1976

I recall 6th grade being a tumultuous time for me emotionally. It was an awkward time just being a kid, but also awkward as I began the process of moving from elementary to junior high school. Today, many places refer to grades 7th, 8th and sometimes 9th as middle school but for me, 7th and 8th grade will always be junior high. However, before I could enter 7th grade, I had to survive 6th grade and then I would be rewarded with not only another achievement in my albeit brief life, but I could also enjoy a fast approaching summer that was quickly looking like it was going to be far different than any I had ever experienced.
As the spring months of 1976 grew warmer, so did the level of restlessness by almost every 6th grader in Mr. William Rappold’s classroom. A seasoned educator, Mr. Rappold was tall, slender, had a slight pooch belly, and his hair was white, that he kept short, neat, and slicked back. His appearance, although in my eyes seemed normal, did give some kids fodder for making up cruel nicknames for him. The slacks he wore were always neatly pressed and his short-sleeved shirts had open collars. He had an affable personality, tried to be a strict disciplinarian, due to a strong sense of right and wrong. His expectations were high and he truly desired to help students learn and be educated; traits that could be both polarizing and refreshing depending on a student’s desire to learn or cause trouble. This class was evenly split on both accounts. Sadly, the troublemakers called him Pickle Head. I stuck with Mr. Rappold.
This class was a mixture of learners, achievers, quitters, troublemakers and socially promoted boys and girls who should have been in 8th or 9th grade but due to failing grades or discipline issues were stuck in the quagmire of the basics; reading, writing and arithmetic. No names will be mentioned but sooner rather than later, a half dozen or so of my classmates joined the ranks of others who were already in jail, working in the sugarcane fields, or as a deckhand on a boat somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Knowing this about some of my classmates, it was pretty easy to determine which ones were probably responsible for the vandalism that occurred most every weekend. On Monday mornings we would be met with broken windows or gooey eggs and shells stuck to those windows that had been left intact, as well as graffiti that had been spray painted haphazardly across the bricks outside the class that faced Church Street. The vandalism got so bad the school had to install chicken wire across the windows to minimize the broken glass. I have to admit, some in this group of delinquents were pretty creative. I don’t believe I saw such amusing human art like the homemade tattoos they performed on their arms and hands with a needle and the ink of a Bic pen. I guess when you know you are headed to the state prison in Angola, you might as well be prepared ahead of time with your own variety of prison ink. Nothing says bad ass like writing L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E across your knuckles with a needle, ink from a Bic pen and a terrible handwriting. It was not uncommon for the older bullies to be thrown out of the class for disrupting our lessons, spewing profanity at Mr. Rappold or preferring to put their head on their desk to sleep the day away. I remember one kid bought a shirt and had ‘Dream Weaver’ put on the back of it. Clearly he related to the Gary Wright song by the same title and as the song says, “I’ve just closed my eyes again, climbed aboard the dream weaver train,” this kid would close his eyes and climb on board that train most days and sleep the day away with his head on his desk.

Back to Mr. Rappold. In my opinion, he was a good teacher. I learned from him, admired his tenacity and I knew his only desire was to see kids learn, grow and move to the next grade. It’s a shame that for every 2 minutes he taught, one minute was spent disciplining. For the schools in Patterson at this time, this was an exception, definitely not the norm. Not only did I have to deal with the disruptions in a classroom that did not have air-conditioning, but making it home safely after school could sometimes be challenging.

At some point in life, we all faced bullies. During 6th grade I faced 8th grade bullies who lived in my neighborhood and liked to prey on skinny 6th graders like me during my walk home after school. I couldn’t wait for these boys to head to the new high school outside of town that was set to open in August. One less problem for me.

Another delinquent who we will call “Michael” once hit me in the eye one day while we were walking back to the classroom following lunch. Mr. Rappold was at the front of our single file line when Michael got out of line, stalled for a minute and as I approached, he cold-cocked me. Sure, I had a smart mouth, was a good student and with my naturally good looks, I was probably an easy target for such a bully, but to this day I don’t know why Michael decided to slug me in my eye. Well okay, I forgot to mention I was also a very humble kid as well. (haha) As soon as Michael hit me, my friend Tommy Vining came up to check on me and was quick to tell me how fast my eye was swelling and getting red. Thanks Dr. Tommy. Now would you go kick Michael’s butt for me? Luckily, my bully dropped out of school, moved or simply disappeared as I don’t remember seeing him once we started 7th grade.

Kenny Russo, who lived a couple of houses down from me and was a year younger, dealt with his own threats, fights and bullying from another kid who loved trouble more than learning. During his afternoon paper route delivering The Daily Review, Kenny was often taunted by a kid who would throw things at him, chase him or try to knock him off his bike. Kenny faced this boy on and off until the bully was kicked out of school and sent to an alternative school in Morgan City. Sadly, and tragically, in some type of freak accident, this kid was killed when a metal basketball goal he was climbing on broke loose and fell on him. This should never have happened and no one wants to celebrate such an event, no matter how good or bad a person may have behaved. However, fate handled that particular bully problem faced by Kenny Russo. Perhaps a new school, a different environment may have been what this boy needed and he would have turned out okay. My wish would have been for this poor kid to have drawn homemade tats on his arms and let that be the worst thing to happen to him rather than the actual tragedy that ended his short life.

The year I spent in 6th grade was not all unpleasant, just difficult. I fondly remember heading to the new Place Norman Shopping Center to buy stuff. I bought my first cassette, Boston’s self-titled debut album at that store. Jerry’s Sporting Goods was screen printing shirts and jerseys with numbers, letters and designs on shirts for just about every kid in Patterson. I’m quite sure this is where ‘Dream Weaver’ bought his shirt. The Pizza Hut was also nearby and a lot of Sunday nights a group of us would go there after church in an effort to prolong the weekend. Steps away from the Pizza Hut was Danny’s Fried Chicken, a succulent and scrumptious shrine to fried yard bird and all things associated with hot grease, breading, food fried until golden brown. Danny’s Fried Chicken is so delightful it deserves its own story.

Also in 6th grade, my mom insisted I should learn to play the piano, just as my two older sisters had done at a similar age. Both of my sisters played piano very well, learned easily so why couldn’t the youngest sibling do the same? Probably because people like Kenneth Barr, Kirk Brown, Randy Fontenot, Tommy Vining and others were always in my driveway, just outside my living room, bouncing a basketball against the bricks of my house saying” hurry up Steve, let’s play basketball.”

Mrs. Joiner, my piano teacher, taught lessons in her home in Bayou Vista. A wonderful and patient woman who put up with my lies about the number of minutes I had practiced the previous week, my inability to sit still, my slouchy hand positions and my unwillingness to be fascinated with any John W. Schaum course book that went beyond purple. Although I never learned to play the piano, Mrs. Joiner gave me two things I will never forget. My first pet, a kitten I named Checkers and the introduction to a lifelong friendship with a very special Lisa Laws.
It goes without saying the entire country was keyed up over the celebration that would soon take place. On July 4th our country would be celebrating its 200th year. This bicentennial year was particularly special to my little town as everyone was anticipating the town’s first-ever pirogue races on Bayou Teche as well as an evening fireworks show from the High School football field. To my knowledge, this was the first time I could remember there being a fireworks show in Patterson. The talk in town that summer was all things July 4th and the huge celebration. The pirogue races on the bayou, families having picnics watching from the park and the old shell pile across the bayou from town, teams competing in tug of war and the actual closing of parts of Main Street for a street dance, culminating with a fireworks show was enough to make any kid and probably most adults smile back in 1976.

On Catherine Street, near the back entrance to the high school there was a vacant lot. A few days before the 4th of July, a crew from the town of Patterson brought in a backhoe and some other equipment and dug a big pit right in the center of this lot. Next, using fire hoses connected to a nearby hydrant, the men filled this-newly dug hole with water and on the 4th, this square hole full of muddy water was where the tug of war competition took place. Lots of people of all ages were dragged through that sloppy pit but no one seemed to complain as this day was all about fun.

I remember cheering on the boaters as they paddled their pirogues on the Teche, watching as people tried to splash each other with their paddles, joined in the laughter when someone flipped over the flat-bottomed wooden crafts. As much fun as it was watching the races and seeing people young and old slop around in that muddy tug of war pit, the best part of the 4th of July was watching the fireworks while sitting on a rickety wooden bleacher as multicolored rockets produced a sparkling show over the football field. I didn’t care how big of a fireworks celebration was held in New York harbor by the Statue of Liberty that same night as I would not have wanted to be anywhere else except in the little town of Patterson, watching a fireworks show that made me proud to be a 12-year-old kid growing up in such an incredible place.
Something else about 1976 that sticks out in my memory. That year, a baseball movie about a group of lazy, foul mouthed, cocky, not very talented kids who played on a team sponsored by Chico’s Bail Bonds and were coached by a third rate former big league baseball player who chain smoked, drank beer at the games, and yelled a lot, came out and I had the pleasure of seeing it at the Lake Cinema in Morgan City, LA.

Not being that great of a baseball player around the same time myself, I could relate to this group of kids who were learning how to play ball, had to put up with humiliating defeats by opposing teams but in the end found a way to come together as a team, despite each being unique and from so many different walks of life.

No they didn’t win the big game at the end of the movie but they learned about winning respect from others and about self-respect, two traits missing from this group of boys in the beginning of the movie. The movie was also about getting through life in the same way, not sitting on the bench waiting for things to happen. I think the scene between Coach Morris Buttermaker and Timmy Lupus pretty much summed up what I needed to do about the same time back in my hometown as I was growing up trying to find my own place in the world.

Coach Morris Buttermaker to player Timmy Lupus
“Listen, Lupus, you didn’t come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya? Now get your ass out there and do the best you can.”
In 1976 and even now, I’m still out there trying to do the best I can.