FLASHBACK: Fall 1972

"Feb-RU-ar-y", the old lady screamed, veins popping out on her forehead as she stressed each syllable, especially the second with the R clearly enunciated.

"That's how I taught Hank Bouchard on Channel 12 News to say it, and if you listen to him he will say it as it should be Feb-RU-ar-y!", she lectured to us as if she were telling us that to not pronounce the month the way she taught would condemn your soul to the eternal fires of Hell.

Mrs. Powell was the most senior teacher at Citizen's Memorial Elementary School. She looked like she was in her 80s. Her tenure surely predated this building which had only been erected a mere few years before. After all, as she had just bellowed to us stunned 3rd graders, she had taught grammar to an adult meteorologist on the Providence, RI TV news.

If a syllabus had existed for our third grade, Mrs. Powell's would simply read: All day. All work, No play. Learn by the threat of the rod. Old Skool Starts Here!

Oh yeah, she was the epitome of Hard Ass Learning. During arithmetic time, we recited the times tables aloud as a class to imprint them into our minds by rote method...

Mrs. Powell: "Three Times One is Three!"

Class: "Three Times One is Three!"

Mrs. Powell: "Three Times Two is Six!"

Class: "Three Times Two is Six!"

Mrs. Powell: "Three Times Three is Nine!"

Class: "Three Times Three is Nine!"

And so it went. Morning after morning, math was on the agenda and the times tables, screamed into our heads was the way it was done.

Even with her gruff demeanor, we all grew to love Mrs. Powell. All except perhaps for Anthony Grassini. She seemed to especially have it out for him for some reason. One morning, I watched along with my classmates in horror as she decided to pin young Anthony to the wall by thrusting his desk, with him seated at it, into the back wall. Thankfully he wasn't squashed to a pulp. But the fear of Mrs. Powell's wrath was well cemented in our formative minds.

Despite her strict ways, we found we were learning concepts. That is, until one day in December, the principal came into the class with a young blond woman and told us that Mrs. Powell would no longer be our teacher. (He never stated why Mrs. Powell was out but, being mid-term, it probably wasn't retirement. Perhaps she had been forced into retirement for her temper tantrums like with Anthony, or perhaps she passed away. Kids are never told anything about the adult issues in elementary school, so I never knew.)

The principal introduced us to our new teacher. She mustn't have been more than 25-years-old and seemed totally unprepared for teaching 8-year-olds. A total flower child, she gave us permission to call her by her first name and instead of a fixed seating chart, she allowed us to choose where we sat each morning. This was mind-blowing!

Unfortunately it was also mind-numbing in the fact that from the start of her tutelage on, we learned virtually nothing. Lessons were "taught" in a game format and much time was devoted to talking about off-topic issues. Text books lay on the shelves unused. Tests were a thing of ancient memories only. It was all happiness and sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and peace symbols. Right on! At the time we kids loved it. It was like a dream come true.

She somehow remained our teacher through to the end of the school year.

The next fall though, when we entered fourth grade with our new teachers, I'm sure the others felt like I did when hit with the realities of our circumstances. Kids that had other 3rd grade teachers were far better equipped to handle the challenges of the 4th grade. I had a lot of catching up to do. For the most part, I think I caught up to speed in each subject well since I was good in each subject. All except math. For the rest of my life, I could only remember up to the 5s in the times tables. We were just about to get to the 6 tables when Mrs. Powell was replaced. (To this day, to multiply a problem such as, say, 6 times 8, I need a calculator.)

Another legacy of this young teacher's lack of abilities remains in the fact that though I can remember the name of each of my other elementary grade school teachers, including, of course, Mrs. Powell, I can't for the life of me remember her name.

But at least I know how to pronounce February.