, and her mind conjured daunting images of abuse and exile.

What her mom didn't realize, Elaine knew all too well: the grave repercussions of a bad haircut. It meant torment and ridicule. It meant hostility and aggravation. It meant becoming a sixth grade pariah.

Elaine pondered the possible forms her impending derision might take.

She might just be outright accosted on the way to school, once they spotted her hair, by a pack of ferocious little sixth grade imps. They would scamper toward her, jeering and heckling, ring her and bar any hope for escape, all the while dancing and chanting songs of scorn and contempt in their squeaky imp voices. After Elaine collapsed from the immense weight of their insults, they would stomp her and run off to other manners of amusement.

If she weren't spotted on the way to school, she would suffer her first punishment at school. If no one dared brazenly scoff her in the classroom for fear of the teacher, the stifled cackles and not imperceptible giggles of her classmates would be the first signs of her imminent doom. Then it would come at recess. As her fellow students stampeded out to the field, they would bash her and cheer loudly to the nearest friend, "Hey, who's the new boy?" or just "Elaine's a freak! Elaine's a freak!" and run off laughing. Sixth graders aren't known for subtlety.

Doubtful that she would get off that easy though. Realistically, the criticism in the classroom wouldn't stop at giggles. Fear of the teacher wasn't nearly strong enough to quell a chance to ridicule, if one so blatantly presented itself. And Elaine's case was definitely blatant.

The laughter would start soon as she entered the classroom. Fingers would point and shrill hysterics would erupt from the lungs of her classmates. The teacher, Mrs. Hathaway, would frantically struggle to silence the rabble-rousers, and only slowly would the din die away. Filling the void left would be cackles and giggles. Throughout the entire class period, Elaine would hear them, incessant, biting. Would they never tire of this torturous amusement?

That's what sixth graders live for, amusement; they don't tire of it. Their whole raison d'etre is amusement. Sixth graders never stop it; they just pursue it in other forms and other mediums. A bad haircut was entertaining enough to keep their attention for a long time, or to keep regaining their attention every time they glanced in Elaine's direction.

Then someone would work the guts up to pass her a note. It probably wouldn't even be passed. Someone would just toss it at her and laugh hard when it hit her on the head. "Good shot, man", Jeff would commend Tony.

She could be aloof and ignore the note altogether ... just let it lay unattended on the floor, proclaiming her own defiance and strength. But she would pick it up. She knew she would. She couldn't just leave it there; they'd tease her about being afraid of a little note. With fear and foreboding, she would unfold the note and scan its hateful inscription: "What'd your dad run over your head with a lawnmower?!"

Then further bouts of laughter would break out as they saw her reading it and imagined her humiliation. Tony would have already conveyed the contents of the note to those nearby, so they could enjoy his cleverness and capitalize on her embarrassment.

Then, only after she had suffered what seemed an eternal hell in the classroom, the unabashed gibing would start at recess when the kids became freed of teacher supervision. Maybe recess would be her brief salvation though. Maybe they would find other ways to entertain themselves. Elaine couldn't imagine herself as having the kind of status that would merit constant taunting throughout the whole recess. They would never sacrifice a whole recess just to bother her. At least she hoped not.

Recess would be her freedom, and class her hell. For how long this would go on she could only guess. Would it last until her hair grew all the way out? Even once she looked normal again, would she ever be able to wash away the stigma?

These images and questions hounded Elaine as she lay on her bed trying to go to sleep, able only to stare at the ceiling in trepidation. Tomorrow it would begin, she knew.

What if she didn't go to school? Maybe tonight she could catch a cold. She would have to really catch one though because her mom would never let her fake it. Letting her stay home from school would signify her mom's admission of error and culpability. Lucille would never allow that, not out of mean-spiritedness but out of a desire not to recognize the ill of the situation. She'd prefer to pretend all was well.

How to catch a cold in one night was a tough question. Move one, of course, was to open the window all the way, push aside her sheets and blankets, and hope the chilly November air would work its magic. She needed contingency plans though. If the cold air didn't do its job, she'd be in trouble. She couldn't leave this to chance. The salvation of her self-esteem and reputability among peers depended on it.

Thinking a little further she wondered if catching a cold would do the trick. Catching a cold would only keep her out of school for a couple of days, a week at the most. On further reflection she decided she needed something more drastic than just a cold. Something like a broken arm would be better, or maybe even a coma. That would be perfect. Or how about a more severe illness, like pneumonia, or . . . the Bubonic plague? That was it. She would catch the Bubonic plague and live in the hospital until she died.

But then what if the doctors and nurses laughed at her haircut? No, she decided, the Bubonic plague wouldn't work either. It had to be something that kept her in the house. Also she'd have to keep the curtains closed on all the windows while she rode out her convalescence; it wouldn't be good if the kids peeked at the bowl-headed freak through the windows.

Maybe she didn't have to do herself any sort of bodily harm or catch any grave disease at all. What if she just locked herself in her room? No, her parents could unlock it too easily. Even if she barricaded the door with furniture, they could still get through. That wouldn't work.

How about starvation? That could really work. She'd go on hunger strike until her hair grew out. It could be a spiritual sort of protest. She would cleanse her body, (fasting was supposed to be very healthful, she'd heard), while at the same time cleansing herself of the evil stigma her mom had brought upon her. When her mom demanded why she was fasting, Elaine would explain that she was fasting in defiance of all the cruelties and iniquities in the world, or maybe she would fast in rebellion to God's killing of her friend Sally's dog, who died two months ago.

Anyway, the cause didn't matter. Just so long as people didn't know the truth that she was fasting because she was afraid to face the world with a bad haircut. When teachers and friends called, her mom would respond, "Elaine's fasting in the interest of world peace, so she can't come to the phone right now," and no one would know the real truth.

It was settled then, starvation. Elaine drifted warily into sleep.

Her mom woke her the next morning at seven-thirty to get ready for school. Elaine said she was getting up, sent her mom away, and crawled straight back into bed. She pulled the covers snugly around her, feeling very glad that she had chosen starvation instead of illness. Although illness might eventually come out of starvation, it wouldn't come for a while yet. She was glad for starvation though because it meant she got to sleep with her covers over her, and she so liked to be warm, which is how she felt now after her mom had gone.

Fifteen, maybe even twenty, minutes of comfortable contentment would be hers, she mused dreamily as she fell away again into sweet, ignorant sleep.

BANG, BANG, BANG! "Elaine, for Heaven's sake! Aren't you up yet?!" Her mom's voice jarred her.

Angry at being so disrespectfully roused, Elaine bantered back, "No!" and shut her eyes again, hoping that would do the trick, which of course she knew it wouldn't.

"Elaine, you better get up right now. You're going to be late for school," countered her mom as she strode rapidly into the room and pulled Elaine's covers off. "Come on now, Elaine. I don't want to get a call from Mrs. Hathaway complaining about how you were late to class and disrupted her teaching."

"I'm not going to school," said Elaine resolutely.

"What do you mean you're not going to school?" returned Lucille with the rhetorical edge that all kid's have heard from their parents about one thing or another. It's the parental response that attempts to recognize the child's statement, not to debase it completely with a flat out contradiction. The parent wants to pretend that the child is actually participating in the conversation, while knowing full well that the child's input has absolutely no influence on the final resolution.

Elaine hadn't even responded yet, and Lucille was pulling her out of bed, encouraging, "Up, Up. Let's go now or you'll be late."

Lucille still didn't get it. In fact she would never get it. No matter how adamantly Elaine stated her intentions, she knew her mom wouldn't take it seriously. It was one of those things that seemed to parents to be out of the bounds of possibility. But to Elaine, starving rather than going to school was a very definite possibility. In fact she was sure it would come to pass, but she just couldn't seem to convey this absolution to Lucille.

"Mom, let go of my arm. I'm not going to school I said. Didn't you hear me?," Elaine persisted.

"What do you mean, dear? Of course you're going to school. You're not sick, are you?"

"Maybe I am," countered Elaine, buying time.

"You're not sick, Elaine. Now quit this nonsense before I get angry."

"I feel sick, mom," whined Elaine, "I think I have a fever." She threw the "mom" in because she knew it always struck a poignant chord. How many mothers can neglect the desires of their babies, especially when their motherhood has been directly invoked by the child?

"All right now, Elaine. I'll get the thermometer, but if your temperature is normal, you're going straight to school. You hear me?" Lucille marched off for the thermometer.

Now was the time for Elaine to will her body into fever. If she just concentrated hard enough she knew she could get her temperature up to at least ninety-nine, maybe even one hundred. While her mom was gone, Elaine closed her eyes and strained and wished and hoped and prayed for fever. If nothing else, when her mom came back, Elaine was very red in the face.

"Honey, you do look a little flushed," noted Lucille, as she hunched over Elaine. "Here, put this under your tongue," she instructed. Why she had to say this Elaine could never figure out. Elaine had used a thermometer dozens of times before and didn't see any reason for the instructions. Nevertheless, Lucille said that every time she offered the thermometer, and would probably always say it no matter how familiar Elaine became with the procedure. It was one of those mother things, one of those routines that gave a sense of placement and function.

Elaine obliged, slipping the thermometer squarely under her tongue. If her temperature wasn't high, she would just plain refuse to go to school, she planned. Elaine didn't think her mom had the tenacity or strength to physically drag her to school, and her dad had already gone to work. He worked for the local newspaper and had to be there bright and early.

Lucille looked warmly at her daughter while Elaine nursed the thermometer.

"Let's see what it says now, Elaine," Lucille said as she removed the thermometer. "Ninety-eight point seven. You don't have a fever, Elaine. If you're not sick, you're just going to have to go to school. I can't in good conscience let you stay home on a whim."

"But, mom, I feel really sick, even if I don't have a fever," Elaine persevered. She really did feel sick, not like an illness though, just nauseous. "My head's a little woozy, and I am flushed, like you said." The sick ploy was a good one, Elaine had decided, worth pushing. It wasn't really verifiable, except for the temperature thing, and could buy her more time to properly consider the starvation route.

"How come you feel sick, Elaine? You were fine yesterday," Lucille asked, with just a hint of genuine concern.

Elaine thought she had bought at least one day. As soon as the mom becomes even the slightest bit concerned, the battle is won. A mother's fear is that she'll send the child to school despite the child's protestations and later find out that the child has the measles and has infected the entire class, or is in some way seriously ill and that one day of rest at home could have been instrumental in curing the illness. Maybe these fears are a little irrational, but it could happen. Who's known her mom to be completely rational anyway?

Elaine thought wrong.

"I don't know why I'm sick, mom. I just am," Elaine offered back with exasperation.

"Well, I'm sorry, Elaine. A little cold never hurt anyone. Put your clothes on this instant. I'm driving you to school."

"No," said Elaine.

"I'm starting to get very sick of your attitude. Now put your clothes on and get up before I spank you!" Lucille raised her voice.

"No," said Elaine.

"You do it right now, or I'm taking you to school in your pajamas!" Lucille screamed, bordering on hysterical.

Elaine was frightened now. She'd never seen her mom this upset. Lucille was usually very calm and accomodating. Now she was almost frothing. Elaine's puny defiance shouldn't have been so infuriating. Well, for some reason it was, and Elaine decided she'd best comply before suffering some truly rash action from her mom.

Rousing herself slowly and tentatively, Elaine began to cry. She somberly put on her school clothes as tears dripped down her cheeks. Then she walked out her room, without looking at her mom, and straight to the car.

Where was the parent that was supposed to be supportive and sympathetic and helpful? How come parents seem to cause more problems than they help? Why did people have to get so angry? Elaine pondered all these thoughts as she stared sullenly at the dash of the car and waited for her mom to come drive her to her doom.

Lucille arrived moments later, got into the car, and started it up very matter-of-factly. She looked straight over her shoulder and started backing up without having even glanced at Elaine, not that Elaine would have noticed because she was too busy staring at the dash.

The ride to school was a very long, short trip. Neither spoke. Tears still dripped down Elaine's red, puffy cheeks, but she was very much trying to stop crying because she would be at school soon. If the other kids saw that she had been crying, she would receive even more abuse. She wrapped up her sobbing and wiped her eyes with her shirt.

She felt alone and abandoned at this point. If she didn't see her mom ever again, she didn't feel like she'd care. Not only had her mom been mean, but she had done it very abruptly and unjustifiably. In Elaine's eyes, no action merited the kind of outburst that she had received.

As the car stopped in front of the small school, Elaine paused for the slightest time and peered through the car window at the other kids. She steeled herself, opened the door and shut it without ever acknowledging her mom. Lucille drove off.

For an instant the thought of walking away from the school and spending the day in the woods encouraged her, but Mrs. Burns, who had been her fourth grade teacher, spotted her and started walking toward her. Elaine stood motionless, dazed by her plight and vacantly transfixed by the lumbering form of Mrs. Burns.

"Hi Elaine. How are you doing this morning? It's good to see you. Once the year ends, I always seem to lose track of all my former pupils. How's your mom doing?" Mrs. Burns always fired questions with apparently little interest in the responses.

"My mom's fine," Elaine answered quietly.

"That's good. I've been meaning to get that pumpkin pie recipe from her for the longest time now. I wonder if you could have her call me this afternoon?"

Elaine nodded yes and kept looking at her own feet. "You won't forget now, will you? It's important because I have guests coming over for Thanksgiving."

"No, I'll be sure and tell her, Mrs. Burns," Elaine affirmed unenthusiastically.

"Oh, good. Thank you so much, dear. Class is about to start. I'll walk you in," Mrs. Burns added with a hint of sanctimonious altruism, the one teachers always emanate.

Tiny Elaine shuffled along moodily next to the prodigious figure of Mrs. Burns. "So how's school going for you this year, Elaine?" asked Mrs. Burns amiably as they neared the classrooms.

Elaine was beginning to notice the stares of some of the other kids.

As they spotted Elaine, their eyes became attached to her head. Shawna and Gwyn quickly looked away and started talking to each other, pretending they hadn't noticed anything unusual.

Alex caught sight of her and stared unabashedly. He was a weird kid and had no concept of social propriety. He didn't know not to stare.

Justin noticed her freakish hair and quickly instructed his compatriots, Frank and Toby, to "get a load of Elaine's melon." Frank and Toby chuckled delightedly as they took in the sight. The three boys knew they couldn't say anything now, because Mrs. Burns was around. Elaine watched them laugh amongst themselves, periodically pointing in Elaine's direction.

"Elaine? Did you hear me?" prodded Mrs. Burns.

"Huh? No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Burns. I'm not feeling so well," Elaine said, trying to elicit sympathy.

Mrs. Burns missed Elaine's pity attempt and continued, "I asked you how school was going this year?"

"Oh, it's O.K. I like Mrs. Hathaway," answered Elaine.

"Yes, isn't she a nice lady? ... Well here you are, Elaine. Have a good day and stop by sometime to see me. I miss all my old pupils. Don't forget to tell your mom about the recipe," Mrs. Burns concluded.

"O.K., Mrs. Burns," Elaine responded lethargically.

By this time Elaine stood in front of the classroom door, poised for her descent into infamy. Greg showed up behind her and was waiting for her to open the door. She had no choice. She reached for the door knob and strained to pull the enormous, oaken door toward her. In the middle of the door loomed a monstrous gargoyle-head knocker. Surrounding and engulfing the knocker were hideous scenes of torment carved into the dark wood. Undead sprouting from the earth, dismembering and mutilating fleeing hordes of innocents. Dante-esque images of demons and devils subjugating and punishing sinners in the most heinous ways. And Elaine was entering this realm of the damned voluntarily. As the door swung open the gargole-head's eyes glowed red and a jubilant, wicked cackle escaped its fanged mouth.

She stepped inside and realized that it wasn't the gargoyle-head that was cackling, but Tony Thompson. Ed had just fallen backwards in his chair and slammed against the floor with a tremendous bang. Witnessing someone fall backwards in their chair is one of the funniest things that can happen to a sixth grader. Tony and the rest who saw it were in hysterics. Ed squirmed on the floor, struggling to return himself and his chair to its proper position. His embarrassment wasn't soon to be relieved though. In his frantic attempts to right himself quickly, he slipped, sending his chair crashing to the floor again and splaying himself uncomfortably over it, which received boisterous approval from the class.

Mrs. Hathaway rushed to Ed to try and prevent him from doing further damage to himself, the chair, or his ego. She helped him straighten himself out and gave him a scolding for leaning back in the first place.

Gradually the noise declined to a manageable level, and Mrs. Hathaway began class. Periodically she'd be interrupted by sudden uncontrollable fits of laughter, the kind that haunt people, especially kids, after viewing an especially humorous event.

In the meanwhile, Elaine had inconspicuously slipped into her seat, and no one had made any mention of her hair. Her crucifixion must be yet to come, Elaine predicted fearfully. The miracle of Ed's misfortune couldn't distract the vicious pack of sixth graders forever. They'd be after her soon enough.

The clamour died, Mrs. Hathaway was about a half hour into her lesson, and still no one had made fun of Elaine's haircut. She hadn't even heard any muffled snickers. Maybe the people behind her couldn't tell from their angle. Well, she'd lucked out in class, with Ed's incident, but she was sure they'd get her at lunch.

Only they didn't. No one seemed to care too much. Jessica and Diane had lunch with her as usual. And they commented casually on it-- "I like your haircut, Elaine. I've been thinking about getting mine cut too." They didn't belittle her. The whole day went by and not a single person made a humiliating comment.

She knew Justin, Frank, and Toby had been laughing at her that morning. They had been pointing and giggling. At least Elaine thought they had been. It was conceivable that they had been laughing about something completely different. She was so certain in the morning though.

Elaine finished up the day and walked home with her friend, Diane. She asked Diane cynically as they walked, "People were laughing at me today, weren't they?"

"What do you mean, Elaine?" Diane asked back.

"I saw Justin and Frank and Toby laughing at my haircut this morning," Elaine declared.

"Really, why would they be laughing at your haircut?" puzzled Diane.

"Why do you think? 'Cause it looks awful," Elaine moaned.

"Oh cut it out, Elaine. It looks cute. It really does."

The conversation lulled briefly while Elaine weighed her friend's sincerity.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Diane resumed.

"You really think so?" Elaine said.

"Yes, it looks cute! You're so insecure," said Diane, a touch exasperated.

"So no one was laughing at me today?"

"No, no one was laughing at you, really," Diane assured. "Now what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

Elaine was almost disappointed. She felt empty as she plodded home with her friend, exchanging holiday plans.

What my grandpa did now express was an understanding of what Elaine had gone through back then that had completely escaped him at the time. That my grandfather had years later finally gained at least the slightest inkling of Elaine's feelings touched me deeply.

I gleaned other wisdom and uncovered hidden facets of my grandpa's personality that day as we sat, quiet and peaceful in the rowboat on the still water. His wandering words didn't speak to anything in particular; his tales weaved in and out of decade and person. Through it all I listened to the thread of cohesion that bound his utterings. This thread was a recognition in his voice, a cognizance that his life may not have been perfect, but that he had learned something. He knew a little more now, not much, but enough.

So it wasn't the stories that mattered. It was how he told them, involved, at times mirthful, chuckling at the funny parts and relating with appropriate gravity the serious parts. He never got too somber, nor too giddy. He was too wise for solemnity and too daunted for hilarity. I never saw my grandpa roll with raucous belly laughter.

As I listened to him tell his stories, I lost myself. Old people are so often themselves lost in their stories. His nostalgic reverie was contagious.

The twilight had come, and we paddled in to shore. As the boat slid to rest against the sand, Grandfather set down his oar, which sent perfect little ripples scurrying across the top of the water. The ripples fled, but never broke file, following one after another in strict concentric circles. I dragged the boat up onto the small beach in front of the cabin. We unloaded the fishing gear, and I echoed my grandfather's shuffling trudge as he headed toward the cabin with me three steps behind.

Back where you came from