Some of the first memories of Mrs. Demmer were things she said to me as I sat in her first and second grade classroom. 

"Allen, will you please be quiet." 

This wonderful advice prepared me for marriage. 

"Allen, I hope that whatever it is that you are eating, that you have enough to share with the rest of the class." 

This wisdom has helped me stay relatively thin for most of my life. 

"Allen, I am taking this away from you for your own good." 

Now this one still kind of bothers me. 

I had a spud gun.  A little metal job that I would stick the barrel of into a potato and then be able to fire a bit of that potato a good distance.  The possession of this gun made me a big man on campus.  I was good with that spud gun. Real good. A natural.  A regular Wyatt Earp of the vegetable weapon. 

One day, I spotted my prey towards the front of the class-Tom Miller.  Classmate, friend, neighbor, target.  Tom was busy reading and did not suspect a thing.  That was no surprise, only teachers and parents had eyes on the back of their heads. It would be a tough shot.  I'd have to lean to one side in order to get the tater projectile past Keith Wakefield's head and then fire it between Carol Johnson and Ellen Tukua's heads.  It was a very difficult shot, but I was just the world-class marksman capable of making it. I glanced up at Mrs. Demmer's desk.  She was busy grading papers.  The red pen was a blur in her hands as she looked at our mistake-prone work.  The timing was perfect.

I aimed and exhaled as I pulled the trigger.  John Wayne would have been proud.  The spud bullet just missed Keith's nose, went whizzing past Carol's hair and Ellen's chin and hit Tom right where I was aiming.  It zapped him in the ear. 

This is where things began to go horribly wrong.  Tom, surprised and fearful that he might be critically injured, let out an agonizing, "Ouch!"

This put a sudden stop to Mrs. Demmer's red pen. She looked directly  at me.  My smile of victory quickly changed to a look of worry.  Mrs. Demmer walked directly towards me.  I still had my spud gun in my hand, but it was a single-shot and I had no time to reload.

"Give me that," she said. 

I did as I was told. We did as we were told in Mrs. Demmer's class. I had to apologize to Tom and I lost recess privileges for a week. But the thing that still bothers me is that I never did get my gun back.  I've seen them for sale for $60 at antique toy shows.

I tried to get even with her, I put a beautiful, little, green snake into her desk drawer one day.  Then I sat back in my chair and waited for her to open that desk drawer.  I knew she would open that drawer.  She did every morning.  It was where she kept the attendance sheet.

She came into the room and said, "Good morning, class." 

"Good morning, Mrs. Demmer," we replied in unison. Me with a little more gusto than usual.

I watched her reach for the drawer with more anticipation than I have ever experienced around a ketchup bottle. Then a terrible thing happened.  Nothing.  Oh, she opened the drawer and I know the snake was in there.  But Mrs. Demmer was a cagey veteran.  She didn't let on that she even saw it.  I am sure that she released the snake later or perhaps she summoned Lewie Myrhe, the school custodian, to do the job for her. 

When I was in the second grade, I wrote a play.  Much to my surprise and just a little embarrassment, Mrs. Demmer read it out loud to the class and told us all that we would be doing the play at an assembly.  Parents, friends, relatives and neighbors would be there. 

It was a tough time for Hartland's youngest playwright.  I suffered some scorn and derision from classmates who were forced to utter words I was putting into their mouths.  Some second graders do not truly grasp the importance of fine art. I worried that my writings would be misinterpreted by Mrs. Demmer, who had taken over the duties of both the producer and the director.  I need not have worried.

The play went well and was quickly forgotten.  Forgotten by everyone but me.  I remember the kind words from Mrs. Demmer and the remarkable feeling they produced.  I remember the pride I felt as she read my story to the class. My story.

These thoughts have never been far from me.  I have made a living by being a writer. It has been a wonderful life.  I owe much of that to Mrs. Demmer.  She continued to encourage me whenever we talked. A wonderful teacher, a great friend. 

I miss Mrs. Demmer, but I know she is still looking over my shoulder as I write. 

?© 2003 Al Batt
Hartland, MN 56042
SnoEowl @ aol.com
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May you be blessed today

Bob Johnston

Editor / Publisher