Excerpt from
Lessons with Love
Tales of teaching and learning in a small-town high school
By Marianne Love

Chapter 1. Ponderettes and Pies – Not a Good Mix

Seven years had passed since I had trudged daily up those three sets of stairs to the third floor of the majestic, old, red-and-white brick building on Euclid Avenue in Sandpoint. Opening one of the double doors and peeking inside, I could see that, once again, I had arrived early. Grabbing a chair at one of many wooden tables in the Sandpoint Junior High library, I sat down. It was an early September day in 1969 – my first as a Bonner County School District No. 82 employee.

While waiting for the new-teachers' orientation to begin, my thoughts drifted back to the time I had spent in this room full of books, where school librarian Mrs. Esther Weaver ruled the premises and kept hordes of wiggly teenyboppers under control during study hall hours. Six periods a day, four students sat in their assigned seats at opposite corners of each table, pretending to be eager young scholars, digesting knowledge from the texts before them. Not always had this ideal been the case, especially where I was concerned. Quite regularly, as a matter of fact, two of my seventh-grade classmates and I had found distractions in the form of an eighth-grader who sat at our table. Seems this girl had habit of picking her nose, and it seemed as if first-period study hall provided the perfect opportunity to harvest her daily crop – and eat it. Sitting there every day unavoidably aware of the busy index finger constantly digging deep within the nostril was not our idea of an appetizing way to begin our day. Furthermore, yelling out in Mrs. Weaver's pin-drop-silent classroom to “Stop that!” was not an option in those days.

Ten years later, I sat there chuckling over the time when we, in our 12-year-old callousness, thought we had finally found the perfect way to send the nose-picker a clear message to quit her disgusting habit. Before school, the group leader, who shall remain anonymous, had prepared a single Kleenex with a message scrawled in blue ink.

“This is a Kleenex. It is to be used for BLOWING the nose so that you do not need to PICK the nose,” the note read. “Please use it!” Before class, we gathered at the table, unnoticed by Mrs. Weaver, where one member of the Anti-Nose-Picking Squad placed the message on the table where the offender sat. Nothing subtle about us. We headed out to the hallway, for our ploy was to avoid suspicion by planning our entrance back in to the room to occur after the offender had sat down at the study table. Arriving at our respective spots, we could see the Kleenex cradled in her hands. She was reading the note. We feigned innocent curiosity. As we sat down, she wadded up the tissue, walked to the wastebasket and returned to the table. By hour's end she had resumed her daily picking routine. Sadly, our plot had failed.

On this September day, that experience and many other junior high acts of mischief had me deep in thought, when suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, I looked into the blue eyes of my former high school principal and new boss, Dick Sodorff. Suddenly, I was fast forwarding from a time of carefree, youthful irresponsibility to a time that required adult sophistication and mature behavior. I was beginning my career as an English teacher at Sandpoint High School. I had signed on that spring after a successful student-teaching stint in Mr. Ragnar Benson's senior English classes. The experience had gone relatively problem-free, except for the day I had had to leave the room for a short time and announced, “I don't want to see anyone talking when I return.”

The seniors took me at my word. Someone may have talked, but I couldn't see them because the entire class had turned their desks around to face the opposite wall. Forty years later, many of those students, now in their 50s, still beam while recounting their innocent prank. Aside from that, Mr. Benson had adequately oriented me. He sat through a few early classes to offer some pointers and then for nine weeks left me alone in the classroom to succeed or fail. I thrived on the atmosphere of not having to worry about someone peering over my shoulder at every move and my rookie mistakes. Instead of intimidating me as a micromanaging mentor would have, he let me flounder when I needed to figure out my own solutions. He always remained available, however, when I felt the need to seek advice. The student-teaching experience turned out to be a positive for all concerned. Mr. Benson got a break from the classroom. The students, including a married mother named Mrs. Becker, enjoyed some fun with their friendly, greenhorn college student, and I discovered, once and for all, that I was, indeed, cut out to be a teacher. It felt both natural and exhilarating to stand in front of a class and actually see kids genuinely enjoying what I had to offer. I felt completely at home.

This experience provided a much-needed boost to my wounded self-confidence after my college years, which had begun dismally and had ended with a feeling of genuine uncertainty about my ability to succeed.

Toward the end of my student-teaching experience, Mr. Sodorff called me into his office and told me that a senior staff member, Ruby Phelps, would be retiring in the spring. She taught sophomore English and advised the Monticola yearbook. Since my college major included journalism and advising high school publications, the position was a perfect fit for me.

“If you want the job, you can have it,” he said. All I needed to do was to go down to the Central Office, meet Mike Lamanna, the assistant superintendent, and formalize my upcoming employment with the district. The best part of this whole chain of events was that I had bypassed the resume, letter-of-application process completely. My one-on-one interview consisted of walking into Lamanna's office on Main and Second in downtown Sandpoint, introducing myself, and telling him that Dick Sodorff had sent me. He said “Hello,” pulled out the paperwork, gave me a pen and showed me where to sign on the dotted lines. It was official. I had a job.

“How would you like a new job?” Dick asked on that September day a few months later as my thoughts switched from nose-picking to a reminder of why I was sitting in my old study hall.

“Huh?” I groaned. “Don't I already have a job?”

“Well, yes, you do,” he answered. “This is an additional assignment.” My first lesson in “administrative dumping on the rookies” began.

“Whaddya mean?” I asked.

“Well, we need a drill team adviser, and we think you'd be perfect,” he explained.

Dick Sodorff must have been either blind or desperate that day. I knew he had gone to San Francisco a while before that time to have eye surgery, but his vision couldn't be that bad. He had to have noticed that I had an ample body. My ample body could never hope to fit in even the largest of one of those petite white dresses that served as the Ponderettes' uniforms.

What kind of example could I be to all those skinny little things? I thought. To make matters worse, I had almost flunked the only physical education class that could even remotely prepare me for this job. While enrolled in folk dancing at the University of Idaho, my instructor had summoned me to stay after class the day we practiced the Greek dance known as the “Miserlu.” Waiting patiently for every other student in the class to leave the gym, she finally glared at me through her dark-rimmed glasses and asked, “Are you really trying?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, as an all-too-familiar feeling of embarrassment and humiliation overcame me. “It's just that ever since I was a little girl, I've never been coordinated. My head and my feet just don't do well together.”

Obviously doubting my sincerity and acting as if my success in folk dancing could be a life-altering experience, the P.E. teacher instructed me to go back to my dorm and spend as much time as possible practicing in front of the mirror. If only this woman had seen me earn my white ribbons for substandard modeling at the Bonner County Fair Style Review, she would understand. At this moment, though, I knew better than to bring up that story.

“I'll do my best,” I said, dutifully, before rushing out of the gym. I did practice when nobody was looking, but God must have had grace and beauty on back order when I came along. It just wasn't in the cards for me to satisfy this woman. Fortunately, half our grade was based on the written test. The lady couldn't give me an F, if I tried really hard. The effort worked; I received a P (pass) for folk dancing and, with great relief, I thought that phase of life would never come back to haunt me.

Well, we all learn throughout our lives – painfully so – never to say or think “never.” As Dick Sodorff stood over me, I had a decision to make. If that situation were a card game, I would say he was holding a royal flush, while I, a lowly, brand-new teacher who still viewed my former principal as a keeper of my conscience, couldn't even muster up a joker to improve my hand. Without much further thought, I threw in the cards.

“Sure, that sounds like fun, but you've gotta know, I've had absolutely no experience at anything like that,” I said. “Have you ever seen me dance?”

“Oh, you'll figure it out,” he reassured me. “And you'll get $200 extra a year as an adviser.”

Well, who could turn down a generous offer like that? After all, adding that bonus to my $5,700 salary was going to make me rich, by my standards in those days.

A few minutes later, Dick went on his way, satisfied that one more vital vacancy at Sandpoint High School had been filled. The new-teacher orientation began. My thoughts drifted again to the moments spent at these tables back in the seventh grade. Once again, my personal tables were turning. I wasn't sure at the moment, but I can say confidently now that I was about to serve my penance.

For the next nine years, I advised the Sandpoint High School Ponderettes, which had been a well-established drill team up until the year before I came along. If anyone had worse credentials for guiding this group, it must have been my predecessor, who lasted just one year. During my student-teaching tenure, I had heard numerous stories about her “inefficient” classroom methods, one of which involved students having a contest to see how many could sneak into her class, unlike the usual practice of sneaking out. In this constant quest to “remain” in Miss X's class, one senior, who had not exactly endeared himself to her, showed up in class one day with his blanket and pillow. He set up shop in the back of the classroom and proceeded to take a nap. Miss X wouldn't have it.

“All right, I've had enough of you,” she said, pointing toward the door. “Get out of here.”

He refused.

She mustered up enough bravery to give it one more try.

“Take your blanket and pillow and leave,” she demanded. He stormed out of the room, leaving his pillow and blanket behind. The class was amazed at how easily he had succumbed to the wishes of the weak teacher.

Their amazement was short-lived, however. A few minutes later, the door flew open, and he reappeared with his face and neck dripping with liquid. In his hand, he held a book of matches.

All eyes watched as the teacher stood paralyzed, staring at the sight.

He held up the book of matches.

“All right!” he shouted, pointing at his face. “This is gasoline! If you don't let me stay in here, I'm going to light a match and burn to death right here in front of you.”

Having no idea the “gasoline” was really water, she obediently relented as he went back to his corner and his blanket. Apparently, she was the poster child for naivete, and she generally remained oblivious to any student manipulation. She definitely had book smarts but seemed to be missing all the other survival skills that help teachers succeed with high school kids. As a result, during her tenure, the Ponderettes were marching to whatever beat happened to be the most dominant on any given day. So, when I walked in that fall, introduced myself, and told the marching squad I would be working with them, it wasn't long before I was aware of some uphill challenges – not only learning about how drill teams functioned but also mastering some tough refereeing skills.

My steep learning curve involved a series of stunning discoveries – for me anyway. Those first few months with the Ponderettes required quick and necessary adjustments to my management skills. In fact, molding this group of young ladies into a well-disciplined unit capable of dazzling audiences of doting parents, supportive classmates or even cynical students from visiting schools during halftime shows proved to be one of the major challenges of my teaching career. My initiation into this teenage mindset, totally different from anything I'd ever known, was fraught with daily traumas. At first, I was amazed at how trivial matters often incited all-out yelling matches between feuding factions among the squad. As a person who had generally gotten along in just about any setting, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of stepping in, sometimes physically separating drill team members about to engage in an old-fashioned catfight.

Actually, that first year is a fog to me now, but I do remember a lot of yelling. I also remember a lot of character building, not only for me but also within the ranks. I did live through it, and I came out with new insights on how to create an atmosphere where in-fighting became more the exception than the rule. Meanwhile, I faked my way through knowing anything about the technical aspects of what the marchers were doing. My comfort zone lay in serving as advocate for the group, whenever the band instructor put up a fuss about the music or whenever I performed as a friendly mother hen in the locker room by happily helping out girls as they primped, adjusted accessories or practiced for the big halftime show. I also took great pride in building up their confidence with inspiring words before performances and handing out hugs when some of them, having missed a beat or two or three, returned to the locker room in tears.

The usual Ponderette reminder, “smile,” served as the appropriate antidote when all else failed. It took time, but I eventually gained some knowledge about what worked and what didn't in coordinating music with marching. With help from supportive parents, I even gained a sense for creating costumes that fit whatever piece the Ponderettes had chosen for a performance. We learned the hard way one year that we probably would not choose ever again to use green Glad Bags for any further Christmas drills. The design included holes cut out for heads and arms and edges accented with red tape. The resulting performance, to “Jingle Bell Rock,” was so disastrous, that its ugly review appeared in a controversial and much-publicized underground newspaper, along with the painful suggestion that the adviser, a “cow,” should be led out to pasture.

That was one time when I seriously questioned my decision to follow a career in education. Dismal as the event was, it did have its silver lining. After much consternation, I chose to stay with the Ponderettes. We turned around the catastrophe, and all of us held our heads up high while producing much-improved performances for the rest of the year. After learning that some folks thought of me as a “cow,” I even embarked on the mother of all diets, which dramatically changed my life for the better. Happily, a majority of the underground paper's staff members and I eventually became the best of friends; in fact, some even helped me with some later projects associated with drill team. Some of those friendships still exist today.

On another occasion, I watched as a group of young women experienced almost unbearable public embarrassment during a drill-gone-bad, only to knuckle down, unify for a common goal, and go on to wow crowded gymnasiums on several occasions and thousands of spectators at two major parades in the region. In this particular performance, the captains had chosen the popular disco piece “The Hustle” as their song. With no band music available, they used a tape recorder as the sound system for their creative routine. Big mistake. Ghetto blasters had not yet been perfected in the mid-'70s. That fact did not become apparent, however, until the large crowd sat in the bleachers, waiting for the performance to begin – the button was pushed and – no sound!

Well, if people had happened to be standing right next to the recorder, maybe they could have heard it, but not the Ponderettes. Crowd noise drowned out any hopes of the marchers hearing even a faint note. As I stood on the side opposite the tape recorder, I sensed that a good time was not going to be had by all, especially by the 28 nervous performers, standing in the gym wearing their T-shirts, shorts and baseball cap ensembles and holding plastic baseball bats for snappy hand motions. Thirty seconds seemed like hours as they stood there waiting, waiting, waiting to hear the music. The tape recorder technician, having cranked up the machine to the highest level, shrugged her shoulders and looked at Sue, the captain, with a helpless expression, indicating that volume was at its max. Sue's only option was to blow her whistle and get it over with.

If this drill tested how well the girls had memorized their counts, they failed. Straight lines immediately disintegrated into ripples. Smiles faded quickly as the marchers floundered in limp lines around the gym, trying in vain to follow a beat that didn't exist. I stood watching – helpless – knowing dark times lurked ahead in the girls' locker room. The performance continued to sour, as frantic faces told the story of a domino effect that gradually determined the drill's destiny. One line off course meant the next segment would turn disastrous. While watching, I listened to another comment from directly in front of me that would resonate in my memory forever. I was standing behind some male students from the visiting school who were taking in every misdirected move.

“Golly, they're even shittier than our drill team,” one kid, wearing a letter jacket, said to his buddy.

“Sure are,” his friend agreed. I slowly eased backward toward a temporary escape route, taking me directly to the locker room.

Might as well face the music when they come flying in here to hide, I thought. There sure hadn't been any music out there in the gym, and my ability to think on my own feet wasn't doing so well at that moment either. What does one say to a group of girls who have just met with such public humiliation? A second later, the door flew open. Plastic baseball bats bounced off the floor, and torrents of tears cascaded down nearly every face as the girls charged through the door.

“You did your best,” I lamely reassured them. “You stayed out there and finished it, despite the circumstances. You can all hold your heads up high.” However, they weren't buying my sugarcoating, and, more than likely, they sensed that I really didn't believe what I was saying.

“Yeah, sure. We were awful. I don't ever want to face anyone,” someone blurted, between sobs. “We're the laughingstock ... ”

The moment demanded leadership. Both Sue and Marla, the co-captain, stuck with me, chiming in with their best possible spin on the catastrophe. Fortunately, both seniors, in their friendly but businesslike demeanors, had always earned great respect from their fellow Ponderettes. Our voices must have been convincing because, eventually, the last few demoralized marchers composed themselves and bravely hustled out the door, down the hallway and into the night – more than likely ready to cry themselves to sleep. We three stood there, looking at each other, shaking our heads and agreeing that we faced a monumental challenge: to convince the group to perform again. Then, the moment of supreme hypocrisy occurred, as we slinked out a side door, ran down the school hallway, and sneaked out a seldom-used door, so we would not have to face anyone sitting in the audience. Later, we agreed to go our separate ways, dig deep within our reserves and come up with a plan.

One of the many “longest weekends of my life” followed. Most working folks like long weekends, but in the teaching profession when disaster occurs on Friday, having all weekend to stew over the situation doesn't make for rest and relaxation. In those cases, Monday can't come soon enough for the teacher to attempt to fix the problem and move on with life. Nonetheless, Monday did eventually come, and at our morning drill team meeting, we all united toward a common goal. The plan was simple. The captains had come up with a catchy piece of music. We asked each individual to set a personal goal of putting forth additional effort to learn the drill and learn it well. We encouraged them to work harder than ever and to reclaim quickly the drill team's positive image by proudly performing the best drill of the year. Two weeks later, marching to “The Magnificent Seven,” the Ponderettes proudly cast off the albatross of the “Hustle” disaster and continued on a course that once again made the word “smile” come naturally. They learned one of the monumental lessons of life: From our lowest moments can spring our greatest triumphs.

From that day forth, the Ponderettes and I shared many smiles, and as time went on, fewer and fewer tears. By the mid '70s, the group worked almost year-round, preparing for three- to five-minute halftime shows and eventually taking on the additional adventure of marching in regional parades. To do this, we not only had to work hard on rehearsing for performances, but we also had to engage in another perennial activity that comes with teaching: fundraisers. We launched our share of raffles and bake sales. Local businesses also donated money to sponsor individual members, and each girl paid dues to belong to the organization. One time we even sold Rex, a multipurpose cleaner, but soon washed our hands of that project, when the cost of the bottles going home with each member exceeded the amount that came in.

We also made a lot of money each spring by sponsoring the annual Drill Team Variety Show. The event consumed our lives during the month of March, as we scheduled auditions that were followed by several rehearsals, often lasting nearly until midnight, leading up to a two- or three-night run of shows. Heretofore anonymous students often found themselves elevated into instant school-wide stardom with performances ranging from Tom Evans miming the local 10 o'clock curfew siren to Mike Kohanek explosively break dancing, a souvenir of his California past.

One year, shortly after we had announced auditions, one of my fifth-period English students, Connie Stutzke, came up to my desk.

“I'd like to sign up for the Variety Show,” she said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Sing,” she answered. A notion of what it was going to be like suffering along with this quiet, shy soul haunted me for two days, for she certainly would get up to do her gig and freeze with stage fright.

She has no clue what she's getting into, I thought, but I guess she'll have to find out . I privately prayed that she would chicken out and save herself the pain of self-destructing before her peers. When audition night rolled around, there stood Connie, along with a horde of other hopefuls. One by one, they ascended to the stage, performed their acts and then joined the audience to watch the rest of the contestants. Connie took the stage. My heart sank.

Here goes, I thought, grimacing and not wanting to watch.

As she began to sing an Anne Murray country classic, her beautiful, surprisingly seasoned voice kept the entire audience spellbound. Along with the voice came a sense of poise not often seen in a high school kid. I sat there, both relieved and awestruck. In that instant, I had picked up another lesson that would guide me through many more years of teaching.

Lesson: Students can have far more fascinating dimensions than those we ever see in the classroom.

Because she always sat quietly and attentively in my class, seldom saying a word, I had grossly underestimated this young lady. In our classrooms, we often see just one side of our students, and we often fall into the trap of thinking that what we see represents their whole being. Not true. Connie and a host of others over the years astounded both their peers and their teachers by exploding onto the scene with their talents, turning into instant idols. Prior to the variety show, most students simply passed these kids off as just more anonymous faces in the crowd. Afterward, their names became household words in Sandpoint.

Sometimes, sheer lack of talent stole the show.

Case in point: Dressed in hunting garb, toting a brown paper bag, Jim Hubbard, who had once blown me away with his eloquent oral book report about James Michener's Hawaii, walked on stage to demonstrate his original duck call. His strategy involved the K.I.S.S. theory (Keep It Simple Stupid). After discussing the science behind getting the ducks to come, he blew up the bag, held it in his hand and then shocked the audience with his unique approach.

“Here duck. Here duck,” calmly coming from Jim Hubbard's lips didn't exactly lure any quackers into the auditorium, but it brought down the house.

One year, the Drill Team Variety Show satirized beauty contests with its “Miss Ellaneous” pageant. This feature allowed the girls to demonstrate that their skills transcended far beyond just rhythmic pizzazz. With the ultimate goal of determining “Miss Ellaneous,” more than a dozen contestants from the Ponderettes took to the SHS stage and kept the audience off guard, especially during the talent phase of the pageant. “Miss Adventure” wore hiking boots and scaled an 8-foot metal stepladder, while “Miss Spell” deftly displayed how to crucify even the simplest of three-letter words. “Miss Shapen” was a crowd favorite, not only because of her less-than-ladylike approach to gorging herself on a large and messy bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, but also because of her enhanced sound effects (provided backstage by more-than-willing males) while gulping down each bite and occasionally belching in preparation for the next untidy mouthful. Meanwhile, “Miss Alignment” demonstrated a strange gait. “Miss Quito” probably stole the show, however, while gliding stealthily across the stage with her 3-foot-long, cone-shaped nose in search of a blood-sucking feast. “Miss Matched” needed a better wardrobe, “Miss Behavior” refused to follow the rules, and “Miss Fortune” tried to bribe the judges.

The most stunning candidate of all, however, was “Miss Ing.” Whenever she took the stage, nothing happened, and when Miss Ing's escort brought her down the aisle, he seemed a bit lonely. In spite of her non-participation, she won the pageant, which made it nice for the Ponderettes' treasury because no money needed to be expended to purchase her prizes.

Though they involved some challenging coordination and many nights of late hours, the Variety Shows of the 1970s unified the student body. The event was so popular that one year, when a week's worth of late-March-mud-season vacation threatened to postpone the show, many kids, who would normally have been no-shows at school under the best of weather conditions, exhausted every means to maneuver the gooey roads, show up for practice, and ensure that the show would indeed go on.

With each year's performances attracting larger and larger audiences, we could always count on a nice lump sum expanding the treasury for our parade schedule and the early-fall football drills. In spite of this springtime bonanza, we still had to nickel and dime our way through the last few basketball games in February. It was one of my brilliant schemes to earn a few extra Ponderette bucks that nearly led to the demise of my teaching career.

Why not have a pie-eating contest? I thought. We can involve the whole school and charge entry fees, and the girls can supply the pies to make more money. It was 1973. By this time, I had learned that Dick Sodorff may have been blind when he hired me to advise the Ponderettes, but his vision tended to be extremely acute whenever an untried idea came his way. I was still employing the youthful teaching mode of asking first before apologizing later. I'd also had enough experience to know that most pie-eating contests were notorious for turning messy. I knew that if we were going to attract representatives from the entire school, we would need to use the gymnasium, and it certainly would not be nice to get any pie on the precious basketball court. If we were going to get the blessing of the principal, my instincts told me I had better make darn sure that every potential cream-pie liability was covered before broaching the subject to Mr. Sodorff. Since I had never even come close to angelic stardom, turning devil's advocate in the planning process posed no problem.

OK, I thought. We'll put out newspapers to cover a wide area where the pies are set up. Contestants will lie on their stomachs with hands behind their backs. Assistants will bring them the pies so that they'll never have to touch the pie with their hands. Each homeroom would pay a fee and select a contestant to participate. Homeroom teachers would read the rules to their classes, so there could be no excuse for misunderstandings.

To emcee the event, I chose the most responsible student I knew at the time. His name was Kent Compton. In addition to being a good Presbyterian and playing a mean cello, Kent was a wholesome, happy extrovert. His warmth, enthusiasm and big smile could win over the most dedicated misanthrope. I had worked with Kent for three years as his English teacher and yearbook adviser, which had given me the opportunity to know this kid inside and out. He was popular among the student body, and his traits included intelligence, amiability, honesty, dependability, respect for others and a lot of other positive adjectives that look good on college application forms. Along with those came common sense. Or so I thought.

With the plan complete and knowing that Kent was my ticket to a successful event, my confidence level soared. Dick Sodorff could not turn me down when I proposed this meticulously-planned concept. The kids would love it. The winner would love the $25 gift certificate, which had been donated. We could pay some bills with the proceeds.

As usual, Dick wanted to hear every detail before giving me the nod. Question after question was met with a response that demonstrated impeccable forethought. I had done my homework this time. The pie-eating contest was a go. Homerooms were notified. Students signed up. When the day came for the event, cream pies began appearing all through the halls. The cooks allowed us to store them in the lunchroom. When the lunch bell rang, we wasted no time, clearing the east half of the gym to get set up for the big event. Some drill team members formed a large horseshoe pattern on the floor with newspapers and later set out one pie for each of the 40-plus contestants. Kent and I set up the sound system on the stage and reviewed the rules to make sure we hadn't overlooked any potential for disaster.

“Let's keep this under control,” I said, aware that even Kent probably needed a reminder. Excitement reigned high. Contestants and assistants filed in.

“Find yourself a pie, and get down on the floor,” my bombproof emcee instructed. With a short time left in the lunch break, we wasted no time herding people to their pies. After a quick welcome, Kent read the rules and reminded everyone that the pie needed to stay on the newspapers.

“Any contestant caught using his or her hands will be disqualified,” he announced.

There comes a moment in the planning of every project when all fears of disorganization dissipate, everything comes together, and it's obvious that this has turned out to be a winner. I beamed with pride while standing on the sidelines surveying the scene, where 40 male and female bodies of varying sizes and ages and from various cliques lay patiently in wait, eagerly anticipating their first mouthfuls of chocolate, banana or lemon-cream filling. Standing over the contestants, each assistant held a second pie. The event had attracted several hundred onlookers, including a large representation from the faculty who stood a safe distance away along the wall near the coaches' office.

Kent, my trusted student, stood on the stage, microphone in hand, masterfully setting the tone for the proceedings. This would be a lunch hour to remember. Once more, I was sure of the event's popular success, certain my fastidious planning would clearly prove to Dick Sodorff that he need not worry whenever I came up with a new idea at Sandpoint High School. I couldn't have been more pleased – until the “imp of the perverse” so often mentioned in Edgar Allen Poe's horror stories found its way into Bulldog Gym.

It all started innocently enough. Some say Anna Bricker started it. Others blame Bobby Hamilton Jr. The perpetrator, whoever it happened to be, lacked foresight for sure. Who would ever expect that rubbing an errant smidgen of meringue from one of the pies onto someone else's shirt sleeve would start such a chain reaction? Probably any veteran of a pie fight could imagine this, but the innocent soul who started it all was instantly forgotten in the mayhem that followed. Sixty seconds seemed like six hours as contestants and assistants alike began flinging pie in every direction. First, the flying slop was limited to a small portion of the gym near the girls' locker room. Within seconds, a barrage of chocolate, lemon cream and whipping cream bombs went airborne and landed on its human targets with military precision.

As Poe says, there is something about the imp of the perverse that transforms the most innocent of souls (whether teenager or teacher) into fiendish monsters. Although I never would have admitted it to Dick Sodorff at the time, I must confess now (in the safety of my retirement) to the mortal sin of flinging at least one handful of chocolate cream at my colleague, Ray Holt. I believe that offense occurred only after wiping off a glob of banana cream from my shoulder and turning around to spot his guilty, grinning countenance.

So much fun happening so quickly. Within seconds, I came to my senses and remembered my early determination to make this thing work. The plan had not called for an all-out war in the gym.

“Stop it!” I started yelling. “Please, stop it.”

Was anyone listening? Was I in a dream?

“I said STOP IT!” Once more, no response. I tried the physical approach, frantically grabbing hands ready to fling another glob of pie.

“Please stop!” My worst nightmare kept on. I felt invisible as I yelled and grabbed in vain, but pie continued hitting people. People were walking, running and sliding on pie filling. This fiasco was occurring no longer on the newspapers but on the precious gym floor. Occasionally, some targets ducked at the right time and the pies hit the pine walls along the sides of the gym.

Somewhere between terror and hysterical laughter, I looked to Kent for help. What I saw on his face and heard from his mouth suggested that my trusted ally in this important mission had turned into a lowdown teenage traitor. Kent had red hair. His face now matched his hair; his eyes were filled with tears – not from embarrassment or shyness but from glee. His hand hugged the mike while his brain directed his lips to deliver some encouraging commentary.

“Oh, I see teachers!” he announced with a tone strongly implying their availability as ideal victims. A large handful of chocolate landed and oozed down a student spectator's shirt.

“Hey, great hit!” This on-location melee had proved far more entertaining than the pie fight Kent had seen just a few weeks earlier on a TV show. Instant quarterbacks started aiming their creamy missiles toward a group of teachers standing near the coaches' office. As the teachers tried to escape, moving en masse toward the door, Dick Sodorff stepped out of the office and walked toward the stage with a stern expression suggesting an imminent confrontation. Behind him, a frenzied mass of pedagogic humanity squashed itself through the open door, seeking escape from the maniacal mischief that had spread throughout the gym.

The teachers were safe. Dick Sodorff was not.

As he made his way along the east wall, staring straight ahead toward Kent on stage, he was oblivious to an event witnessed by just about all spectators who weren't busily engaged in the pie fight. Approximately two feet above his head and slightly behind his peripheral vision, a complete chocolate pie went SPLAT against the wall.

“Oh, God, no,” I gasped, while yanking a flinging offender by the shirt sleeve. I never really asked to be the drill team adviser, but at that moment in my young life, I had a strong desire to keep my teaching job at Sandpoint High School.

“OK, we'd better settle it down,” I heard the frantic voice caution the crowd from the stage sound system. Kent had seen the pie narrowly miss Dick Sodorff's head. Kent was a smart young man, one who knew when an attitude adjustment was wise. His attitude adjusted instantaneously. “There's Mr. Sodorff. Everyone back to their stations – right now.”

Years later, Kent remembered his moment of decision vividly.

“I realized he (Mr. Sodorff) wasn't very happy,” he recalled. “Then I decided to show that discretion was the better part of valor and started pulling in the reins.” By the time the principal reached the stage to have a word with my emcee, everyone else in the gym had come to the same realization. As fast as it had begun, the aerial show ceased. Some students were salvaging what was left of pies so that the actual eating could begin, while others were performing unsolicited acts of citizenship by canvassing the walls and floors in search of messes to clean up. The show did go on with a lot fewer contestants and some disqualified students joining the spectator contingent. When it was over, a senior, David Jones, had devoured nine pies to win the title. The bell rang for students to go to fourth-hour class. I had a few words with Kent, who contritely apologized for letting things get out of hand in the hilarity of the moment.

Certain that this giant indiscretion would land me on Dick Sodorff's hot seat, I gathered a few Ponderette volunteers. We spent most of my entire fourth-period prep hour, armed with wet paper towels, scouring the gym for every last drop of sticky substance that could serve as damning evidence to justify my dismissal as a teacher at Sandpoint High School.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise, I rationalized to myself while frantically scrubbing up chocolate and squashed bananas. He can't fire me from teaching English, but he could decide that I'm just too irresponsible to advise the drill team. That may not be a bad plan; after all, I had never asked for the job in the first place.

My personal spin job, however, could not erase one gnawing factor that had driven me most of my life – my pride. It simply would not allow me to retreat in failure. So, when we were satisfied that we had done the best we could, I sent the girls on to class and made an office-avoiding detour to the faculty room. My aim was to put off the wrath of my boss as long as possible. Realizing the teachers' smoking and blowing-off-steam center was safe for the moment, I slipped inside the door, announcing that if Dick came in, I would be hiding in the women's bathroom, and that someone had better notify me once the coast was again clear. For about five minutes, the other teachers and I chatted about the debacle. Of course, they all thought it was funny. Even though the humorous dimensions of the whole incident were clear to me at the moment, I wasn't exactly in a position of savoring them with quite the delight of my colleagues. Right now, fear over my future employment drove my every thought.

My eyes darted to the door. Through the blurred window, I saw a tall figure. The doorknob turned. I leaped into action, maybe touching the floor twice before diving into the women's john. As I closed the bathroom door, I heard the other one open. Standing motionless like a statue, I listened as Dick's footsteps went past my enclosed cubicle and on into the faculty room. My confinement could last awhile, if he were planning to light up a cigarette. I could hear only muffled voices talking through the wall, making it hard to pinpoint his activities. I hoped that my colleagues would remember to alert me when he was gone. So, there I stood silently, looking at my dumb face in the mirror, which managed to smile even in the midst of this potentially darkest moment in my career.

This is really stupid, I thought, as the if-they-could-see-me-now feeling made me almost laugh out loud. My family would think nothing of this scene; after all, the bathroom had always served as the escape hatch, whenever anyone had stolen some bread or cookies and had to hightail it when our parents had suddenly entered the house. In fact, I had almost choked to death on a peanut butter sandwich years before, when my mother came in from the barn a bit too soon. At least, back in those days, there had been something to do while hiding out in the john. At this moment, the only pastime that seemed somewhat reasonable was to revive a childhood favorite – make monster faces in the mirror. Even that quirky idea didn't really thrill me at that moment. I just wanted out of there.

Suddenly, the fourth-period dismissal bell sounded. Dick Sodorff or no, I now had no choice but to get out of there and hurry to my classroom for fifth-period English. Knowing that the passing bell would signal a lot of traffic to and from the faculty room, I decided to go with the flow and slip out of the bathroom, make a quick exit and hurry down the hall to Room 4. Making a clean escape, I greeted my sophomores who were still buzzing about the noontime contest. In their eyes, the event ranked as a great success. In mine, it still could spell doom. After fifth period, I needed to take a quick potty break. While making my way to the faculty room through the mass of students, I spotted him. He was coming my way. Our eyes met.

Oh, God, here it comes, I thought. Maintaining my composure and considering the ridiculous notion of knocking over a mass of teenagers in a frantic escape, I feigned calmness and kept walking. That familiar stoic stare on Dick's face gave no sign of what might transpire once we met. A moment later, it was over.

“Well, did ya get it all cleaned up?” he asked.

“Yeah, every drop,” I responded.

“Good,” he said and walked on down the hall.

He never said another word to me about the pie-eating contest. We put a few dollars in our treasury and went on with the winter basketball performances. The Ponderettes and I stayed together for nine years, and we created many good memories and long-lasting friendships. Finally, after I announced to my boss that I was pregnant with my second child, Annie, and begged to be released from my drill team responsibilities, he set me free.

I finally walked away from this unsolicited extra duty a wiser woman, determined never to organize a pie-eating contest again. I've kept that promise.

COPYRIGHT © 2007 BY MARIANNE LOVE • ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Excerpt from Lessons with Love

Published 2007 by Keokee Books