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"Principals Are People, Too" Kenny Bottoms
It was January, 1973, and the small, two-bedroom mobile home Mom rented was different in many ways I was not accustomed to. The outside was a nauseating blend of blue and pale green with a rust stained white stripe running its length. At least that's the way it appeared in the dim light of the early morning and late afternoon. That's when my sister and I would be leaving for, or returning from school. Mom told us after the second day she couldn't keep making the 25-mile journey required to take us to different schools. She had taken us away from our new three- bedroom, brick home with its 10 wooded acres of almost endless places for an eleven year-old boy to play. She told us she wouldn't be living with our father anymore and that we were going with her. My sister and I didn't understand very well what was happening. I always thought it was just for a while and we would be going home in a week or so like once before.
The trailer was a small, cramped place with an ever-present odor that couldn't be identified. I would later learn that it came from the propane stove in the tiny kitchen. It was many miles farther from my school than the bus route covered. How would I get to school if mom didn't take me? Would I have to go to the big school in the city? It was a dark, intimidating building with huge walls. It looked more like a prison than a school, and worst of all, I didn't know a single person there. These questions would be answered the next morning when Mom told me that I would be riding home with Mr. Bolding, the new principal. I was mortified... panic-stricken!
"M-Mr. Bolding is taking me home?" I blurted.
"Yes, he is and there's nothing to worry about. He's a very nice man," She replied calmly, "If he hadn't volunteered to do this you'd be going to the city school." Throughout the entire day I had bizarre thoughts of how it would be, riding in the same car with the principal. I had been in the principal's office the year before when his predecessor, Mr. Stanley, held the position. My friend Harold and I had been caught riding the encyclopedia case (it was mounted on casters) between classrooms as if it were a horse, throwing chalked-up felt erasers at the girls as they franticly ran from our path. That visit with the principal was not pleasant. Principals are never pleasant. It's their job to be mean and nasty! What had my mother done? I had been betrayed.
At 3:30, as class ended in my final period, Mr. Bolding's tall frame filled the classroom doorway.
"You ready, Bottoms?" he asked. "Yes, sir," I mumbled sheepishly. I grabbed my books and followed him out the door. "That's it," he said, pointing to the super-slick, two-tone green, 1967 Ford pick-up in the corner of the parking lot. Sitting there sparkling with gleaming chrome and fat, white-letter tires, it looked like a centerfold from one of the motor head magazines in my locker. I was fascinated by hot rods; however, my closest contact with them had been at a drag strip my uncle had taken me to when I was very young. I climbed in and sat down on the warm, smooth vinyl, still in awe. From his pocket he pulled a matching green rabbit foot key chain and fired the engine. The seat transmitted the vibration from the big V-8 under the hood to my backside as the chrome dual exhaust rumbled a low pitch warning to the other vehicles in the lot to not even try. "Wow, this is cool," I squealed.
"Oh yeah, check this out," he said as he switched on the 8- track deck. The speakers behind the seat immediately began to belt out "Proud Mary", a big hit at the time, and I was in heaven. Seeing I was unable to contain my excitement that evening, my mother arranged for me to ride with Mr. Bolding for the rest of the school year. It was not far out of his way, and I was always ready and waiting to go. We soon moved from the old trailer to a nearby house, and it slowly became apparent we weren't going back to our true home with my Dad - I would miss him terribly.
As time passed, Mr. Bolding connected with me in ways that Dad was not able since he was gone much of the time and a bit short on patience. During these trips to school, he had all my attention and stressed the importance of staying in school and getting into sports. I remember him once saying that I was smart and capable of great
It was January, 1973, and the small, two-bedroom mobile home Mom rented was different in many ways I was not accustomed to. The outside was a nauseating blend of blue and pale green with a rust stained white stripe running its length. At least that's the way it appeared in the dim light of the early morning and late afternoon. That's when my sister and I would be leaving for, or returning from school. Mom told us after the second day she couldn't keep making the 25-mile journey required to take us to different schools. She had taken us away from our new three- bedroom, brick home with its 10 wooded acres of almost endless places for an eleven year-old boy to play. She told us she wouldn't be living with our father anymore and that we were going with her. My sister and I didn't understand very well what was happening. I always thought it was just for a while and we would be going home in a week or so like once before.
The trailer was a small, cramped place with an ever-present odor that couldn't be identified. I would later learn that it came from the propane stove in the tiny kitchen. It was many miles farther from my school than the bus route covered. How would I get to school if mom didn't take me? Would I have to go to the big school in the city? It was a dark, intimidating building with huge walls. It looked more like a prison than a school, and worst of all, I didn't know a single person there. These questions would be answered the next morning when Mom told me that I would be riding home with Mr. Bolding, the new principal. I was mortified... panic-stricken!
"M-Mr. Bolding is taking me home?" I blurted.
"Yes, he is and there's nothing to worry about. He's a very nice man," She replied calmly, "If he hadn't volunteered to do this you'd be going to the city school." Throughout the entire day I had bizarre thoughts of how it would be, riding in the same car with the principal. I had been in the principal's office the year before when his predecessor, Mr. Stanley, held the position. My friend Harold and I had been caught riding the encyclopedia case (it was mounted on casters) between classrooms as if it were a horse, throwing chalked-up felt erasers at the girls as they franticly ran from our path. That visit with the principal was not pleasant. Principals are never pleasant. It's their job to be mean and nasty! What had my mother done? I had been betrayed.
At 3:30, as class ended in my final period, Mr. Bolding's tall frame filled the classroom doorway.
"You ready, Bottoms?" he asked. "Yes, sir," I mumbled sheepishly. I grabbed my books and followed him out the door. "That's it," he said, pointing to the super-slick, two-tone green, 1967 Ford pick-up in the corner of the parking lot. Sitting there sparkling with gleaming chrome and fat, white-letter tires, it looked like a centerfold from one of the motor head magazines in my locker. I was fascinated by hot rods; however, my closest contact with them had been at a drag strip my uncle had taken me to when I was very young. I climbed in and sat down on the warm, smooth vinyl, still in awe. From his pocket he pulled a matching green rabbit foot key chain and fired the engine. The seat transmitted the vibration from the big V-8 under the hood to my backside as the chrome dual exhaust rumbled a low pitch warning to the other vehicles in the lot to not even try. "Wow, this is cool," I squealed.
"Oh yeah, check this out," he said as he switched on the 8- track deck. The speakers behind the seat immediately began to belt out "Proud Mary", a big hit at the time, and I was in heaven. Seeing I was unable to contain my excitement that evening, my mother arranged for me to ride with Mr. Bolding for the rest of the school year. It was not far out of his way, and I was always ready and waiting to go. We soon moved from the old trailer to a nearby house, and it slowly became apparent we weren't going back to our true home with my Dad - I would miss him terribly.
As time passed, Mr. Bolding connected with me in ways that Dad was not able since he was gone much of the time and a bit short on patience. During these trips to school, he had all my attention and stressed the importance of staying in school and getting into sports. I remember him once saying that I was smart and capable of great