Her name was Mrs. Martin. Did she have a first name? I’m sure she did, but I never heard what it was. She ruled her second grade classroom with the sort of totalitarian style that would make Stalin proud! Her white hair was pulled back and her one facial expression was a baleful glare over the rims of her glasses. I was afraid of her. She was well beyond the stage of life where one might find second grade boys “cute”. They were to be tolerated until that first pension check came in. As I said, I was afraid of her.

I remember when one of the little girls in the class approached Mrs. Martin and said, “I feel sick……”and then threw up. Now, up to that point in my life, the sickness of a child had always been met with tender compassion and comfort, regardless of how unpleasant the task may be.  Mrs. Martin leapt back and yelled, “Go to the bathroom! Not here!” I was very afraid of her.

Fear may be a good motivator, but I have found it hard to sustain. And sure enough, there came a day when I became a little fractious and along with several of my buddies, found myself wilting under that evil stare. She turned and began to write a note at the top, right corner of the black board.

“I have been disturbing the class.” That is not a quote, but it was something similar. Beside this terse sentence she wrote all of the names of the guilty.

Turning from the board, she said, “Now, I want you to copy this and bring it back tomorrow with your parent’s signature!”

Oh, no! I felt myself growing weak with pure horror! The year before, I had taken home a report card with a “c” in conduct and received a hard whipping with a belt from my father. “You may not be the smartest kid in the class, but you can be the quietest! You’d better never bring home another c in conduct! Do you understand?”

And now, my trembling fingers scrawled the note out in primitive second grade writing. We had not yet learned what we called “real writing”.

The rest of that day I felt slightly nauseated and after supper I finally had to present the note to Dad. His reaction was exactly what I had dreaded, complete with an angry scolding and another hard whipping.

With downcast countenance, I laid the note on Mrs. Martin’s desk first thing the next morning. She glanced at the paper and acknowledged it with a low “humph” sound.

Now, I have found that if there is one thing that will leave a child feeling happy and secure, it is the discipline of a loving parent. As a result, I felt strangely happy and care free that day. And it was in this joyful state that I let my guard down and suddenly, without warning I was in trouble again! I honestly don’t know what I did. One moment I was having a great day and the next….Armageddon!

There she was, writing my name in fresh chalk beside the dreaded note, still posted in the corner of the black board! The truth began to sink in. I was going to have to take another note home and frankly, I did not think that I would survive the next twenty four hours.

What could I do? I dare not give that note to my Dad. I dare not come back empty handed! No Watergate conspirator could have been more torn than I!” I can’t! I must! I’m gonna get killed!” My little eight year old soul squirmed on the very brink of destruction.  “Where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched” seemed to be in my immediate future! My tiny brain turned furiously! There must be a way! There has to be a way!

Then, like a breeze from Heaven’s gate, it came to me! Today is Friday. They erase the boards every day, but on Friday, they actually wash the black board. Surely my sins would be washed away like a Sunday morning by whoever washed that board. It was the only hope I had and I clung to it like a storm tossed sailor to some floating debris!

Do you remember what it was like to be eight years old? Do you remember that vast stretch of time between the closing bell of Friday afternoon and the opening bell of Monday morning? Why, it was practically a year! There’s no way that mean old lady will remember any of this by Monday. I tore the note into tiny pieces and threw it in a storm sewer.

My weekend was long and pleasant except for that little nag of guilt and fear that I could not totally escape.

So, I strolled into class first thing Monday morning and my eyes immediately went to the black board. Sure enough, the board was clean and black…….. with the exception of a few square inches in the top, right corner. My throat tightened and I fought back the desire to cry.

“Did you bring the note?” That stare told me that she could read my guilty mind like a Dick and Jane Reader.

“I forgot it.” One thing about the traps of sin: they never end with one sin! The lie slipped from my lips without so much as a “forgive me, Lord”.

I was just not meant for a life of crime. I writhed in my seat until finally I went to the front of the room and told Mrs. Martin, “I feel sick. I need to go home.”

Did she express sympathy? Did she say, “I hope you feel better”? No. She focused that dreadful gaze upon me and said, “Does it have something to do with that note?”

“No, Maam.” What was one more lie to me? You can only be so dead. Whether you get beaten to death for one transgression or a dozen, what does it matter?

Well, I checked out, went home and tried to feign physical sickness for the rest of the day. I can’t say for sure what it would be like to watch them build your gallows, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. The afternoon and evening dragged by and finally supper was over and the day was winding to a close.

I could bear it no more. I would confess. I would die a horrible death of righteous judgment!  I went to my mother and began to sob uncontrollably.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you!” I began to cry harder. “I can’t tell you! You’ll kill me!” I was wailing.

I can only imagine what my little eight year old self must have looked like to my mother, but she began to laugh. This was not what I expected.

“Hal, you can tell me. I’m not going to kill you! I promise!”

Through my gasping sobs I confessed my great chain of sinful events that had culminated in this, the most dreadful moment of my whole life. And what if Mother laughed? What about Dad? So far, he had shown a very distinct lack of good humor where my class conduct had been concerned.

“Come on”, she said as she led me to the bedroom where Dad lay reading. He looked up with a quizzical expression at his son in a state of total turmoil.

Mother told him my story so that he wouldn’t have to sort it out between my sobs and moans.

“Evan, I think he’s suffered enough.”

The events that followed were somewhat of a blur. I’m sure Dad scolded me, but he did not beat me to death. He didn’t even spank me. I know that Mother  knelt beside me as I prayed a very sincere prayer of confession and felt the joy of sins forgiven.

I would survive this incredible ordeal and go on to get into many other scrapes of varying degrees of danger, but none would equal this one for sheer terror!

Many years later, I was enjoying an afternoon cup of coffee with Mom and Dad and the subject came up. Without thinking, I said, “She was so old! She must have been at least……” I stopped, realizing that whatever age I was about to say, Mom and Dad were already older than that! Once again, they laughed as I squirmed over Mrs. Martin and The Note!

Hal F. Leary