Rebuke the Wind

By Malcolm L. Stauffer and Marcia J. Stauffer-Lindahl

A carefree recent high school graduate receives the devastating news that his kidneys are in chronic failure. Unfortunately, in the 1960s, the new life-saving kidney dialysis was not available to all who needed it. Would the Selection Committee choose him to be the fortunate one to receive the final spot on the dialysis machine rotation until a donor kidney could be found? Would his friendships survive this tumultuous time? Would his faith?
Journey along with Paul and his family, his friends, and his hospital personnel as they fight together to save Paul's life. See the scientific community work tirelessly to perfect the dialysis process that gives hope to victims such as Paul. Understand the struggles that even his doctors and nurses underwent on his behalf. Reminisce the rich history of Paul's family as his town of Pekin is recounted from its earliest beginnings, through the era of Lincoln, and into the early twentieth century. Enjoy the atmosphere of the 1960s through the eyes of a teenager.
Originally penned in the 1980s, the author refused to finish this novel, possibly because the story was too closely tied to his own experiences, and he did not know how his story would end. Several years after his death in 2008, his widow collected all the chapters she could find and compiled this book. Since so much of the author's experience was also her own, who better than she to write the remaining chapters?
Anyone who calls Central Illinois home will cherish its personally recounted history in Rebuke the Wind. Anyone interested in medicine will find the story behind the dialysis machine and its early days fascinating. Anyone who has ever had to undergo chronic illness will feel Paul's poignant struggles. Anyone who is feeling overwhelmed will be reminded that He rebuked the wind then and can still do it today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667854212

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Rebuke the Wind

© 2022, Malcolm L. Stauffer & Marcia J. Stauffer-Lindahl

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66785-420-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66785-421-2

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

A low humming sound like a finely tuned, expensive car engine was the first thing he became cognizant of. He was also dimly aware of light—slightly more intense from his left side than from anywhere else around him—and of a presence in the room, an unfamiliar, definitely feminine presence. The humming sound was accompanied by gurgling noises and a dull, intermittent squeaking every few seconds. Just then it occurred to him how he knew that the presence in the room was feminine and unfamiliar: it was the scent of perfume saturating the air. It hung in the room as if it possessed an entity of its own.

Pain . . . there was certainly pain, though not severe, in his right arm mostly, along with the sensation of an accentuated pulsing in that arm, as if the veins were being constricted and expanded involuntarily. The blood coursing through those veins seemed to be racing at breakneck speed.

Paul, responding to all these sensations, realized that in order to answer the questions these sensory impressions brought to his mind—namely: where was he? who was she? (the presence), what was responsible for the eerie noises?—all he needed to do was simply open his eyes; it was so easy to do, but something prevented him from doing it. He decided that he must remember, somehow piece things together to gain a perspective before attempting to survey his surroundings.

He knew who he was: Paul Michaels. That’s a start at least, he thought. It was then he decided not to move or give any indication to the presence in the room that he was conscious (if indeed he truly was conscious); he needed time—time to sort things out. Lying in bed with his eyes closed and his right arm immobilized, he would consider . . .

Right arm immobilized! His apprehension began to grow like a snowball rolling down an embankment; he couldn’t bring it to a halt. All right, he said to himself, try to ignore the environment: the humming, the squeaking, the wind rattling against the window, everything; and just remember . . . remember. Mustn’t become despondent.

His mind raced back to the first thing he could remember: Christmas—last Christmas. Snow anointing the earth; so thick the air was with it that he could barely see to the corner as he peered out his upper-story window. It evidently had been snowing straight through as he had hoped that it would that night, Christmas Eve. 

That beautiful night he and his family had stayed up past midnight singing, laughing, drinking elderberry wine and opening one present each, leaving the rest for Christmas morning as was their tradition. At the stroke of midnight, they had stood in the wide-open door listening to church bells announce the Savior’s birth, allowing the wind to sweep into the house and pelt their faces with the first soft snow of the season, seemingly oblivious to the cold and to the dampening floor. 

Paul, tall and lanky, stood between the two women, his arms around their shoulders, clutching them close to his sides and looking up at the few stars still visible in the northern sky. He remembered kissing them good night and ascending the stairs to his room feeling all warm inside, partly because of the elderberry wine, but mostly due to the good feeling the season generated deep within his soul. 

Still gazing out the window into the bright Christmas morning sunshine, he realized that he was still fully dressed, evidently having fallen into bed immediately upon entering his room late last night. 

The snow, falling in larger and more plentiful flakes, had accumulated to at least a foot, he figured, since it was almost up to the top step. He had a lot of work ahead of him. He decided to just shave, brush his teeth and comb his hair, leaving his shower for later since he would work up quite a sweat shoveling. 

As he made his way down the stairs, he noticed his Aunt Melanie sitting in her favorite living room chair, contemplating the tree or perhaps the presents. 

Hi, Paul. Good morning. Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday, etcetera, she said smiling. 

Merry Christmas, Mel, he replied, wincing as he descended the last stair. 

That leg is going to bother you for some time, I’m afraid, Honey. 

I know, but it sure feels good to have the cast off—like being taken out of leg irons.

Christmas music played on the stereo. Lois had it tuned to WPEK, and it was playing Christmas music for thirty-six continuous hours—from noon on Christmas Eve straight through until midnight Christmas Day. Brenda Lee’s Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree was echoing throughout the house. Hardly a traditional Christmas song, is it? said Melanie. 

Well, I think it’s becoming a tradition. Have they played ‘Christmas in Kilarney’ yet? 

Not since I’ve been up. Hungry? 

Paul looked toward the kitchen as he replied off-handedly, Of course. She’s up? 

Can’t you tell from those delicious aromas filling the house? She’s been cooking since around six, Melanie replied as she arose from her chair, grabbed Paul’s arm, and motioned toward the kitchen. Let’s go see if we can stir her up a little. 

As they sauntered into the kitchen, arm in arm, they spied Lois putting the finishing touches on one of the two cakes resting on the long counter opposite the stove. One cake, white with blue and gold trimmings, had HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS written on it while the other one, a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, adorned with eighteen candles, had letters on it which spelled out HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL. This had been the household custom ever since Lois and Melanie had moved in with Paul to take care of him after the tragic accident which had claimed the lives of his parents. 

Lois was Paul’s grandmother, but she seemed much too young to Paul to be his mother’s mother. He regarded her more as an aunt and Melanie as an older sister. Lois was not only young-looking, but she acted young and full of life, living each moment to the fullest. Melanie, on the other hand, seemed older than her years and was given to periods of occasional depression. 

These two women had comprised Paul’s immediate family for the last six years of his life, moving in with him, caring for him, consoling him at the time of his loss. 

Instinctively, Lois seemed to know just what to do—which things could be changed, which should be left alone. Most importantly, she knew what should be said or left unsaid during the first traumatic months of her family’s grief. Myriads of details had to be attended to, and she and Melanie busied themselves with these tasks during this most difficult time. Lois had been made executrix and Paul’s legal guardian according to the provisions of George and Eunice’s wills in the event of their mutual demise. 

Melanie went directly to the stove and pulled open the oven door while Paul swiftly ran his forefinger around the bottom of the chocolate cake and, just as quickly, plunged his finger into his mouth, savoring the rich creamy frosting. 

Stop! Both of you! 

I’m not doing anything, Melanie replied as she deftly closed the oven door and straightened up. 

Me either, rejoined Paul. 

Lois good-humoredly regarded the two of them, standing there glancing mischievously back and forth at each other and at Lois. Well, this is not going to be like last year. Everything I served had either finger marks on it or big chunks taken out of the sides. I was never so embarrassed in all my life. 

Me either, said Paul through a wide grin. 

You two— 

Shhhhh. Melanie put a petite finger to her lips. Lois flashed her a look that could have boiled water. 

It’s her favorite, said Paul, nodding toward the living room from where the music was coming. ’Scarlet Ribbons.’ 

Oh, said Lois. In a lowered tone she added, Are you ready for breakfast, Paul? Melanie and I have already eaten. 

Well, since it’s still snowing I might as well. The shoveling can wait ‘til later. Don’t need much, though, since we’ll be eating dinner at one.

Nonsense. I’ve got the sausage already in the skillet and the eggs ready to go. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you out there. The snow is really beginning to pile up. But, O Lord, is it ever so beautiful. 

Paul wolfed down a superb breakfast of three eggs, four sausage patties, hash brown potatoes, two pieces of toast covered with strawberry preserves and two glasses of milk while Lois kept his cup filled with steaming hot black coffee. The youth had learned to drink black coffee at the age of twelve when he had a morning paper route downtown. 

At five a.m., the boy would walk into White’s Restaurant on Court Street, the main street of town, and order black coffee to sip at, mainly to keep warm on those cold Midwestern mornings while waiting for his bundle of papers to be dropped off. The first morning he was going to order hot chocolate, but noticing the group of truck drivers seated along the counter hunched over their coffees and looking at him, he quickly ordered the black stuff and, after a while, grew to like it. 

Get enough, Paul? queried Lois as she started to peel some potatoes at the sink.

Messing up the lad’s blonde wavy hair with her fingers, Melanie chirped in, If he eats any more, he’ll pop like a balloon. 

I guess I’d better get at that shoveling now, he said as he continued to sit at the table watching the wind blow the snow around in little eddies along the sidewalk. 

It’s still snowing, Paul. Do you think it’ll do any good? 

Sure, at least they’ll be able to get up the driveway, Mel. 

And don’t forget— 

I know. I know. Don’t forget the rock salt. 

It was colder than the youth thought it would be. The wind whipped against his face and blew a pile of snow off a low-hanging tree branch onto the top of his head and down his back. After trying to get as much of it out from under his shirt as he could, he pulled the hood of his coat up over his head and tied the strings under his chin, looking somewhat like an elongated Eskimo. 

If it had not been for the double driveway, the shoveling wouldn’t have taken long at all; but, as it was, the task took Paul almost two hours. He was walking toward the garage to stow the shovel when he noticed the snowplow had just come around the corner and was in the process of depositing a huge pile of snow at the end of the driveway. As he shrugged his shoulders and began walking back toward the end of the drive, he thought he noticed a broad smile on the hunched-over figure steering the plow. Now there’s a man who enjoys his work, thought Paul. 

"I play my best for you, pa rum pum pum pum,

I was a poor boy, too, pa rum pum pum pum."

The Christmas music drifted up the stairs to his room. The adolescent pondered the fact of his eighteenth birthday. He had never really believed that he was going to live as long as he had since that fateful day of the accident (just after his twelfth birthday), which, in spite of his concentrated efforts, was gradually beginning to dim in his memory. He had fervently held the conviction that he would be the next to die. The fact of his approaching death had loomed before him like an immense mountain—insurmountable, yet somehow also unattainable and elusive. During his early teens he had lived recklessly as though inviting the mountain to fall on him so he could join his family. Now, six long years later, here he still was: eighteen, alive, and well. I may live to be a hundred, he thought to himself. He became intrigued by this completely new thought to him. Lying in bed, slowly rotating his basketball between his large smooth hands, he played with it in his mind—as if it, too, were a ball, turning it over and over. I can do anything I want—his mind was racing now—I could be a nuclear physicist or an astronaut or both. Why not? I could go to California and race at Riverside like Steve McQueen. I could—

Paul, are you ready yet? They’ll probably be here any minute, Lois called up from the foot of the stairs. He leaped out of bed and realized instantly his mistake; the doctor had told him no sudden movements or jumping. A sharp jab of pain shot through his right leg. At the beginning of basketball season, he had severely injured his right Achilles tendon, and the leg had been put in a cast stretching from his toes to just below the knee. The young man stood still for a few seconds and then slowly, cautiously took a step and another and another. Whew! Okay, I guess, he murmured out loud to himself. Got to remember to take it easy and relax. 

Paul’s grandfather and grandmother arrived exactly at noon. Punctuality was a guiding principle in his grandfather’s life, and he was rarely, if ever, late to anything. Grandpa Michaels was a short roly-poly man in his late sixties with wavy gray hair swept back along the sides of his head.

His wife Gladys was even shorter, around five feet, with blue-green eyes that always had tears in them whenever she first spied Paul, her only grandson. She was as thin and frail looking as her husband, Henry, was rotund and hearty. 

Christmas dinner was rich and sumptuous as always. There was a twenty-five-pound turkey for the five of them which meant plenty of leftovers for days to come. Paul’s plate was heaped with turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes, pumpkin bread, and green-bean casserole. He devoured his food like a starving man, much to the amusement of his grandfather. 

His grandfather glancing at Lois, asked, How does he eat like that and stay so thin? If I ate half that amount each day, I might quite possibly get fat. 

Everyone chuckled, and Lois answered through a smile, I really don’t know; he must still be growing. You should have seen what he put away for breakfast. 

Look at him. Just keeps shoveling it in while we’re all catching our breath. 

Paul, with his mouth full of delicious Christmas dinner looked at his grandfather’s face as he was loosening his belt, and that lovable, jocund man just seemed to melt away as did everyone else at the table, their features eerily running down their shrinking frames.

CHAPTER TWO

Paul . . . Paul, can you hear me? I thought he said something.

Oh, he does at times, you know. I think he may be coming around, although it may be days yet.

Lois swept her nimble fingers across the young man’s forehead, brushing his hair into place. I didn’t know he could grow one, she mumbled quietly.

Pardon?

Oh, I just have never seen him with a beard before. He looks so different . . . it’s kind of blonde like his hair.

Paul could barely hear the conversation around him, although he recognized immediately his grandmother’s voice. It was as if he were in a dense fog; a fog that not only clouded his vision but also seemed to affect all of his other senses. His grandmother’s voice he knew, but that other voice must belong to the Presence. Was it the same presence or another? No, it was the same; his ability to smell seemed the keenest of his diminished senses, for he definitely recognized the perfume: it was the same as before. He wondered how much time had elapsed since he was last conscious—minutes, hours, days? He had no way of knowing. He wondered if this was really a conscious state or semi-conscious or was it even reality at all? Christmas had seemed more real to him. Maybe this was just a nightmare from which he would awaken. The fog grew more and more dense, and he felt as if he were floating.

Paul . . . Paul! C’mon man, just one . . . I’ll pay ya back tomorrow. I’m dyin’. Gonna have a nicotine fit if I don’t get one.

Look, Ratsy, you owe me at least a pack already.

I’ll give you a whole pack tomorrow . . . honest.

Paul opened his history book and took a pack of Winstons out of the middle of it. A history book was a great hiding place for cigarettes. A pimply-faced, red-haired kid had shown him how to cut out the middle of a large book with a pocketknife, and Paul figured his history book would best suit this purpose since the teacher only tested his students on his lectures. The two youths stood on the corner, waiting to meet up with two of their friends with whom they would then trudge to school.

There they stood: Joseph Francis Larosche and Paul Marion Michaels, half of an inseparable foursome, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, sometimes bouncing up and down on their toes, trying any kind of movement to keep warm. Joe, running his fingers through his straight black hair, exhaled his smoke and thanked Paul for seeing him through yet another crisis. Joe made no effort to hide from the world the fact that he smoked while Paul cuffed his cigarette in his palm so that no one could tell he was smoking, since it was so cold that their normal breath could not be distinguished from the smoke.

Continuing to prance up and down, Joe complained bitterly that he was going to wait exactly two more minutes and then start walking toward school. To heck with those guys. It’s too cold for this kinda crap. He began to walk off and then, noticing that Paul wasn’t following, turned toward Paul and growled, Aren’t you coming? Receiving no response from Paul, he grudgingly walked back to the corner, puffing away on the cigarette he had bummed off the taller youth.

Here they come now, reported Paul.

As the long-awaited duo approached, the heavy, red-haired boy shouted, Hey, Michaels, Ratsy, thanks for waiting, Guys. It was all Goofus’ fault that we’re late. His mother made him clean his plate—just like a dog, he licked the platter clean. The freckle-faced boy could hardly get the phrase out of his mouth for all the laughter that shook his big belly as if it were a pot of popcorn being shaken on a stove.

Hardee har har har; very funny, Wilkens, said Phil sarcastically. Phil Collier was the fourth member of the fearsome foursome as they liked to call themselves. With a light complexion and sandy hair, Phil was about five feet eight inches tall (a little taller than Joe) and slight of frame. His father was the Pastor of the small Baptist church that Paul’s family attended. It was in deference to him that the other three boys curtailed their use of expletives while walking to and from school.

It was only about eight blocks from their point of rendezvous on Washington Street to the high school, their destination, but they allowed plenty of time for goofing off, smoking, and horseplay which took their minds off the daily morning dread of their pre-ordained fate: the 8:15 warning bell signaling the start of another day of drudgery and toil. The fearsome foursome on this day looked like stair steps trudging down the sidewalk, smoking and all hunched over from the cold. Black-haired, wiry Joe, the shortest of the group and the best looking, walked nearest the street; next was Phil, the preacher’s boy; and sandwiched between Phil and Paul was the redhead, almost as tall as Paul but about twice as wide, Ray Wilkens. They all wore the same style jackets—their high school jackets—heavy red coats with yellowish sleeves and a dragon (their school emblem) on the back.

The largest building of the high school toward which the foursome was trudging, referred to by its denizens as the Old Building, looked like any other Midwestern school constructed shortly after the turn of the century—a large, three-storied, yellowish-brick building with lots of windows and arched entrances with rectangular glass panes both in and above the doors. At the other end of the large block upon which the school sat, was another old building which looked as though it was probably constructed during the same decade, although it consisted of a red brick exterior with practically no windows except around the top of the structure; it housed the gymnasium and the band’s quarters as well as a few classrooms. Between these two structures, jutting out almost all the way to the edge of Ninth Street—the eastern border of the school property—sat the English Building, a modern steel and glass edifice, also three stories tall, each level separated by red steel squares which were the same width as the building’s large windows.

Connecting these bastions of secondary education, running along their western edges, was the Leeway: a long, spacious passageway, well-illuminated by sunlight as well as some artificial light which was useful on overcast days but barely visible when the sun was shining. Stretching almost from end to end of the Leeway, along the western wall, was a ledge about fifteen inches high covered with the same tile that adorned the wall above it. This ledge, along with the strategic location of the elongated passageway, made the Leeway the social center of the students during the three lunch hours and before and after school. Another factor which contributed to the social atmosphere of the Leeway was the placement of one of the two Dragon’s Dens at the northern end: these lairs, at which the ravenous students dove during free times, dispensed various and assorted candies and snacks and sometimes supplanted the good nutritious food available at the school cafeteria.

Ratsy, you better ditch that cig. We’re on school property, whispered Ray, looking around nervously.

Relax, Red. Don’t be a nervous Nellie. Joe continued smoking right up to the Broadway Street entrance, not discarding the cigarette stub until he reached the top layer of steps, only then casually flipping it over into the bushes.

Just inside the Old Building Paul separated from his three friends and began to make his way to his locker located on the bottom floor of the English Building, all the while thinking about Joe and what a strange character he was. Good-looking, intelligent, suave when he wanted to be, he could turn the charm on and off like a spigot—almost an Eddie Haskel type. Eddie Haskel could never fool Ward and June Cleaver, but Joe could have. He could charm any adult when he had a mind to, and they were never aware of the danger that lurked behind that infectious grin which revealed sparkling white even teeth.

Paul considered Joe the smartest of their close-knit group, but Phil outshone them all in the grades and vocabulary departments. Good ol’ Ratsy, Paul said to himself and then laughed out loud, thinking of why Joe had that nickname. In his junior high days, he would sneak up on an unsuspecting victim and sink his teeth deep into his prey’s shoulder leaving teeth marks, sometimes even drawing blood with those sharp white choppers. Some kids even seriously thought he might be a vampire and avoided him like the plague. He was the most daring of their group and a good fighter; never once did he fight fair, but he always won.

After depositing some books in his locker and retrieving others, Paul plodded up the three flights of stairs, amid numerous classmates flooding around and flowing with him, toward his geometry class. Suddenly, without warning, just as he reached the top of the third flight, he felt his loose-leaf binder and three textbooks which he had cradled with his left hand and wrist against his hip, being pulled out of his loose grip. As he turned his head he beheld—much to his dismay—his binder and books tumbling down the stairs, homework paper and notes spilling out and floating to rest on various steps. He had fallen prey to one of the oldest pranks at the high school; some prince of a guy climbing the stairs behind him had evidently grabbed hold of the edge of his binder and with just a flick of his wrist, had caused all of the spillage.

Paul let out with an epithet against the offender as the culprit slid by with a satisfied smirk on his face and disappeared into the stream of students flowing around the corner and down the hall. He had to fight his way down the stairs against the remaining trickle of students racing to first-hour class in hopes of beating the last bell. Some were kind enough to pick up a book or grab at a sheet of paper and hand it to him; most either ignored them or stepped on them, some on purpose. At the landing halfway down to the second floor, a girl he knew from church was graciously picking up the remainder of the spillage.

Here you go, Paul, she said as she handed him the crumpled and soiled papers. I think that’s all of them. The slender girl blinked enormous brown eyes at him and quickly flashed a smile.

Thanks, Valerie. We might still make it if we hurry, he blurted, grabbing the papers and turning to bound up the steps just as the bell rang.

No hurry now, she purred.

Glancing around at the empty stairwell, he replied, No, I guess not. Oh well, just one more tardy to add to my collection. Detention hall, here I come.

Paul considered himself a hard-luck case as far as his schedule was concerned this semester. Students were allowed three minutes between classes, and his classes seemed as though they were miles apart; first hour was on the third floor English Building, second hour class was held on the top story of the Old Building, and third hour was Driver’s Education at the other end of the campus in the Gym Building. A lot of climbing up and down stairs in the mornings and long distances to tread with only three minutes allocated between classes, resulted in myriads of tardy slips and much time spent in detention after school.

He deposited Valerie in front of her class and slowly ambled down the hall towards Geometry. Bracing himself for a sarcastic remark from his geometry teacher, the lean teenager strolled into class wearing a grin, prepared to upstage Mr. Campbell’s assault. Barely inside the door and before he could spot Mr. Campbell, a paper airplane hit the side of his head; and upon hearing the guffaws and loud uninhibited laughter, he realized that neither Mr. Campbell nor any other source of authority was present in the room, and he quickly plopped down in his seat.

You’re in luck this time, Michaels, came a voice from the back of the room.

Haven’t you heard? He likes detention . . . got a crush on Miss Hardesty, said another, eliciting a round of giggles and snickers throughout the classroom.

Paul good-naturedly smiled and nodded his head up and down in response to the kidding. He had learned long ago that the best way to take the wind out of these guys’ sails was to join in with them and poke fun right along with them at himself; it worked, for the general conversation quickly turned to another subject and then diffused into an increasingly louder and louder roar throughout the class. Just then the door opened, and in walked Mr. Campbell wearing a frown. 

Head down and face red, he strode toward his desk without so much as a glance at the class. The heavy bespectacled man picked up a piece of chalk and began to write the assignment for the day on the blackboard; it was an unusually long one. Without a word he abruptly left the room, and the class, without so much as a moan, began to solve geometry problems with much fervor. If someone had entered the room unexpectedly at that interval, they would have supposed the class was comprised of serious scholars or well-disciplined students. Neither was the case. They were afraid of much more serious retribution than merely a long assignment, for Mr. Campbell’s temper was unparalleled throughout the high school.

The large man had already been called on the carpet by the administration for grabbing a junior boy by the arm and flinging him against the wall, causing some minor injuries. This had precipitated the parental action of a threatened lawsuit against the school and resulted in Mr. Campbell’s being placed on probationary status. The class actually liked Mr. Campbell and realized that he was trying to control himself by leaving the room, allowing himself a cooling-off period. He would soon be back, and he expected the class to be hard at work and quiet. He seemed to be on an emotional roller coaster ranging at times from joviality to loud, vehement tirades, but he always expressed genuine concern for each student.

Paul finished the assignment and stared out the window, watching the band form up outside for marching practice. He applied himself to geometry about as much as he applied himself to most subjects, drifting along somewhere between a B and a C—memorizing enough theorems, postulates, and axioms to get by, and doing as little homework as possible. The subdued instructor returned just before the bell rang and asked the students to turn in their assignments on the way out.

After fourth hour Paul found Phil in the Leeway as usual, waiting to walk to the cafeteria with him. They were in no hurry as they were some distance from the locale of their imminent meal and so took time to deposit their books in their respective lockers and meander slowly towards their destination. Hungry as they were, they knew from experience that if they had run all the way directly from their classes, they would invariably end up at the end of one of two extremely long lines of other ravenous students awaiting their lunches too, and it would not have expedited matters at all.

By the time the two boys arrived at the caf, the lines had dwindled down to only about a dozen youths anxiously anticipating their forthcoming meals. Paul liked eating with Phil since he always had room on his try for a few extra dishes which Paul would place there each day, there not being enough room on his own tray. He always ate double portions of nearly everything, and Phil obliged him the temporary use of his tray to help transport the extra quantity of victuals to their table.

After paying for his food and half the food on Phil’s tray, Paul Michaels stood there looking for a niche at one of the long tables for him and Phil to slip into, which was difficult since the weather had turned nasty about mid-morning, forcing some of the kids who usually ate over at the Dairy Queen or Herbigs to stay inside. Many of those misplaced diners were in the cafeteria causing the usually manageable crowd to swell, leaving very few seats available. Finally, he spotted, at the far end of the large room, about five empty chairs near Bobby Boynton and nodded to Phil towards the spot.

As the boys approached the end of the table near the back wall, they noticed that Boynton seemed to be intermittently pounding the table and hitting his spoon. Pulling up a chair to sit down, Phil said, Hey, Bobby, what’s up?

Bobby, cackling like a deranged hyena, said, Look up, Collier, and you’ll see.

Both Phil and Paul looked up at the twelve-foot-high ceiling at the same time, but Phil, much to his amazement, as he looked up was hit directly in the eye by a falling green pea. Everyone up and down the long table roared with laughter; and Bobby Boynton was in near hysterics, doubled over with one arm across his knees and the other pounding the table. The laughter drew the attention of more kids sitting at nearby tables, most of them laughing and pointing at the ceiling. What the outlandish Boynton had been doing was placing green peas from one of his side dishes one by one onto the end of his spoon, and by hitting the bowl of the utensil forcefully with his fist he was catapulting the small round vegetables against the high ceiling causing them to adhere there temporarily. Dozens of little green peas were stuck to the ceiling, Phil and Paul now noticed, and were falling sporadically to the table which was littered with several of them.

Right in the eye, right in the eye, Boynton kept repeating over and over. "I couldn’t have planned it