You’re lucky, you made it to an interview.
June 1976, I had just finished at OCE (Oregon College of Education then, Western Oregon University now). I was hoping for a job teaching elementary school in Oregon, my home state. The word around campus was there was an abundance of candidates for every opening.
In the spring I interviewed a couple of times in small towns. Anxiously I sat across the desk of a kind principal, he tapped a large stack of files. “See these? That’s thirty-five people who want this job. You’re lucky, you made it to an interview, you’re my second choice. If number one turns me down, you’re hired.” I heard similar words in the coming weeks. The lesson learned was there is no silver medal in this game, second is no better than last place.
That summer Connie and I, we had married while I was still in school, had made a commitment to work at a camp out of state. I anxiously waited for the weekly job opening list in the mail, continued sending applications, made follow-up phone calls, and got a few interviews involving quick trips back to Oregon.
Call every day and we’ll get you a job by the end of the week.
In late August we returned to Oregon without a job. Schools would be starting soon. On Monday I drove to visit my college placement office, and asked, “Should I look into sub work and try again next year.”
“Not yet,” was the response. “Call every day. We’ll get you a job by the end of the week.” I called daily, followed leads, and finally had two interviews set for Friday. The Friday before the Monday when teachers would be reporting to school for preparation for the year.
The first interview was at one pm. We drove south from Salem to Sweet Home, a small town in the Cascade foothills. Connie waited in the car. Things seemed positive and I left with the principal saying he would decide soon and be calling me. From there we drove north for an hour on backroads we had not travelled before, eventually arriving at Mill City.
The next interview was scheduled for four, a bit of a tight turnaround, but we made it. Mill City Elementary School was in Mill City, an idyllic small town along the meandering Santiam River. Tall evergreen trees surrounded homes and a few shops. The population was significantly less than my high school of 2,000 students. Oh, and the mill had been closed for years. I met the superintendent at his office. He talked quickly and seemed to focus on budgets and facilities. After about thirty minutes he took me on a tour of the building.
The interview ended with a trip to the “house.” The district owned six homes. New teachers, and administrators, were offered housing at a generous rate. The chosen candidate would be offered a three-bedroom, one bath home, two blocks from school for a hundred and thirty dollars a month. He had Connie follow us in our car, and we all toured the house together.
Standing outside his final question was, “You’re a guy, you can coach, right?”
To which I said, “Sure.”
“The job is yours, if you sign now.” Fifth grade classroom in the morning, PE in the afternoon, coaching eighth grade boys’ basketball and baseball. Adding teaching and coaching duties together I would be making almost ten thousand dollars for the year. I briefly wondered if I should wait on the other job, but quickly decided to take the deal.
He brought out a contract and I signed it on the hood of his car. “We’ll see you Monday at 8. Here’s the house keys. You can move in whenever you want.”
The worst, very worst, kid I have ever had in my class.
Monday started with the staff gathered for introductions and the principal giving directions on how to use our time prepping for the year. There were about a dozen teachers, the principal, and a few support staff. I quickly realized the introductions were for me, the only new staff member.
By mid-morning I was in my room trying to figure out what to do. I heard someone at the door and looked up. “Hi, I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Judy, fourth grade, next door. Welcome to the team.” She was carrying a load of files that she dropped onto the desk with a loud “Pop.” “Here, these are for you. Theresa will get you the rest.” Before I could say thanks, she picked up the top file and waved it toward me. “This is Tommy. The worst, very worst, kid I have ever had in my class. Good luck.”
A bit stunned, it took a moment to respond. “Thanks, hopefully I’ll be able to make things work with him.” She had turned and was gone before I finished my sentence.
I was unaware, but a button had been pushed. My mom was a champion of outsiders, those misunderstood or left out. Little did I know that part of her was deep within me. And little did I know that this would become a central part of my life and work in many settings and throughout my days.
Days were busy prepping for school,
Connie was looking for a new job,
and in the evenings, we moved into our new home.
Our new home next to Claudia, the other fifth grade teacher,
and her husband, Clyde, History teacher and football coach,
and their so cute pre-school son, Casey,
next to the shop teacher and his family,
next to the high school the Art teacher.
Who lived across the street from the Superintendent.
I met the class, a mix of energetic fifth graders.
School started, and I met the class, a mix of energetic fifth graders. We rolled along with expected and unexpected learning opportunities, for the students and me. Some kids were shy and quiet, some diligent workers, some distracted, and a few vied to be the number one class cut up.
I watched Tommy those early days. He was scrawny, smaller than other kids. I learned Tommy was a year older than his classmates, having repeated an earlier grade. His lack of ability or interest in sports or athletics, the lifeblood of the community, alienated him on the playground and in PE.
I learned that Tommy lived with his mom and stepdad. Other teachers let me know that the stepdad didn’t like Tommy. He wanted to marry the mom; he didn’t want the kid included in the deal.
And there was that perpetual crew cut, not a trendy style in that era, and he dressed a bit out of step.
I am unsure if Tommy and I had a natural affinity or if I was determined not to let that other teachers warning dictate our year. From day one we got along. We communicated in an almost intuitive way. I could give a look and he knew to get back on task. He thrived on our brief conversations.
Tommy would frequently ask questions that had been answered repeatedly during instruction. His erratic behavior, wandering the room, making noises, getting in the face of another student, all called for corrective suggestions. Consistent and gentle seemed the best approach. As I moved around the room, he would wave his arms, again.
He often appeared at my desk, while other students were working away.
“Mr. Schmotzer.” I looked up.
“Yes, Tommy.”
“I keep trying, but I don’t have any friends.”
How do you explain to a fifth grader that their personality and behavior alienate peers?
“Tommy, that’s a tough one. Has someone said something to you?”
“No, they won’t even talk to me.”
“Well, are there things you do that might bug other kids?”
“I know, I know I talk too much, too fast, too loud.”
“Is there someone you are hoping would be your friend?”
“Maybe Ricky. I like Ricky. He seems nice.”
Ricky was a nice kid and I saw some hope in this one.
“Try this. Sit by Ricky at lunch today. Try not to talk too much. Maybe ask a question. And after lunch follow him and try to join in his recess activity. Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
I went out of my way to be in the cafeteria. Things did not go well. Tommy was trying, but within five minutes he was making noises and being silly. Kids were either mocking or ignoring him.
The next morning, I asked Tommy, “How was lunch yesterday?”
“Not good Mr. Schmotzer. I tried to do what you said. It was just so hard.”
Reality was that versions of this played out for Tommy in unending areas of school and life. I tried to help as able. There were a few positive moments, but rarely anything that would meet Tommy’s hopes.
I know, cliché
How small was Mill City (I know, cliché)?
We had a “party line” phone with the Shop teacher and his family.
The tavern on the highway had dime beers and free pool on Wednesday for teachers (Wednesday after staff meetings).
Everybody got their mail at the post office next to the catalogue store, Sears, or Wards, I can’t remember which one.
The catalogue store, where you looked at a catalogue, placed an order and waited to be notified, by mail, when you could pick up your item.
There was a restaurant, also on the highway, where after you ordered you might see the owner send their kid to the grocery store to get any needed items not in stock.
You could run a tab at the variety store. They kept the records in a spiral notebook.
If you lived in Mill City you were either a local, a school staff member or forest service employee. Teachers and forest service staff had the bond of being outsiders. It encouraged quick friendships. Across the street from us lived a forest ranger.
Friday nights, after a game, school staff and partners, and occasionally forest service workers, would gather at a designated home. It was clearly a BYOB affair. Small groups would appear in various corners. A few would play cards or a game, others would talk and drink, or drink and talk. Frequent bursts of laughter often filled the room. The elementary principal, the principal who shocked me early in the year by telling a blue joke (which I wish I could remember) in staff lounge, would show up each week, without his wife. He would sit off to the side, open his little black case with a bottle cradled in soft foam, pull out the bottle, pour a shot, and start drinking.
My coaching reflected my experience, or lack of experience. The basketball team won about half their games. The big memories were the night Dave, a pastor’s kid, got mad at half time and punched his way through a window resulting in a lot of cuts and the end of his season. The second was the day we pushed the league bullies to the brink of a loss. They had been winning by an average of thirty points, we lost that day by five or less. Felt like a win, a big win. And there was the player, a really big kid, who advanced two grades in reading during the season. His move from fourth to sixth grade reading level created talk in the staff room and I liked to think his finding a place on a team was part of his success.
Baseball was a blur. We played a ten-game season. Every home game was rained out. We had two pitchers and not much else. One was the tallest on the team, the other the shortest. I have no idea our record.
I asked if we could give it to you.
’76-’77 was a year of so many new things:
the first year I taught school,
the year Carter won the presidential election,
the year Rocky won the movies,
the year Connie got me a Pong video game for Christmas,
the year students showed me Pop Rocks, during class,
the year Roots debuted on television,
and the year the Trailblazers made their run to the NBA championship.
“Mr. Schmotzer,” It was Jess. A near perfect student, with blonde, almost white hair, always dressed a bit better than her classmates. Her parents owned the local grocery store.
“What’s up, Jess?”
“Our dog is going to be a daddy. We get to keep one of the puppies. I asked if we could give it to you. Mom and dad said yes. Do you want it?”
“Jess, that is so kind. Thank you so much. I will talk with your parents.”
I needed to talk to Connie and Jess’s parents. I did and all were supportive of the idea.
We soon got the “pick of the litter,” a beautiful liver and white Springer Spaniel. Hershey, our first dog, and my favorite dog ever.
Remember you’ll be my PE teacher in the fall.
As the school year neared an end, I got the kids to help clean the room prepping for summer.
On the last day, the clock moved slowly toward the final bell, kids squirmed at their desks and conversations turned to chaotic noise. With five minutes to go I gave a bit of a thanks and goodbye talk. When the bell finally rang the pack rushed the door with screams of “Bye,” and squeals of “Summer!”
A few students hung back to give me a personal goodbye. Soon everybody was gone except for Tommy, he appeared to have intentionally stalled to intentionally to be the last to leave. He threw his arms around me, giving me a hug, and started crying. His grip intensified and he went from crying to sobbing. Tears filled my eyes as I returned the hug, trying to find words of comfort.
After a minute, which seemed like much more, we took deep breaths and stepped apart. We walked to the door and said goodbye again. I promised I’d check in next year. He reminded me, “Remember you’ll be my PE teacher in the fall.” I watched him walk down the hall and we both waved as he turned the final corner.
I did not know it yet, but I was going to receive a call in July offering a job at a school (where I had interviewed and finished second the year before) closer to friends, family, and our former home in Salem.
By September we had moved, I was teaching at Brooks Elementary School, and I never saw Tommy again.
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What a lovely piece of writing. I was especially moved by your relationship with Tommy - my heart ached for him and you.
Thank you so much for that article Jim. It brought me back to my rookie year in Clallam Bay, WA. I had a very similar experience to yours along with my own "Tommy" that I will never forget.