Whine and Cheese

From 6th grade to my senior year in high school, I was part of an afterschool program called SOAR (Students with the Optimal Ability to Reason). Essentially, it was a chance for the smart kids in school to take a class in an odd or innovative area outside their normal school work. It met on Monday afternoons for an hour at our high school and usually involved some outside work between SOAR meetings.



My mom found the original course schedule from the first year and gave it to me over the holidays. I was part of the program from the beginning, taking a school bus from my elementary school to the high school by myself every Monday. I was the only student from my elementary school to go that I remember. It made me feel very grown up to go to the high school. The only class I recall taking that year was typing.

aceofspace and I were both in the SOAR program, though our participation dwindled a bit when we were juniors and seniors in high school. By then, other activities like the school newspaper and the yearbook seemed to take precedence. Still, we took rocketry or something for the third or fourth time I think. My high school diploma has a seal on it from the SOAR program.

It was a neat program. In looking back, I wish I had taken other classes, like German. I swapped out of the Media class because it involved speaking in front of groups, which terrified me at the time. This particular Media class was taught by a man named Roger Marcum, a tall kind man with a thick black mustache, who intimidated the heck out of me for some reason. He tried to get me to stay, recognizing that I needed to get out of my shy shell I think, but I dodged him quickly. In the few classes I had with him there, he walked around with his fly open for a good ten minutes, the class snickering until he figured it out. He laughed about it, asking why no one had told him. The guy eventually became the chairman of the Kentucky Board of Education, so I know he knew his stuff.

I’m not even sure they still do this program, but it was a nice taste of college for me, getting to pick and choose different courses to take for fun. I’m surprised my mom still had this to be honest.

As I was digging around in photos last week looking for something to post, I came across this photo. At first I didn't think it was THAT old and then realized that it was from 1998, some ... wow... 16 years ago.



I was living in Overland Park, KS, working as a chemist for Uncle Sam in a food testing laboratory where I did metals and pesticides analysis on the stuff everyone loved to eat. It was a dreadfully boring job at times, but it kept me busy. Being in the closet and having no real interactions with people outside of work, I decided to stretch myself and volunteered at the local county library. I had a disastrous first day shelving books. An angry circulation desk witch, who mistakenly thought I was a criminal working off some community service, lambasted me for not having my "papers" with me. After I flipped her the metaphorical bird, I went to the volunteer coordinator who moved me to a volunteer-run used bookstore in one of the other branches.

The bookstore was operated by a diminutive, elderly spitfire named Opal and her henpecked hubby "Shorty." My job was to empty the garbage cans that were full of unsellable books, sort donated books, restock the shelves, and run the cash register. Usually around 7 PM to closing, I was on my own in the shop. I bought a ton of books from them over the two years or so I volunteered there. I helped out during the annual book sale, even taking off work to do that. And there were a couple of hottie regular customers who came into the bookstore that I often fantasized about.

Opal and I got along for the most part. She showed me the proper way to box the books so they'd stack without crushing. The problem is that there was no method to her madness and every time I boxed them, even if I followed her directions perfectly, I never got it right in her eyes. At first, I was fine with that, as I was sure my main job was to move things and babysit the shop at night.

My tenure as a volunteer came to a conclusion after a bi-monthly book sale in 1998. I was boxing up books after a long day with all the other volunteers. Opal, being ever the control freak, started shrieking from behind me "NO! NO! NO! LET ME SHOW YOU AGAIN!"

Being chastised like a naughty child in front of everyone embarrassed me. I remember my face feeling flush and my anger rose. I knew that no matter what I did, I'd never have it packed to her satisfaction.

"You know what," I growled, "I don't want to be shown how to box books again, now or ever, as I'll never do it right according to you! So you and the rest just box them up and I'll do what I'm good at, hauling the heavy things back to the storeroom!!"

And that's what happened. They packed the boxes and I dragged them away. Everyone was a bit stunned into silence by my outburst, but I suspect they'd all felt Opal's fury at one time or another. As I recall, I didn't speak to Opal before I left. I was angry. Opal was a library employee, I was a volunteer and I didn't like the condescension.

I went to the volunteer coordinator the following week and gave her two weeks notice. Honestly, I was getting tired of it anyway and the incident was the last push I needed. From what I remember, the coordinator did not seem surprised, so I believe she had been informed by other volunteers about what happened. Opal never apologized. Sweet as she could be, she was never wrong. Never. I said my goodbyes to her and her husband two weeks later on my last night in the bookshop. No fanfare or anything.

After finding this photo, I decided to look on the web to see whatever happened to her. Opal passed away back in 2004 at the age of 75. I imagine she passed away while sorting books, likely after she hurled a 3-inch 2001 tax law book into the trash can from across the room. She had great aim and rarely missed, her last bit of moxie used up doing something she enjoyed doing.

I'd not participated in the "Throwback Thursday" photo thing before. One of the reasons is one that became painful apparent last night -- there aren't many photos of me in the family albums. I got out what family pics I have and only have a handful of me solo, while pics of my twin and sister seem much more abundant. I believe it was because they were way more active in a sense. I was the quiet kid and drawing or watching TV were hardly photographic events.



So this is me in my little league baseball uniform. I was 12 and don't let the smile fool you. I hated playing for this team. I dreaded practice in the worst way and games usually had me riding the bench. The major reason for my disdain for the game was my coach Alan, who was a distant cousin. He would take every opportunity to belittle me for every screwed up play or strike out. During the game, I'd choke at batting, even though during practice I was capable of hitting the ball out of the park (and did so on two occasions).

I actually made the team based solely on my name. Because the twin was such a known stellar player, my cousin (who didn't know me at all) saw my last name on the roster of available players and picked me for his team because he thought I'd be just as good. The twin told me all of this years later. Alan had said to him at some point, "I thought I was getting somebody good. Man, was I fooled."

This was the last year I played baseball. I didn't pick up a bat again regularly until I started playing in gay softball league here a few years back.