Star Student

It's not only my husband I should warn you about.  There are also the children.  They've learned their lessons well, I'm sorry to say, and Rand in particular is my star student.

For years I stressed the importance of never giving up.  "No matter what the odds," I told them, "you must try."  At bedtime I'd brush aside their requests for wicked wolves or fairy godmothers.  "Don't you want to hear about Robert Bruce and the spider?" I'd suggest.  "Or David and Goliath?"  And I'd proceed, concluding with, "So remember, nothing's impossible to the willing heart."  On his nineteenth birthday Rand showed the value of this training.

The birthday table had been cleared of the dinner dishes.  The centerpiece with its two candles was now flanked by both birthday cakes‑-Jan's and Randy's.  Jan was twenty that day, and her father was teasing her.  He commiserated on her aging and waxed eloquent about the troubles of maturity.  He reached his peroration with, "You'll never get all twenty-one candles out, Jan, not in one breath.  Too old, too old.  It's downhill all the way from here; it doesn't even pay to make wishes."

With mature disdain Jan filled her lungs.  Out went twenty-one candles.  "You can't top that!" she crowed to Randy, whose turn was next.

"Of course he can't," agreed Bill.  "He can't even equal it‑-he has less candles."

Concentrating on the Philistines, or maybe on spiders, Rand took a deep breath.  His cake too went dark.  Then, mouth still pursed, he leaned across the table and puffed out the centerpiece as well.

We were amused and delighted, but not surprised.  We've seen Randy in action before, and we're braced for the bizarre.  But this is an advantage not shared by everyone; the unwary are legion.  Consider the unfortunate substitute in our school who met Randy just once‑-briefly.

It was a June day, and school had only another week to run.  But for Randy, then sixteen, it was the last day; he was leaving the following morning for Europe.  When he entered his assigned English class and saw his regular teacher was absent, he had no reason to stay.  Once the attendance was taken, he could've sneaked out.  But not Randy: he'd been taught the value of truth.  Thus he raised his hand, question ready.

"Can me and Hugo stay here this period?" he demanded.  (Hugo was his best friend and also assigned to that honor class.)

The substitute was hesitant.  The question itself argued a break in school routine.  This the substitute didn't need.  Worse yet, Rand's deliberate abuse of grammar indicated a trouble maker.  This she needed even less.

"Well," she began tentatively.

"Oh, please, lady," Rand continued.  "We won't make no trouble."

All doubt vanished and the substitute was kind but firm.  "I'm sorry, I'm afraid not."

Rand clung to his childhood lessons.  "But the regular teacher lets us stay," he insisted.  "Please, lady?"

The substitute's smile approached grimness.  "Definitely not," she responded in her most authoritative tone.  "You and your friend will have to leave."

Slowly, and with much seeming reluctance, Randy and Hugo dragged themselves through the door.  Its soft click was drowned in a tide of laughter and explanation.  By the time the informed substitute reached the hallway, both boys had vanished.

At home Randy protested his innocence of wrong doing.  "I had to obey the teacher, mom."

"But you lied to her," I objected.

"No I didn't.  I told her the exact truth.  It's as you always told us‑-the truth shall make you free."

Yes, he's learned his lessons well.  And now that it's too late, so have I.