The summer before I entered

the second grade, my family moved from England to Macedonia, S.C. It was

a little community where they valued bacon and egg breakfasts and house

trailers above all else. My dad had just retired from a 24-year stint

in the Air Force.

Our family had pretty much

been world travelers by then. My mom was German, born in Dusseldorf. My

dad had met her after the Big One, World War II. My older brother and

younger sister had both been born in Europe. Even as a second grader,

it was still quite a shock to my system moving to such an uncultured environment.

I would ponder these yokel barbarians each night as I polished my Faberge'

eggs.

My first day at Macedonia Grammar

School went over about as well as Britney Spears performing a concert

of songs she wrote. First of all, they placed my twin brother and

me in separate rooms. Thankfully though, they put me in the "smart"

class. That only meant that the kids I sat with knew to chew boiled eggs

before they swallowed them.

Like a swan among buzzards,

I languished in my new school. Every conversation with my classmates seemed

to contain phrases like, "down at the feedstore" or, "my

cousin Stinker." I did at least learn the fine art of spiking a totally

perfect bottle of Coke with a pack of salted peanuts.

Typically, in learning the

lessons of life, I was about to swallow my piety like a slick, hard-boiled

egg.

After a lunch of green beans,

turnips and conversations concerning the pros and cons of paved roads,

we took on "vowels" in Mrs. Coker's English class. I was thinking,

"I should be teaching this class." After all, I had just moved

from England. Mrs. Coker was a rotund lady of about 60. Her flowered dress

reminded me of the field that Dorothy and friends fell asleep on in "The

Wizard of Oz." She, in it, was just about as hypnotic, too.

She asked me if we had learned

vowels in that English school where I went. Suddenly my prideful smirk

took a nose dive. I had spent so much time being haughty that I hadn't

bothered to be concerned with whether I knew anything or not. I didn't.

I mumbled and fumbled until

she rescued me and called on Claudia Ripley to give the correct answer

(I would also later lose the fifth grade spelling bee to Claudia, perpetuating

a crush that lasted for years.) This was only the beginning of my travails.

The worst of all embarrassing moments would happen next.

I sat next to a blackboard

off my right shoulder. Mrs. Coker was droning on about something, so I

decided to play with some of my new books. I was leaning over my desk

exploring gamely when I overlooked a fatal geographical event. Mrs. Coker

moved to the side blackboard beside my seat. Sensing something must be

happening, I sat up. All went black.

Mrs. Coker had moved close

to my seat without me knowing it. When I sat up, I inadvertently came

up under her dress. My little 7-year-old head and shoulders fit perfectly

under her tent of a dress. I was engulfed in a sea of white and frills.

Dazed at first, I didn't realize where I was. Then as my eyes adjusted

I could make out the unmistakable shape of two nylon-covered tree-trunk-like

legs.

Mrs. Coker quickly pulled me

out from under her dress. Much like a groundhog on his holiday, I emerged

tentatively. I was quickly wrangled outside the class and I heard her

say, "I don't know how you did things at your other school, but..."

The rest of what she said was

obvious blather about not telling the other kids and such. I was simply

reeling. I had gone from looking down my nose at all the other kids, to

looking into the face of death. It was a lesson I hope I carry to this

day.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at https://ebilly.net.]