“Just what do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
Shortly after escorting some very rambunctious students back to our basement classroom following an extended outdoor recess, I blurted out the frantic question upon spotting one of my young charges leading her peers in a full-throated rebellion.
She was standing atop my executive desk chair, using an eraser as an improvised microphone, belting out Alice Cooper’s 1972 smash hit, “School’s Out.”
With a homespun cassette tape, recorded from a recent radio broadcast, setting the tone for the concert atmosphere, the wayward pupils joined the would-be rock star as they sang the end-of-school-year anthem.
Their voices rang out in unison as the tune reverberated throughout the large space, courtesy of a purported school-issued tape recorder.
“Get down from there this instant!” I exclaimed.
On the surface, it appeared that the class clown was about to get some just desserts for leading all of her riotous classmates on a downward spiral toward unintended consequences.
However, it turned out to be a superb theatrical performance by my little sister, Michele.
She had orchestrated the intentional disturbance to liven things up while my younger siblings, our mutual friend and neighbor Stephanie Wolfe, and I were “playing school” in the underbelly of the church parsonage on the last Saturday in February.
Since the blueprint for the bowels of the Cape Cod-style dwelling mirrored the square footage of the first floor, there was a seemingly endless supply of space for a wide variety of extracurricular activities, including room for a makeshift school house.
It had a teacher’s desk along the side cinderblock wall next to the basement entrance, facing three vintage student desks. A blackboard easel, a map of North America, and a bookcase filled with our old textbooks from years past completed the setup.
There was even a principal’s office, doubling as a home gym, equipped with my 110-pound weight set and Joe Weider weight bench, tucked away in a separate room beneath the upstairs guestroom.
Although the trio of young schoolgirls weren’t exactly thrilled about me proclaiming myself as the schoolmaster — after all, I was the oldest — every time we “played school,” they willingly took on multiple roles.
Their efforts were instrumental in the grand scheme of things for our little land of make-believe.
After going through the motions of teaching geography, history and math, we marched upstairs to the kitchen — our improvised cafeteria — to enjoy a pretend lunch.
Once refueled, we headed outdoors for recess in the backyard, nestled between the one-and-a-half-story house and the two-car detached garage.
As soon as the talkative friends had each taken their turn gliding back and forth on the tire swing — tied to the maple tree next to the nearby alley — I blew the whistle hanging around my neck to mark the end of “play period.”
They quickly lined up, ready to return to the classroom and resume our studies.
Stopping briefly in the mythical hallway to chat with a nonexistent fellow colleague, I found myself stepping into what felt more like a boisterous rock concert on a sandy beach in the Florida Keys than my serene classroom filled with obedient pupils.
Immediately after turning off the tape player and ordering the ringleader to step down from my desk chair, I wrote a single sentence on the chalkboard and instructed the rest of the class to take out their tablets and start writing.
“We are marching straight to the principal’s office, young lady,” declared this mild-mannered eighth grader with righteous indignation after writing, “I will not disrupt this classroom with unsanctioned singing ever again,’ on the chalkboard. ‘While I am gone, every single student in this class, without exception, will copy the sentence on the blackboard five hundred times in legible handwriting; and I don’t care if it takes you the rest of the day!”
And there will be no more recess for the remainder of the week!
Once I escorted the chief instigator of the classroom upheaval out through the imaginary entrance, the two remaining students bolted over to the provisional administrative office ahead of us to switch hats for their next roles in the elaborate production.
Upon entering through the door behind the open staircase into the basement, I was greeted by Miss Kathleen Price, the school secretary; and after exchanging a few polite words, I escorted my unruly kindergartener into the principal’s office, overseen by Miss Stephanie Wolfe.
Huddled around a television tray table in the corner of my home gym, the administrative assistant prepared to transcribe the interaction during the impromptu disciplinary meeting.
“I’m ready when you are,” quipped Miss Price.
“This is a very serious violation of our conduct code,” declared the school administrator, displaying a disgruntled look splashed across her face, upon hearing the shocking charges. “After giving your teacher a public apology, you will be remanded to solitary confinement in the detention office for the remainder of the day; and should it happen again, you will receive corporal punishment in front of your entire class.”
“Do I make myself clear?” she added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Michele sorrowfully said.
When I returned to the classroom to receive the public apology from one disruptive child, the strict principal and her dedicated receptionist seamlessly resumed their earlier roles as diligent students, focused on the writing assignment displayed across the blackboard.
“Me is very sorry for diswupting the classroom by playing my cassette tape on your retorder and starting a rebellution among the other students,” said the youngest of the bunch, her head drooping in despair.
For the remainder of the class period, the purported disobedient student pretended to be another young scholar working on the mandatory assignment with the rest of her counterparts.
The ringing of a handheld cowbell in my hand marked the conclusion of another fantabulous session of “playing school” as we raced one another to the heart of the home at the top of the wooden staircase.
After eating a real lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches with potato chips and carrot sticks, the elementary-aged young ladies were off to another imaginary afternoon tea party in the miniature-sized kitchen back down in the cellar.
And I was headed for my garage attic hideout to write another one of my inspirational short stories about a certain charismatic educator and his unruly student.