Thoughts about people that affected my life

During my school years, I was an average student at best. In a way, this is sad, as I learned later in life that I was more intelligent than I had realized. I really didn’t understand that a lot the issues I experienced in school were due to my lack of engagement. If an instuctor could arouse my interest, I would excel, but most of the time I just plodded along in class. The first teacher I encountered that got my attention was in fifth grade, Mrs. Beatty.

Fifth grade was tumultuous time for me as it was a grade school class relocated to the junior high school due to overcrowding in the elementary school. It was the only single teacher class in the building aside from the special education class. I think both groups felt a bit out of place. All my previous teachers were from the old guard of the elementary school. I’d known all of them since first grade. Mrs. Beatty was a new hire due to the expansion of the school, our town was growing.

This was a dramatic change for me. We were located in a different building, a new teacher and a new school year. Mrs. Beatty was at least twenty years younger than all my previous teachers who were peers with my grandmother. I’d say she was in her mid-thirties but she was conservatively dressed and always had her hair up in a well-maintained style. My strongest memory of her was that she taught differently. She was the first teacher I experienced that engaged us as individuals. She used a lot of self-paced individual learning tools in her class. She used new teaching methods. I excelled using some of these methods, others, like “New Math” and “Phonics” were a total loss for me.

I don’t have a lot of memories of her classes specifically, but I know that I also learned I had at least some talent in drawing (I had never really been inspired to draw anything original other than blueprints and grasshoppers though.) from an exercise she had use do drawing trees one afternoon on the school front lawn. Mostly I remember having a very inspiring reading program and reading book after book after book all year long. I gained my love for reading in her class.

In junior high school, I developed an interest in science. This was due in a large part to Mr. Biggs. Mr. Biggs was another new hire and the only younger teacher I had in sixth grade. He was engaging like Mrs. Beatty and also used some newer teaching ideas. The main one that comes to mind is that he demonstrated the best way to learn a subject is to teach it. While teaching us about insects, he teamed the class up in pairs and each pair of kids taught a small section of the insect chapter to the rest of the class. We created a quiz where I learned I could draw a pretty damn good grasshopper. Aside from my partner in the lesson, no one else believed I drew it everyone assumed the drawing was done by the teacher. The result of that classroom experience was a new-found love for science that has helped me to this day.

Then came high school and Freshman English. My instructor was Mr. Terry McCartin. Mr. McCartin was unlike any teacher I’d ever encountered. After the first day of class where he ensured he had your name spelled correctly, he never addressed you again by your first name. You were Miss Koenig, Mister Crum, but never Angela or Todd. Mr. McCartin was from Tell City, Indiana. He made it very clear that he was proud of Tell City and that Tell City was the place to be. I always wondered why he was in Sellersburg, but that was apparently another story.

It became apparent to me that I had not learned English grammar in my previous eight years of school. Mr. McCartin made quite an impression upon me while getting grammar through my thick skull. Why, because he made English grammar interesting. That in itself was quite an achievement. In previous English classes as my grade point average clearly indicated I’d only excelled in sleeping. Mr. McCartin used wit, engagement, competition and mnemonics as the tools of his trade. To this very day, I can diagram the seven basic sentence structures and rattle off the eight basic parts of speech. (Noun, Verb, Preposition, Pronoun, Adjective, Adverb, Conjunction and Interjection)

Mr. McCartin’s greatest claim to fame though was his love of the Rudyard Kipling poem, “Gunga Din”. The first day of the second six-week grading period, Mr. McCartin handed out the two-page poem and a third page that included unfamiliar idioms used in India during the British occupation and their definitions. Your grade for the entire six-week grading period was based on reciting the poem in class and defining the idioms. When you were ready, you just informed Mr. McCartin that you wanted to recite the poem. All class work stopped and you were escorted to the podium to perform your recitation. He taught regular class during this six-weeks but the your recitation of the poem was the basis of your grade.

For those of you that have not been blessed with the opportunity to read Mr. Kipling’s work, here is the poem from “Departmental Ditties and Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads” (1919) pages 163-166:

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squigy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment e' could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire,"
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone—
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals,
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the living Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Memorizing that poem as you can see, was no simple chore. Then to recite that in class, well that was just terrifying. I wasn’t popular in school and I didn’t have any self-confidence, so I did what any good student would do, I put it off until the last minute. I mean literally, the last minute.

I didn’t even recite the poem in class. I caught Mr. McCartin in the hallway (During lunch I think.) and recited it to him in the hall. I got a D+ for my effort, but I got a grade, which was better than getting an F. Two years later I pulled a fast one on Mr. McCartin to make up for the terror that assignment gave me. When I learned my best friend, Greg Goostree, had Mr. McCartin for English, I set Mr. McCartin up.

I taught the poem to Greg during the first six weeks that year knowing it was the main teaching point of the second six weeks. Greg was unlike myself in just about every way. Where I was quiet and tried to blend in, Greg walked into a room like a Banty Rooster. Greg liked attention (especially from girls) and he also liked causing trouble. Mr. McCartin liked to make examples of people who caused trouble in class, these made for the perfect setup.

After he passed out the assignment to Greg’s class and discussed the process for getting your grade, Mr. McCartin went on with the regular classroom instruction. Greg took his time and read through the poem once (It was the first time he’d seen it in writing), then Greg raised his hand and told Mr. McCartin that he would like to recite the poem. Mr. McCartin had already knew that Greg was a smart-ass and he took this opportunity to make an example of this smartass, Mr. Goostree. After making a rather large production of Greg wanting to now recite the poem, the class was told to stop what they were doing and pay attention. He then ushered Greg to the podium, announced with great enthusiasm and sarcastic fanfare that Mr. Goostree was going to recite the poem and then he walked to the back of the classroom turned around. He told Greg to proceed and this is when Mr. McCartin’s world crashed a bit.

Greg recited the poem flawlessly! By the time he got through the first stanza, Mr. McCartin’s face started turning red. When Greg was finished reciting, he was fully flushed and furious. Greg had made him look like a fool. The class clown had just gotten an A+ ten-minutes into the grading period. Red-faced, Mr. McCartin gained the nickname “Cherry” after that incident.

Then came the Monday morning where Mr. McCartin didn’t show up for class. We knew something was up because Mr. McCartin NEVER MISSED CLASS! English was my first period and there wasn’t a substitute for the class that morning. This meant his absence was unplanned and the vice-principal watched the class until a substitute teacher was called in. Tuesday morning arrived and so did Mr. McCartin, but this was not going to be like any other class day.

He looked different. Mr. McCartin wasn’t wearing a tie. He ALWAYS wore a tie. Today, just a dress shirt with the collar open. Next, he told us not to bother with our books, that the day's class was a freebie. Then he hopped up on the front edge of his desk. Mr. McCartin was the master of decorum. You sat on chairs, never on a desk and he always was standing when he was speaking to the class, but not this day.

He told us about his weekend. He started by talking about how he was grading our Friday quizzes in his apartment. He lived in the Tree Top Apartments on the hills above New Albany, Indiana. He said that he had worked on our assignments through about 7PM and decided he wanted to go get something to eat. He wanted something not available in New Albany, so he drove across the river to Louisville, Kentucky. He’d eaten at Kingfish on downtown and he was heading home on main street when he stopped at a traffic light. A long-haired guy with a 45 caliber revolver opened his passenger door and jumped into his car. Mr. McCartin had been car-jacked. There was the standard give me all your money demand and the robber was clearly disappointed in the amount of cash Mr. McCartin had on hand. He was wanting more and, in a panic, Mr. McCartin mentioned he had more money at home. This is how the robber learned where Mr. McCartin lived.

The drive to his apartment was a little over ten minutes away. They stayed at the apartment until late Saturday morning. The robber determined there was nothing else to be gained there and he forced Mr. McCartin to go back to his car. Things had changed a bit, as the robber handcuffed Mr. McCartin to the passenger door and got behind the wheel. They drove south across the bridge into Kentucky and out into the Kentucky hills arriving at some remote location that afternoon. On the way, the robber used Mr. McCartin’s credit card for a tank of gas and some snacks.

The robber took this time and location to demonstrate his marksmanship ability with the pistol. Shooting some cans in a secluded area, proving the pistol was operational as well as his shooting capability, they returned to the car. The robber motioned him to the trunk and put Mr. McCartin in it. Mr. McCartin was just appreciative to be alive at this point and he admitted to he fell asleep from exhaustion. When he awoke, he was refreshed and determined to see if he could manage to escape.

It was dark, the trunk had no light, and he was trying to be very quiet to avoid alerting his captor that he was up to something. He found a tire iron and he began looking for a way to pry open the trunk. After several unsuccessful attempts, Mr. McCartin managed to get a bite, allowing him to start prying open the trunk lid while they are going down the road. Unfortunately, the robber heard him and pulled over to investigate. When he opened the trunk, Mr. McCartin thought fast and explained that he couldn’t breathe and he was only trying to get some air.

His captor let he out of the trunk and back into the passenger seat, and forget to handcuff Mr. McCartin to the door. His hands were only handcuffed together. It is now Sunday morning and the robber has been awake for at least 48 hours, apparently blurring his judgement (Some drugs were likely involved too.) At a stop light on Shelbyville road near “The Mall” in the St. Matthews neighborhood of Louisville, Mr. McCartin saw an opportunity when he spotted a Metro Louisville police car in a Frisch’s Big Boy parking lot. Mr. McCartin leapt out of his car and ran over to the police frantically gesturing to them about being kidnapped. The police car took off in pursuit of his kidnapper leaving Mr. McCartin standing in the Frisch’s parking lot. At this point, his day took another turn for the worse.

The kidnapper wrecked the car trying to elude the police. He jumped out of the car, pistol in hand and started running directly toward Mr. McCartin standing alone on the parking lot. Mr. McCartin turned and started running across a small bridge into the adjacent mall parking lot. He looked over his shoulder only seeing his kidnapper behind him and the police car trying to navigate out of the traffic to pursue him. Now, Mr. McCartin was running in an open and empty lot and he started zig-zagging as he had no place to hide. He finally made it to the nearest building and turned the corner and kept running. He glanced over his shoulder, the kidnapper was still behind him. Mr. McCartin ran around another corner of the building and was now running past the front of all the shops. When he finally spotted an open store, he ran inside and yelled for the owner to call the police. He stood there at the counter and tried to figure out what to do if the kidnapper followed him in, but the only people that showed up were the police. Mr. McCartin was finally safe.

He gave a description of his assailant and after half an hour, a police supervisor came in and told them they had a suspect in custody and they wanted Mr. McCartin to make an ID. Mr. McCartin said he did’t want to go anywhere near the guy. The supervisor reassured him that the guy was in handcuffs in the back seat of a patrol car and all he had to do was go over to the window and look. Reluctantly, Mr. McCartin agreed and confirmed that they had arrested the correct person.

Aside from the trauma of being kidnapped, Mr. McCartin had another good reason for missing school the next day. He moved. The kidnapper knew where he lived, he was taking no chances and moved immediately. He also had to rent a car since his car had been wrecked when the kidnapper tried to escape.

The greatest part of all this was how he told the story. It was like we were there. He was able to laugh at his own folly and he emphasized the funny parts as well as he imparted the terror of the experience to us. He used entire class period to tell us his story and he left us in tears from laughing so hard. It also made him a lot more human to us.

This story became a ritual for his students as they returned from winter break each year. As afar as I know, he continued to tell the story as long as he taught school. One other side note, Mr. McCartin was also the Official scorer at all Silver Creek High School basketball games. I saw him there for every home game while I was playing in the band for each game.

The next teacher that had a great impact upon me was Mr. Ralph Best. Mr. Best was one of two instructors for the Vocational Building Trades class at Charles Allen Prosser Vocational center in New Albany, Indiana. I spent the mornings of my Junior and Senior years of high school building houses under his expert guidance.

Mr. Best was a Journeyman carpenter and an excellent teacher, he just didn’t look like it. He always wore green coveralls and had a notebook in his pocket. He looked like, and most likely was, a grandfather. He had a very unassuming style and was not in any way a demonstrative. But he knew how to build houses and he knew how to teach people to build houses.

We were taught all the tasks require to build a house. We laid out the foundation on the lot, we dug footers for the foundation. (In one case, I thought we were going to dig to China as the lot had been graded and it took us down to six feet in some portions of the footer to get to undisturbed ground.) We laid the block, framed by hand, plumbed, wired, hung drywall, made trusses and performed every task there was t build a house. Many times, we tore things out when they were not installed correctly and did the work again until the job was done right.

The notebook Mr. Best carried was his punch list of tasks that needed to be completed. It always felt good when one was marked off and we started on another task. He taught us how to work cooperatively and often we were working alone in small groups as he had 24 students and couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was interesting how he always seemed to be right behind you though when you made a mistake. If you were lucky, he stopped you before you made it.

Mr. Best showed us how to have pride in our work and we learned a real trade. It was one of my best experiences growing up.