We called her Old Lady Murphy.

She wasn’t that old. She was old only when compared to our young ages.

We were seventh-graders. A bothersome bunch with more energy than brains.

Miss Murphy was a fine teacher. She was doing what Holden Caulfield wanted to do in J. D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye.” She was trying to catch kids falling from a cliff. She was a catcher in the rye.

We were in English class. I liked English class. I wished all my classes could have been English classes.

One day, Miss Murphy was called out of the classroom. She told us that she’d be back in just a minute and that we should be on our best behavior.

Apparently our best behavior wasn’t all that good because as soon as she’d left the room, a classmate, one of those young guys who was always up to something, showed the class a thumbtack that he held between his thumb and forefinger. He displayed it proudly as if he were a sword swallower authenticating the sword he was about to swallow.

He walked menacingly towards Miss Murphy’s desk chair.

His intentions were clear. It was an opportunity he couldn’t resist. He was going to put that tack on her chair. His priorities weren’t necessarily straight, but he had them.

Upon realization of the dastardly deed about to be committed, a collective shudder ran through the student body. Some were in horror and disgust. Others were in anticipation.

Several students whispered or mumbled, “No” and “Don’t,” but there was no vehement protest of any kind.

He placed the tack on Miss Murphy’s chair and with a smile as wide as a wave across a slop pail, he did a hurried strut back to his desk.

Miss Murphy returned, surprised to find everyone seated at their desks and ostensibly behaving as angels might.

She began talking about “The Pearl.”

She walked about while talking. She sat on her desk a couple of times.

Nobody was listening to what she was saying. We had become unable to be taught. I hoped it was momentary. A tiny instrument of torture in the form of a tack had taken control of our minds.

She continued in an attempt to bring us cherished book learning, but not even the perfect students and the teacher’s pets could think of anything but that tack.

She walked and talked. I wanted her to sit down, and I didn’t want her to sit down. The suspense was killing me. I couldn’t even think about the tater tot hotdish that would be the day’s delectable school lunch, and it was hard for me not to think about tater tot hotdish at any time.

Miss Murphy rattled on about John Steinbeck’s classic novella.

Hearts fluttered as she almost sat on her chair. The class inhaled as one, deeply and loudly. Miss Murphy took it as a sign of our incredible interest in the book and stood up to regale us further about Steinbeck’s wonderful writing.

Then she all but sat on the chair once again. She hovered over the tack before remembering that she needed to give us a homework assignment. Our attentiveness had convinced her that we had an unquenchable thirst for learning.

That task completed, she sat down slowly, in increments as if she were pitching a base camp and waiting until the next day to launch the final assault. After several eternities, she sat down.

If a hush could fall over an already quiet room, it fell. Silence became quieter.

Not one of my classmates said “Yay,” “Boo,” “YAY-boo” or “boo-YAY.” For some odd reason, I found that a source of pride.

Miss Murphy sat there on that tack as she waited for the class bell to ring.

She made no cries of pain or wails of anguish.

She smiled. It could have been gas, but was likely with the thought that she was nearly rid of us.

It was apparent what had happened.

Old Lady Murphy had buns of steel.

This was before the exercise video promising buns of steel, a tightened caboose, had come into existence.

The bell rang. We left. Miss Murphy stayed, tacked in place.

It didn’t surprise me. Teachers had superpowers. Buns of steel must have been one of those that wasn’t often talked about in polite company.

Whether you have buns of steel or not, I wish you a Christmas of merry.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.