MARION MOM (cont.)

“Was there a trash can in the bleachers?” I asked.

“No.”

“Was the rule posted on a sign?” I asked.

“No.”

Y’all, I’m a parent. I get it.

Kids do dumb stuff like jumping off roofs onto trampolines, riding bikes barefoot, whipping around a freshly-sharpened pocket knife, and hurling projectiles forty feet down.

It’s annoying… but hardly a criminal offense.

I harbor no ill-will toward the sad adult who was just trying to maintain order during a historically disruptive rivalry match.

I chose to use the experience as a learning opportunity about the wrong-place wrong-time wrong-friends principle.

Then I shared a vivid memory of mine similar in theme…

Twenty years ago at Marion High School, I took Art with Mrs. Sally Ware.

Now Mrs. Ware knew what she was doing in art. But she was a crotchety old woman with no tolerance for childishness or disrespect. (She also had a Porsche, which kind of counter-balanced her crankiness with a degree of coolness.)

I, like my daughter, loved school and desperately wanted to please everyone in authority over me. When Mrs. Ware began roll-call, I shut up, even if I was midsentence.

You would have, too, with one look from the daggereye.

Well one day, Mrs. Ware heard the tail end of a conversation quietly wrap up after she had called for silence. Her head was down, reading roll, and I think she randomly picked a female from the general direction of the reprobate.

“Dorothy!” she barked. (It really sounded like a bark.

I’m sure she smoked like a chimney.)

“Get your stuff and get out.”

My jaw dropped open, and I hesitated, knowing I had done nothing wrong.

“Out!” she demanded again.

“I will not tolerate talking.” Then it hit me. I was taking the fall for the girl behind me, who, by the way, certainly

infraction.

And also who, by the way, was my cousin.

So I glumly gathered my backpack, clouds of injustice brewing in my heart, and landed outside her classroom, stewing for the next 50 minutes… during which time the assistant principal strolled by, did a double-take when he saw Dorothy Stokes AKA Straight-A-Model-Student, sitting in the dunce chair.

“Hey girl, whatchu doin’ out he-ah?” he asked with incredulity.

As I opened my mouth, giant heaving sobs of maltreatment swallowed my explanation and brought poor Mr. Rogers to bewilderment. I don’t remember what happened after that, but he probably laughed.

Just like I did this week when Captain Policeman disclosed his involvement in my daughter’s rescue.

I hope, next year, Delinquent Daughter will be able to look back on this and laugh without trace of tears or shadow of shame.

And maybe root for the Patriots, for crying out loud!

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures their seven children ( one of whom is clearly a troublemaker) provide.

This column originally appeared in the September 2017 edition of the Marion Ledger.