A Squared Plus B Squared

***

Most of my specific memories of Bishop Amat High School are fond and tend to be comical, simply because fifty-one years is a long time to hang onto bad memories. If you look long and hard enough, you can find humor everywhere.

Take Mrs. Felps for instance, a paragon of etiquette and decorum, if ever there were one. She taught senior civics to about forty of us guys, some time after lunch when things could slow down to a crawl. As a seventeen-year-old dude, I did not know what to make of her. She dressed stylishly in outfits which showcased her feminine attributes, and was always supremely sure of herself. She was no Sacred Heart priest, that was certain. I could not help but think she was enjoying herself teaching forty male seniors, but what do I know? 

Rarely did the porcelain crack, but crack it did-once. Crack? Shatter would be more accurate. It took Steve Clark, he of the laconic approach to words, to accomplish the deed in the closing days of our senior year. Yes, Mrs Felps was attempting to maintain order within her classroom; sadly, she was no match for the mood of the moment. 

Steve was stretched out on the floor on his back, arms akimbo. As far as any of us should tell, he was snoozing; no one was paying too much attention to Steve. The volume in the class had notched its way past problematic, and seemed destined for sound-the-alarm-level, when Mrs F. finally decided she’d best rein us in.

Her full skirt swirled as she assumed center stage, directly in front of her desk. Never one to melt in the glare of the spotlight, she towered above us in her stilettos, commanding our attention. She would have gotten it-no one disputes that point-but Steve got it first by bellowing out over the cacophony, “I can see up her dress!”

The brazen nature of the breech of etiquette was so flagrant, as to shock us into silence for the length of time it took for Mrs. Felps to react. To our utter shock, she doubled over in laughter and the roof caved in. Wherever the dean of boys was at that moment, he cringed, fearing the worst.

John Hartnett & Sister Genevieve

Not all successful performances are so exuberant in nature; some take place without a sound, like the Shimmering Smile caper, conceived and put into practice by none other than John Hartnett. 

Back the truck up, you might say. I know John Hartnett. He was always conscientious, studious and respectful. He still is! Could you be thinking of someone else a bit more mischievous, like John D, perhaps? 

No, and that’s what makes it so epic, simply because it WAS John H. The venue was Mr. Hemenway’s classroom, you know, when he was a rookie, before he became Mr. HEMENWAY.

Why John wanted to torment Mr. Hemenway escapes me at the moment, if that is what orchestrating the class into inserting tin foil over our upper set of teeth, constitutes. Obviously, much planning had gone into the event because John had to have brought the foil from home, precut the pieces and distributed them to the class. 

Verified photo of John describing
exactly how big he wanted us to smile.

The first time Mr H left the classroom for any reason, John gave the signal and we all covered our choppers with the foil so that when he came back in, all of us were bent over our work like the industrious math students that Mr H. hoped we were.

Before Mr. H. had had time enough to savor what may have seemed a minor victory, John gave the fatal signal and on cue, in four-part-harmony if you will, we all slowly raised our heads and gave that nice Mr. Hemenway a bright, shimmering smile. You could have heard a nose hair break off and drop to the floor.

Mr. Hemenway

Mr. Hemenway left the classroom hurriedly, in pursuit of the aforementioned dean of boys, while forty pieces of foil were wadded up and disposed of, never to be seen again. When Mr. H. returned with the dean, forty heads were bent over their respective books again, seemingly baffled by the ridiculous accusations being sputtered out by the normally loquacious Mr. Hemenway.

None seemed more confused by the allegations than John Hartnett, as he double-checked the accuracy of an answer on his homework. Was the hypotenuse of the triangle in question, indeed, A squared plus B squared, thus proving the Pythagorean Theorem? See what I mean? How could anyone think such dastardly conduct could come from John H?

In any case, even the Pros from Dover start out as rookies and are going to get razzed early on in their careers. I am quite certain that John would assure one and all that it was nothing personal-just bid-niz. Or is there more to this story? John?

If you would like more details on this-and countless other scorching topics-I suggest you attend the reunion scheduled for this October 16th. Otherwise, you do realize what’s going to happen, don’t you? If you don’t attend? Yep, you got it.

We’re all going to sit around and gossip about YOU! And only YOU! See you there...

*** This photo of the author of Mark's Work Merritts comment for two reasons: Check out those sideburns, thus defying both school rules and Sunrize Market dress code. Secondly, I now better understand why I have worn a beard most of my life. Great success!