Bill Roberts, Poet

Reckless Living

Thursday, March 4th, 2010

– In memory of Robert R. Riddle

Mrs. Easterday wasn’t my favorite teacher,

wasn’t even my teacher,

but all of us patrolboys had to pass

her inspection, in front of her class,

when we came off duty mornings from

protecting kids as they walked to school.

She made it a point to pick on me,

point out to her snickering class that

my hair needed cutting, a good cleaning, too.

Back in those days, I got a haircut

every seven or eight weeks, so by week five

or six I probably looked a pretty fair nightmare.

She made fun of my soles, too, because they’d

flap whenever I walked or ran, so I’d have

to cut them off, walk nearly barefoot.

One particular cold morning, I must have looked

awfully shaggy, so Mrs. Easterday made a big

production in front of her kids,

handing me thirty-five cents to get a haircut,

“And I want to see it cut by tomorrow,”

she admonished, gloating as I pocketed the coins.

I entered her room shivering the next day,

bald as a veritable cueball, horrifying her and

humoring her class of perfectly coiffed kids.

She left me alone after that.  I never spilled

the beans that my barber shaved me for only

a quarter, leaving the dime to be spent recklessly.

Note:  Mrs. Easterday was a sixth-grade teacher at H. D. Hyde Elementary School in D.C., a real terror.  But, oh boy, did I put one over on her, getting head shaved and keeping that precious dime for whatever I damn well pleased.  That I almost contracted pneumonia I try to forget but can’t.  This vignette hopefully shows two things:  how so many teachers “back then” were bullies (maybe in this case for the right reason), and also how a kid, me, could cut off his hair to spite his nose.  It was another life lesson in growing up.  This poem was read at the memorial service for Bob Riddle on March 17, 2001.  Bob and I had chatted in his hospital room shortly before his death about the crazy things we did as kids.  As I recall, his stories topped mine.

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