Fredericksburg Parent

www.FredericksburgParent.NET 9 "What I might have is a nap," and with that my dear friend hung up. It was obvious that I would have to undertake this noble exercise alone. Thursday morning I woke up early and kissed my wife and daughter goodbye, which my daughter did not appreciate because she was trying to see how many days in a row she could sleep past 10:30. I scraped the overnight freeze from my windshield and looked at Tyrone's house with enough disdain that I hoped he could pick it up on his Ring Camera. Like Jack Kerouac before me, I did not have a destination beyond where the road might take me. Unlike Kerouac, my version of Neal Cassady was working on his boat and more than happy to have another day off of school. (Like Neal Cassady though, he was probably drinking beer or port wine before noon.) When I saw the top of the National Museum of the Marine Corps rise above the highway, I knew it was a sign pointing me west into the county and toward my destiny. Plus I had to pee. I pulled into the nearest subdivision and found that most of the streets were plowed but that there were sidewalks and corners that had not been touched. These pristine bus stops sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, but I knew no degree of beauty could match the sparkle in the eyes of the local students who would rejoice in that first appearance of the school bus in almost a week. Spurred forward by this image of rapturous school chil- dren as well as that of Tyrone actually going to work for a change, I raised the pickaxe high above my head and struck a mighty blow for public education. A neighborhood child must have heard the shattering of the ice and the release of his dreams and ran over to thank me for this selfless act. "Hey, old man, what are you doing?", said this young prince of Prince William County. I turned to look behind me to see who he was referring to as "old," assuming that more of the citizens' army had responded to the call to duty and then turned back to the cherub in front of me and tussled his hair and said: "You rapscallion! I'm here to help you find your future." "The only axe you need, old man, is the body wash kind. You stink. I'd suggest you get back in your car and drive home and take a shower." I laughed, but the child before me did not register this as a line delivered by a weekly humorist. I swung my liberating pickaxe once again into the covered concrete and was met with an ear-splitting screech that was only slightly muffled by the fur-lined ear flaps on my winter hat. I looked into the face of innocence before me, only now that face was blow- ing with the full force of his young years into a whistle that was apparently rousing an entire community. Children of all ages started to stream from the houses around that bus stop and marched toward me and my destiny. As the children amassed, one stepped forward and spoke with a steady voice that belied his enthusiasm for the prospect of returning to school the next day. "You're not wanted here," he said. I slowly registered that their confusion was likely plucked from Tik Tok news coverage of the ongoing situation with ICE agents in Minneapolis. "Oh, I'm not an ICE agent," I said, pointing to my uncovered face and lack of a military haircut. "I'm just a humble man try- ing to help you little Einsteins get back to school. Sing with me: 'We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship…'" "You're here removing ice from our bus stops. That makes you an ice agent and you're not wanted here." "But your superintendent wants you back to school, and I want my lazy ass neighbor back to work so he can teach you kids and give you a future." "So, you're worried about our learning?" asked the leader of this children's crusade before me. "You ever read the book The Lord of the Flies?" "I have," I said somewhat surprised by this literary reference. "Well, right about now, you're Piggy. How is that for learning?" "I do have asthma…" "See, all this shoveling and ice breaking could be detrimental to your health. So you can take your ass-mar and go home, or you can get your ass kicked and go home. Your choice." I was duly impressed with this young man's grasp of the author William Golding and his grasp of symbolism, although I did not remember the glove- covered fist punched into an open hand in any of the classic novel's scenes. As I quickly packed up my instruments of destruction and bid them adieu, I was reminded that not all learn- ing occurs in the class- room. I understood that these children did not need Tyrone today or tomorrow even, but I certainly need- ed one of his beers today… provided he hadn't drunk them all while I was out saving public education.

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