A STORY WORTH TELLING
G
Good teachers are the ones who can challenge young minds without losing their own.
— author unknown
Grade school, 1959, in Mount Pleasant included reading, writing, arithmetic, recess and repeats of last week’s cafeteria fare.
“Meatloaf? Must be Tuesday.” My learning was set among pine trees, stif ling humidity and a rigid educational hierarchy.
N.A. Mattingly at South Ward Elementary School challenged young minds with math and history classes while prepping the Bulldogs for crosstown elementary school football showdowns against West Ward and Annie Sims.
His weathered face reflected life on the farm, as did his green 1950s GMC pickup parked at the curb by the bicycle rack. His ever-present smile and patient personality revealed his love for challenging young minds.
School dress codes then favored mainstream conservative looks in clothing, haircuts and politeness.
“Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” were the only responses to a teacher standing between you and a lecture on manners.
Frequently repeated recess stories among young minds were mixtures of mischief and Mr. Mattingly’s paddle, rumored to reside in his bottom-desk drawer.
That was also the year my sixth-grade world started shrinking with a simple purchase at Raney’s neighborhood grocery store. A revolutionary device reflecting 1950s spaceage fascination, the small red-and-white rocket ship looked like a toy. It was, however, much more. It was a radio.
Music in most homes then came from boxy radios like the one Mom used to tune in Miss Lee’s hometown news on KIMP. Then there was our first television: a large, cabinetstyle, black- and-white affair. Both were operated exclusively via parental guidance.
With the TV, that was Dad utilizing his remote control — the one where he sat comfortably in his chair and said, “Son, get up and turn that big knob on the right to channel three.”
So, this pocket-sized rocket radio was my first taste of having access to entertainment in the backyard, in my bedroom or better yet … in the classroom.
Unlike most transistor radios of the era, this one was a “crystal radio,” meaning it required no batteries.
Don’t ask me how that worked. I didn’t know then, and I’m still clueless. All I knew were three things: Connecting the alligator clip wire to something large and metallic brought it to life; an earplug provided private listening; and stations were selected by sliding the tuner in the rocket’s nose.
The next morning at recess, I clipped it to the barbed-wire fence separating the back side of the playground from a cow pasture and slipped the earplug firmly in place. Static crackled before tuning turned static into music. I was listening to my own private radio at school.
Back in class with the rocket radio in my pocket, I discreetly attached the clip to the metal window frame next to my desk, and channeled music right into the middle of math class. The local AM station was loud and clear, but with a little searching, I found KLIF, the Dallas rock ’n’ roll station.
Resting my head in my hand hid the earplug while I pretended to be deep in multiplication tables and secretly multiplied my listening pleasure with Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson and Buddy Holly.
Clever, yes, but it soon proved to be an imperfect setup.
Signals wandered, and intermittent bursts of static interrupted the music until one loud, ear-piercing pop that caused me to jump right in the middle of Mr. Mattingly’s “… seven times nine is … how much?”
An experienced teacher adept in classroom auditory awareness, Mr. Mattingly stopped mid-stream to ask, “Everything OK, Leon?”
“Yes, sir,” I humbly offered. “I heard something .... outside the window ... I think.”
The bell rang, and I headed for the door.
But not before Mr.
Mattingly motioned me to his desk.
“ Yes, sir,” I politely said.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” he said with a smile.
Then, resting his hand near the dreaded desk drawer rumored to hold the storied instrument of punishment, he added, “Tomorrow, how ‘bout you leave that radio at home?”
My enthusiastic response was the only acceptable answer – back then and now.
“ Yes, sir.”
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com
