Ready. Begin!

It’s funny how your perspective changes with time. Some of the former teachers I had that seemed so strict and mean turned out to be the ones who taught me the most.

However, when I was in school I just couldn’t see it. I suppose it’s like that being too close to the forest to see the trees thing. It takes perspective.

In retrospect I regret not being a better student. My older brothers were exemplary students. They were brilliant, popular and talented. Unknowingly they set the bar so high that I didn’t even try.

Plus, I thought my job was to make my teachers earn their money.

Dr. McNeil was one of those teachers. The only reason I took her typing class was because I knew it would be full of pretty girls.

The class I was in began right after lunch period and I always fought to stay awake. So did everyone else.

Little by little I learned to type without looking at the keyboard. After several weeks, we were typing sentences. Then paragraphs and ultimately, whole pages.

One girl in the classroom always killed it on the timed events. Sixty plus words a minute, while I was struggling to bang out forty. But I didn’t care. I was happy with a C or D. I was the tortoise. She was the hare.

However, there were a few kids who did care about her ruining the curve. One guy in particular cared a lot.

One day before most of the kids filed into the room he went over to her typewriter and removed the little thing on the left side of the carriage housing that stopped it when it reached the right margin and had to be shoved back to the left so you could begin a new line.

Only I and a couple others saw what he did that day.

Wouldn’t you know it; as soon as class began Dr. McNeil announced that we were going to have a pop test. A timed event.

“Students load your typewriters.”

We all took out a sheet of paper and inserted it into our equipment.

Stoically, she stood at the head of the classroom and announced, “Ready. Begin!”

Fingers began to fly. Keys were bouncing up and down and the race was on.

Miss Curve Setter with her fast little fingers was the first by a long shot to reach her right margin.

“DING!”, went her margin bell. Those of us who were in the know, glanced over in her direction and watched as she reached up with her right hand to fling the carriage leftward so she could begin a new line.

“Ziiiiiing!”

Her carriage flew left, but it did not stop. It flew off her typewriter out into the air and crashed into the wall before Newton’s law of gravity kicked in and sucked it to the floor.

The sudden sound of silence was deafening. It was followed by gasps. Finally, laughter.

But for some of us it didn’t happen in that order.

Dr. McNeil walked over to Miss Fastfingers’ desk to inspect her typewriter and the damage. Immediately, she figured out what had happened.

Slowly she turned towards the rest of us and asked, “Who did this? I want to know this instant.”

Heads swiveled on scrawny little necks looking for the culprit to volunteer.

Well, most heads swiveled. The ones that knew starred straight ahead. We knew. Oh how we wished we didn’t know.

Dr. McNeil was pretty astute. She had noticed those of us who hadn’t looked around the classroom.

One by one she asked we of the Stiff-Neck Tribe, “Did you tamper with her typewriter?”

None of us seemed to know a thing about it. It was a great mystery yet to be solved.

The atmosphere in that room was very cold for the remainder of the class period, and it remained cool for days afterward.

I had the uneasy feeling she believed I had tampered with the equipment that day. I suppose it was guilt for all the other things I had been known to do over the years that made me feel that way. Unrequited karma, so to speak. If there is such a thing.

Fast forward to the end of my senior year. Dr. McNeil is our class sponsor and is in charge of organizing everything concerning our graduation ceremony.

The class of 1970 was assembled in the auditorium that warm spring day to receive instructions on marching in, seating arrangements and so forth.

Dr. McNeil instructed us to remain quiet until she had placed us all in the proper rows and seats.

She called the valedictorian and salutatorian first. Then the top honor students were seated. After that students were seated in alphabetical order.

I sat there and watched as the entire class was called onto the stage one by one to take their seats.

The A’s were seated. Then the B’s, and on and on it went each student taking their seat until the only Y in the class took her seat.

I’m sitting alone in the auditorium sweating bullets. I knew I wasn’t the greatest student, but was I that bad? Had I flunked out and nobody bothered to tell me?

“Dear Lord just help me crawl under one of these chairs and hide, please.” I wanted to die. My eyes were watering up.

Kids upon the stage were whispering and pointing in my direction.

Dr. McNeil noticed the commotion, turned and looked at me sitting out there all alone.

“Mr. Algood? Why are you still sitting there? Why did you not get on the stage when your name was called?”

“Dr. McNeil, you didn’t call my name.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

Others spoke in my defense stating that my name had been missed during the roll call.

She was pretty adamant that my name had been called and I had ignored it.

“Everyone has already been seated Mr. Algood. The only chair left is one the very back row, so take that one.”

In a flash I realized what was going on. I believed she was still harboring a grudge because of what happened in our typing class months earlier.

So be it.

I walked onto the stage and was making my way to the back row when I worked up enough courage to look up.

Like a lightning bolt out of the sky it struck me. I was going to be sitting beside the homecoming queen! The most beautiful girl in the class.

I remember whispering, “Oh, Thank you God!”

Beside her sat my buddy, Guy. I knew then graduation night was going to be a memorable one.

That Friday evening while speeches and awards were being given the homecoming queen, my buddy, Guy, and I were playing Blackjack on the back row.

Then when the time came for us to go forward, row by row, to receive our diplomas, the three of us were snatching chairs from the rows in front of ours and hiding them behind the curtain that was at our backs.

As the kids returned to their respective rows in front of ours they discovered the only place to sit was on the floor.

All in all it was a very memorable evening.

Many decades later when I wrote my first book about growing up in Mississippi I included this story along with a tribute to Dr. McNeil.

I apologized for the bad behavior of the fellow who tampered with Miss Fastfinger’s typewriter, though I had nothing to do with it other than remaining silent.

(In case anyone is wondering, I do not remember who the boy was, nor do I remember who Miss Fastfingers was.)

I also thanked Dr. McNeil for not only teaching me how to type, but also for giving me a most wonderful memory.

I learned that more often than not good can come from bad circumstances.

Shortly after Beyond The Cotton Fields was published I made a trip back to Mississippi to give her a copy of my book and pay her a visit. I let her know about the story and the tribute to her.

She was so sweet and kind to me. She did remember me, but she didn’t remember the incident.

She said, “Fifty years. So many students.”

I guess that about sums it up. What stands out in one person’s memory is barely a blip in another’s.

I was saddened to learn Dr. McNeil passed away last Sunday. She was 102.

I am so grateful our paths crossed when I was a teenager. It’s the teachers you least expect that make the most impact on your life. She was one such teacher.

I’m willing to bet that when she walked up the gates of heaven Saint Peter greeted her by saying, “Dr. McNeil; Ready. Begin!”

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Rick Algood
May 23, 2023