Through the Looking Glass: 48. The Dog Ate My Homework

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

48. The Dog Ate My Homework

In the days when I walked 20 miles uphill both ways to school, excuses for unfinished homework were not tolerated. My truthful explanations for incomplete work included, My younger brother tore it up!” or ”The dog ate it!” or “It blew out of my hand as I was walking in a blizzard to take care of my sick old grandmother.”

Students today are blessed with the same honesty I displayed but are much more attuned to the times. I remember a student who explained the absence of an assignment with “a power surge surge in my laptop erased all the files for the paper that was due today”... an unmistakable high tech version of 'the dog ate my homework.

Such creative enthusiasm calls for detective work that would make Sherlock Holmes proud. One memorable investigation involved a student who explained his absence the day previous with as a trip to the local health clinic. Lacking a Doctor's note he was asked for the name of the Doctor so a quick confirmation call could be made. However, the medical man's name could not be remembered and the address of the clinic was not forthcoming. Even an offer to visit the clinic during the lunch hour was refused.

Under the blaze of fluorescent interrogation lights he cracked. A confession to cutting school was extracted and the lawbreaker was sentenced to detention hall for twice the time that was missed. A classic case of 'If you can't do the detention time, don't do the skipping crime.'

Excuses for late arrivals were no less inventive. A note tendered by a student more than ninety minutes late read: “Please excuse my daughter for being late as she was not in school”. Another contained the following insight, “Johnny complained he was not feeling well this morning. I couldn't decide whether to take him to a Doctor or a Drama Coach... so I sent him to school instead.”

Classic excuses such as “Joey was absent from school yesterday because he was sick. Signed Mom.” still show up from time to time however. It is frightening to think what forms this might take after some coaching from the masters. Joey could acquire the skills required to produce an undetectable forgery. Johnny might use a voice alteration system from his computer to call in excuses for days off.

Remembering my student's excuses and explanations is memorable for the challenge they offered and the entertainment they delivered. It serves as ample evidence of creative fertile minds. Rather than giving me more time to plot new methods of detecting transgressions retirement has given me great comfort. I smile broadly when I remember that these same original thinkers with have to deal with even more creative excuses from their own children.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.