Roger MacNaughton - Stories That Live In My Head

"Stories That Live In My Head" - BLOG

…In which I take a short break from making music, and expound upon personal memories.

MY GREAT 3RD GRADE SOCIAL EXPERIMENT

By Roger MacNaughton

In the spring, Mrs. Grayson enjoyed taking our class outside during recess to play ‘Work-Up’.

What is ‘Work-Up’? Glad you asked, because I suspect most folks either have never heard of it or have forgotten. Since it’s important to know what ‘Work-Up’ is, to understand my experiment, let me give you a short lesson in the rules. At least the way I remember them.

‘Work-Up’ is very much like baseball. Except that there are no teams or innings. No score is kept. There is no ending. The game can last until it’s too dark to play, or until the bell rings for recess to end. Any number can play, although it helps to have enough players to field 3 or 4 batters, an infield and outfield. Every person plays for themselves, and the object is to become and stay one of the batters.

To begin, each player is assigned a starting position in the following order: At the top, of course, are the 4 batters, labeled 1^st Bat, 2^nd Bat, and so on. Next is Catcher, Pitcher, 1^st Base, 2^nd Base, Shortstop, 3^rd Base, 1^st Outfield, 2^nd Outfield, etc., until everyone is accounted for.

Each time a batter makes an out, he or she is demoted to Last Outfielder, and everyone else moves up to the next higher position. One rule that keeps things interesting is that if a player catches a pop-up, fly-ball, or line-drive, that player and the batter trade positions. No one moves up. Except, of course, for the person that made the catch.

How were our positions chosen? Well, probably the fairest way would have been to put all the positions on scraps of paper, put them in a hat, and let the players draw. However, that’s not the way our teacher, Mrs. Grayson, chose to do it. Her method was to let each student in the room have a day to pick their own lineup. She followed the class list alphabetically so everyone would have their chance.

As the days progressed, I noticed a pattern developing. No matter who was creating the line-up, the same popular students were picked to be at the top of the order. And the same not-so-popular students seemed to be picked for the bottom positions. I wasn’t complaining, because I usually got picked to be in the middle of the order, or higher. Yet, it was amazing to me that even those who were consistently chosen toward the bottom by others, picked the same popular kids to be batters or catcher or pitcher, as if it were expected that they would.

A plan was forming in my brain, devious as it might be.

Finally, my ‘position-picker’ day arrived. My last name beginning with ‘M,’ I was about halfway through our class list, and I was a little nervous. Could I go through with what I had been planning? Oh, why not, I thought, and I began to reverse the whole line-up.

My first pick was Del for 1^st Bat. He was a brilliant student but not much of an athlete. He’d probably never worked up to batter before. Then I chose a few girls and a couple of boys that usually played low in the order and made them batters and catcher and pitcher. By now it was becoming apparent what I was up to. My friend Randy Prescott blurted out, “Rog, what’re ya DOIN’???,” as if to tell me that I had gone CRAZY, or to warn me that I was about to commit social suicide, (or both.) But it was too late to turn back now. I put the best athletes and the most popular kids down in the outfield, and away we went outside to play our little game, as the whole class muttered, “What’s up with MacNaughton?” A couple of my ‘close friends’ were quite upset with me and let me know it!

So, what happened? Del made an out almost immediately. I don’t remember how. He either struck out or got tossed out at first base. The next few batters didn’t fare very well either. The athletes in the outfield caught pop-ups and fly-balls and became batters. Everyone else moved up rather quickly and within about 10 minutes, the line-up ‘righted’ itself to Pre-MacNaughton Tinkerings.

So ended my 3^rd Grade Social Experiment. Because the re-alignment happened so quickly, after the recess bell rang there wasn’t much talk about my choices for positions. I only had to pay subtle social penance for a couple of weeks.

I realized that it made sense that the kids that I had placed high in the order didn’t bat very well and made outs: They hadn’t had much practice, if any. Oh well, I thought, at least I gave them a chance to experience being batters and playing pitcher, catcher, and infield.

Just recently it occurred to me: I wonder what Mrs. Grayson thought about my experiment. She never spoke a word to me about it. Did she sense my empathy for my not-so-popular classmates? Did she think I’d gone loony? Did she even notice at all?

Or…perhaps she had been conducting HER OWN little 3^rd Grade Social Experiment as well!

THE INCIDENT AT THE BOWLING ALLEY

By Roger MacNaughton

I took my 9-year-old son, Mark, bowling one Saturday afternoon. We went to the local establishment in town. The place was fairly quiet, with only a few lanes, out of the 20 or so, being occupied. The manager rented us some shoes, and instead of giving us a lane by ourselves, he directed us to one at the far end of the alley, right next to a pair of (what seemed to me) college-age young ladies. I was thinking, “Why right next to them when the place was nearly empty? But…okay.” (It’s best for all concerned if no one sees me bowl.)

The young ladies had been there awhile and had already completed some frames. Mark and I got set up and he rolled a couple balls, then it was my turn. I was standing on the approach, concentrating, just about ready to throw my first ball, when one of the young ladies announced, “You’re the reason we two are best friends.”

Whaaaa? I hadn’t been paying attention, and hadn’t recognized them, but when I turned to look at her, I slowly began to form a distant memory.

Some years earlier, I was teaching Choir at Lowell Middle School, a class of about 60 eighth grade boys and girls. Some days I was at my wits end, trying to rehearse those kids into a cohesive singing unit. I remembered the girl who had just spoken to me: Vicky. She was a friendly out-going type, always smiling and good-natured. But…she was a TALKER. Could NOT stop talking. The Perfect Social Machine. I’d say, “Vicky…please.” She would try to stop, but to no avail.

One day I’d had enough. To get her away from her friends, I said, “Vicky, you’re changing seats!” And I directed her to a seat clear across the room, next to a young lady, Mandy, who was quite intelligent but very quiet. Vicky shot me the look, but she did as she was told. The rest of the rehearsal went much better, and I didn’t have another thought about the incident.

“Mandy and I didn’t know each other at all until you made us sit together,” Vicky said. “In fact, we became friends that day, and then best friends ever since. All through high school…and now we’re even college roommates.” She paused and then added, “We didn’t like you very much that day.”

I was slightly embarrassed and was struggling for something to say. “Well, I guess I knew what I was doing though, didn’t I?” We laughed for a while, talking about their high school days, and then got back to bowling.

But after, I got to thinking. I really DIDN’T know what I was doing, did I? I used maybe THREE brain cells making the decision to move Vicky that day. Maybe TWO. My mind had been on the music. The smallest of actions on my part had created a potential life-long friendship. I was overwhelmed by that.

Further thinking: These little scenarios take place all the time! Even the bowling alley manager played a part in this little occurrence. What made him put us on that lane? He must have had a reason. But if he’d chosen another lane, this whole episode would probably not have occurred. We are constantly creating consequences for others in our lives by our decisions on how we act, what we say, what we do. The ‘ripple effect’ goes on continually. Mostly, I would guess, we are completely unaware of the long-reaching effects of our words and actions. Sometimes we get lucky, (or possibly unlucky) finding out, as I did that day.

I guess the bowling alley incident taught me one of life’s little lessons, or at least reinforced it: Since we can’t possibly know all the outcomes of our actions, it’s best to treat others with greater respect, be kind, and try to put a little more thought into each decision we make, no matter how tiny. Those are lofty goals, and I’ll admit I often fail, but I keep on trying.

KATHY AND THE RED TUPPERWARE CUP

By Roger MacNaughton

In the 1960s, every family I knew owned those Tupperware cups. They came in sets of eight. Two each of red, blue, yellow, and green. The most basic hues that could be imagined. Made of the finest vulcanized, industrialized plastic known to mankind (at that time.) Slightly flared at their openings, they held seven ounces of whatever beverage you’d care to fill them with. They were somewhat flexible at their outer edges. You couldn’t break them. You could drop them from the top of the Empire State Building to no ill effect. That, I believe, is what made them so popular. They were strangely elegant, yet as low brow as could be.

My three-years-younger twin sisters, Kay and Kathy, and I used those cups daily.

One night, while our trio watched TV, I tried an experiment. Having finished my Pepsi, I placed my cup over my mouth, sucked the air out of it, and breathed through my nose for a minute or so. No big deal. It was easy, and the cup stuck there like glue. The more air I removed from the cup, the tighter it hugged my face. Sister Kathy “The Obstinate One” (sometimes known as “Kathy the Stubborn”) asked, “What’re you doing?”

Taking the cup off my lips, I replied, “Not much. Just trying to see if I could suck the air out of this cup and make it stick.”

I didn’t think much about it until a few days later, on Sunday. That was the night of The Ed Sullivan Show, the official end of the weekend for kids. Ed’s show began at 8 PM and ended at 9. That was bedtime for my sisters. School the next day, you know. As I was three years older, I could stay up a half hour later. Hooray!

The program began. Kay “The Compliant One” and I were watching intently, but I happened to glance over at Kathy, sitting on the couch, and there she was with her red Tupperware cup covering her mouth! Now it was my turn. “What’re you doing?”

She didn’t remove the cup, so she couldn’t answer out loud, but she raised up her arms as if to say, “Well, what does it LOOK LIKE?” It was then that I was hit with a bolt of understanding. “Ah, you’re going to keep that cup on your lips for the whole Ed Sullivan Show, aren’t you?” She nodded, “Yep!”

A thought occurred to me. Was that her original intent, or did I just dare her into it? It didn’t matter. I thought her longer experiment was cool, and was a tad miffed at myself for not thinking of it first. Also, I knew my tenacious sister. She would keep that cup on her lips for the entire hour, no matter what!

Kay and I snuck glances from time to time, but that cup stayed where it was.

Finally, the show ended, and Mom said to the twins, “Okay, you two, time for bed.” And that’s when Kathy removed the cup from her face.

HOLY CATS! Kathy’s lips were TWICE, maybe TRIPLE, their original size. Humorously grotesque. Oh, this was too good! Like something out of TWILIGHT ZONE! She looked as though someone had drawn cartoon lips on her face. As an older brother, THIS IS WHAT YOU LIVE FOR! I hooted. I hollered. I DANCED AROUND THE ROOM LIKE AN INSANE CHICKEN! (I am not proud of this.) But it WAS funny.

Eventually, we all went to bed. We woke up the next morning, and the only question was, did Kathy’s lips lose their swelling?

The answer: not quite. Her lips were still swollen, maybe half of what they were at their worst. Yet, still very noticeable. Kathy begged Mom to call the school and tell them she was sick. Mom was adamant. No, you did this to yourself, you’re going to school. I’m guessing by the time Kathy reached school, she was probably almost back to normal. Almost.

I told you that story to tell you this one.

The same thing, in a way, happened to me about a year later.

It was Halloween. My buddy Kurt, who lived two doors away, and I had trick-or-treated for several years together when we were ‘kids.’ But THIS year was different. We were twelve years old, and decided we were far too super-cool to dress up in a costume. That was for juveniles!

But as darkness began to set in, boredom and thoughts of ‘missed candy revenue’ crept in as well. Hmm, perhaps we could possibly make an exception, and ‘be adults’ next year. Now we had a new problem. In the past, we’d always had a costume or some plan of how to dress up ahead of time. Not so this year! What to do?

It was all about the candy, so ‘style points’ were out of the question. Kurt rummaged around his room for a minute or two and found an old mask hidden away in a drawer. That would work for him, but I couldn’t come up with anything. Precious candy-begging time was slipping away. Then I had an inspiration! I remembered that Mom kept small bottles of food coloring stashed in a kitchen cupboard. Little vials of intensely hued dye. Blue, yellow, red, green. I’ll go as an American Indian, with frightening ‘war paint’ all over my face, I thought. So, I made streaks with the stuff on my cheeks and forehead. Checking myself in a mirror, I was a tad disappointed. Not quite as ‘frightening’ as I’d envisioned. More like ‘hilarious.’ (I quickly surmised that the Indians of the old west probably didn’t use food coloring for their facial needs. No self-respecting Indian brave would show up looking like THIS. He’d get laughed out of the tribe!)

Still, it was all I had. Time was ticking, so off we went.

Wow, when you’re twelve years old, as opposed to earlier years, you can cover a lot of territory! We canvased the whole west side of Lowell in about 45 minutes and had quite a nice haul of loot! My fake ‘paint’ wasn’t fooling anyone, but folks kept stuffing candy in my bag. Either they noted that I’d at least TRIED to make an effort, or possibly just felt sorry for me.

Fully dark now, Kurt and I stopped to inspect our inventory. Nice! But we realized that there was still time left. If we hurried across the Main Street bridge, we’d have access to the whole east side of the city! This was uncharted territory for us. In all our years of trick-or-treating we’d never experienced having enough time to cover the whole town! So, again, off we went.

Our bags were swelling as they never had before. It was so glorious!

There was one home on the east side that I really wanted to visit. My favorite teacher, Orval Jessup, and his wife lived there. He was Lowell’s much loved Band Director. I knew where he lived, but I’d never had the courage to go there. But this was Halloween, and I had a built-in excuse.

We knocked on the Jessups’ door and yelled “Trick-or-Treat!” I’ll admit I was beginning to feel a little nervous and embarrassed. He knew me well, but would he recognize me with my face covered in silly colorful stripes? He opened the door and dutifully tossed some candy in our bags. He looked at me sideways for a beat or two longer than normal but didn’t say anything that would indicate that he knew me. I wasn’t sure if I was happy about that or not. But I survived it!

When I returned home with my now heavy and bulging bag of sweets, the first thing I did was head to the bathroom and grab a cloth and some soap. This stuff’ll wash right off, I thought. HAHAHA! No way. That food coloring had permeated at least four or five layers deep into the skin on my face. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but no, I’d be a painted pre-teen for a while. Oof.

You guessed it. The next morning, I implored Mom to call the school and say I was sick. But she said, “No, you did this to yourself. You’re going to school.” Well, fair is fair.

That day was tough to get through, I’ll not lie. But the moment I was really dreading was band class with Mr. Jessup. When he saw me, he stopped and stared. “Roger. I THOUGHT that was you last night!” And then he smiled and shook his head as if to say, “Sigh. Boys will be boys.” My comeuppance was now complete.

Hmm. Plastic cups and food coloring. Funny what various man-made instruments of torture can do to wreak havoc in our daily lives. Kathy, I’m sorry I danced around the living room like an insane chicken.