by James Bates
black coffee
It was Field Day, the last day of school for the Long
Lake fifth graders. I was looking forward to tomorrow: no kids, no schedules, no
rules to enforce. No nothing. I was also looking forward to a summer of alone
time - my idea of heaven.
I was
standing on the sidelines, monitoring a soccer game between my class and the
other fifth grade class, Mrs. Elbert's, and talking to Edith Silverstein, the
oldest teacher at the school. She was a sixty-five year old, outspoken, dynamo
of a woman who had taught first grade for nearly forty years. Lots of people
thought she should retire because of her age. Not me. She was a witty lady with
a great sense of humor who had a firm but gentle and kind way with children. I
liked her a lot.
"What
are you planning on doing with your summer, Randy?" she asked, both of us idly
watching all ten kids on the field run after the soccer ball.
"Oh,
nothing much. Just hang around. You know."
She
bristled in response like I'd just poked her with a sharp stick, "No, I don't
know, young man," she spat out, "You
should do something meaningful with your summer other than just 'Hang around.'"
She used finger quotes to make her point. Then she shook her head in
semi-serious disappointment, letting me cogitate on her words, making me feel
like a properly chastised pupil in her class. She had a way about her, I'll tell
you.
After
the moment passed, she smiled and changed the subject, "Me, I'm going on a month
long cruise to Alaska with my friends, Maggie and Becky. I can't wait." She gave
me a look like, 'See. Us old people can have fun. Get with the program and do
something interesting with your life.' A sentiment that made perfect sense,
especially after what was about to happen.
I'm
forty-five, a bit of a loner and have been single my entire adult life. I live
with my big tabby cat, Toby, in a tiny apartment a mile from the school; close
enough to walk or ride my bicycle. Long Lake is small town located on the edge
of undeveloped farm fields and woodlands twenty miles west of Minneapolis. I've
taught fifth grade Life Science in the local grade school for the last
twenty-one years. Although I'm withdrawn by nature, I love teaching, it's just
that it takes a lot out of me. I treasured my time to myself, but understood
what Edith was getting at and valued her opinion. When I really thought about
it, at my age, maybe I really did need to do something more interesting with my
free time than pursuing the only hobby I had, collecting vintage dinky toys off
eBay.
Anyway, her analysis of my life notwithstanding, we'd been having a nice,
friendly conversation, when, from the far end of the soccer pitch we heard
screams from the kids. "What the hell?" I turned to Edith.
She
yelled, "Go," and I did. I took off running wondering what had
happened.
I soon
found out. Both fifth grade classes were standing where the soccer field met the
woods. The kids were yelling as I ran up, some even
crying.
Johnny
Leibert, one of my prized students met me, "Mr. Mack, Mr. Mack. Shelly's getting
attacked by bees. I think they're going to kill her."
The
Shelly he was referring to was Shelly Goldenstein, a ten year old tiny waif of a
girl, prone to hives and every other
kind of skin problem you could name. She was also the unluckiest kid I
ever knew. Last year she kindly brought her teacher a handpicked bouquet of wild
flowers that included a sprig of poison ivy. She was covered in calamine lotion
for nearly a month. If anyone was going to be attacked by bees or wasps or any
other kind of stinging, biting insect, it was bound to be
her.
I ran
to the edge of the woods as Shelly frantically waved the attacking swarm away
from her face. I could see in an instant that they weren't your common,
ordinary, garden variety honey bees. No. These were wasps, more specifically
yellowjackets, one of nature's most vicious, predatory insects. They could sting
you multiple times and really do some serious damage. I'd read once that their
stingers felt like hot needles pushed deep into your skin. My heart went out the
little girl and I didn't stop to think.
"Shelly, Shelly," I called, "Don't worry, I'm coming." I ran in to rescue
her.
She
turned, tears in her eyes, those angry yellowjackets swarming all around her,
crawling on her arms and legs and face, stinging at will. "Help me, Mr. Mack,
please, help..." she called except it wasn't as much a call as it was more of a
whimper. She was really frightened. Terrified. Poor little
kid.
I
picked her and swung her in a circle a few times to try to shake some of the
wasps off. As I did, I could see what had happened. The soccer ball lay next to
a log rotting on the forest floor. The kids must have kicked the ball into the
woods and Shelly had run in after it. The ball had hit the log and disturbed
their hive. By the time she got there, she was met with the wrath of what seemed
like hundreds upon hundreds of raging yellowjackets.
I held
her close to protect her and brushed away as many of the wasps as I could. Then
I ran to the edge of the woods, where I yelled at the rest of the kids, "Get the
hell out of here. The wasps are coming." They ran and I did, too, a full out
sprint of a hundred yards back to the school, all of us out running the
yellowjackets easily. In about a minute we were all safe.
Fast
forward to two hours later. It turned out that Shelly was going to be okay, just
a little swollen around the ten spots where'd she been stung. Me? I ended in the
hospital - the Hennepin County Medical Center. Unbeknownst to me, I had
developed an allergy to wasp and bee stings over the course of my adult years.
I'd had no idea. But it turned out to be a blessing in disguise even though I
was told by the doctors and the nurses many times over that I'd almost died. I'd
been stung twenty-seven times. Those yellowjacket stings threw me into
anaphylactic shock, my throat constricted and my blood pressure dropped off the
chart. It was adrenalin that got me from the woods to the school where I
collapsed in the bushes by the front door. In short, I was lucky to be
alive.
Recovering in the hospital for three days gave me a chance to think about
what Edith had said to me on the soccer field; you know, about doing something
meaningful with my life other than just hanging around my apartment. After all,
I had come close to dying from those yellowjacket stings. I came to the
conclusion I really did need to get my act together; I needed to expand my
horizons.
To
that end, just before I was released I accepted an offer Edith made to join her
and her friends on their Alaskan adventure. It might sound weird, me, a guy in
his forties going on a cruise ship with three elderly ladies, who, by the way,
call themselves, "The Girls," but I don't care. I'm looking forward to
it.
When I
accepted the invitation Edith said, "You're an okay guy, Randy, and it'll be
nice to have you along, just don't go cramping our style."
"Funny," I told her, playing along with her, "I'll try not
to."
She
gave me a mischievous grin, and didn't say anything more. We're leaving the
first week in July, and I think it'll be fun. I have a feeling I've got a lot to
learn. By the way, Shelly's going to take care of Toby.
You
know, when you almost die, like I did, it gets you thinking. I won't bore you
with all the details, but I will tell you this: If it wasn't for those swarming
yellowjackets, I might have ended up spending the summer hunkered down in my
tiny apartment with my cat, searching the internet for old dinky toys. When I
think of it that way, I shudder. I was on path where I could have easily spent
the rest of my life doing just that, becoming more and more of a recluse. What a
waste. I've got a lot to learn about life. It's a big world out there and I'm
looking forward to seeing it. Alaska, here I come; me and my
EpiPen.
No comments:
Post a Comment