FINDING

JARED

TURNER

 

                                                                                                             by Charles Hildebrand

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jared’s quest is not just the capture of the kingpin of crime and the drug lord of the Eastern Seaboard, but perhaps a more elusive character…himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORWARD

 

 

 

The Susquehanna River stretches from the Finger Lakes district of Northern New York down into Chesapeake Bay.  Two hundred and seventy miles downriver from its source was a great forest of red oak and paper birch trees.  Early homesteaders took advantage of their natural surroundings and began clearing the land of the abundant treasure.  By 1830 New York City and Philadelphia had become well established cities within a nation still in its infancy.  Although Northern New York State was densely wooded, it was primarily embedded with Lark Pinewood.  The trees grew tall but were covered with branches and the heavily knotted wood was desirable for the finer wood finishes needed to adorn the growing number of municipal buildings, and upper-class residences.

 

The lumber from Pennsylvania was tied into bundles and floated down river into the bay where it was loaded and shipped up and down the coast.  By the late 1880’s the homesteads had grown into fairly substantial communities.  One such city was that of Hillsborough.  The river had been responsible for the city’s initial growth and prosperity but with Philadelphia only sixty miles to the east and Baltimore fifty miles to the south, its sustained growth was inevitable.  Hillsborough became a regularly recognized place to stop on the dirt worn roads between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.

 

As the city of Hillsborough developed, some of the forefathers with intuition and vision, divided the city into three distinct districts.  This division was to define not only the industrial, municipal, and residential areas, but the growing number of citizens as well.  The Northern and Western regions were quickly established as the upper and middleclass districts, while the Eastern expanse occupied the foul-smelling factories and the lower class that maintained them.

 

Throughout the following decades anyone looking to satisfy any number of vices knew that they needed only to cross over the river to satisfy their lusts.  While both sides of the river grew, the east side of Hillsborough evolved into an area of decay.  It became a place that slept during the daylight, and then crawled with sordid activity under the shadow of nightfall.  The Susquehanna River, which once brought the residents together in a mutual relationship of prosperity was now a void separating them into two distinct and definite groups; the legitimate and the subhuman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

 

As Jared Turner crossed that void in his old, but reliable, Buick Riviera, which he lovingly called “The Boat” he looked out at the scene before him and questioned his own sanity.  When someone new to the area looked across the river at night, the first thing that usually struck them was the lack of lights.  The west bank of the city shone bright with thousands of lights, tinting the skyline above with a soft orange glow.  But the east side of Hillsborough sat shrouded in darkness.  When the moon was full one could look across the river and see the outline of numerous factories long since abandoned and left infested by the cities less desirable citizens.  Nearly anyone who owned or operated a business on the east side was smart enough to leave the premises caged overnight.  Business might be lousy during the daytime, but at night it was suicide to operate a cash storefront in an area where people will do anything to get the means to satisfy their cravings.

 

This was not Jared’s first trip over the river.  A writer’s life, at least any good writer’s life, takes him into innumerable places avoided by the average citizen.  But this was his first time to cross the 18^th street bridge at night, and alone.  He knew he would have to have his wits about him to pull this off.  It is what has gotten you to where you are today.  Jared reminded himself.  And it will be what gets you out of this mess, as well.

 

Crossing through the first six intersections he found the cross street he was looking for.  Deciding it would be too dangerous to drive his own car the two remaining blocks to the address scribbled on a note in his coat pocket, he opted to park his car on the side of the street and walk in.  He turned off the ignition and sat silently in the dark.

 

It appeared that someone had found joy in breaking all the streetlights on the north side of the street for an entire block, so Jared chose this as his location to set out on foot.  Sitting in the dark silence of his car, he alternated his gaze from the view in front of him to what he could discern behind him in his rearview mirrors.  After a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he held his watch up to check the time.  The watch was nothing special to look at, a gift from a different time, a former life; still, he could not bear to part with it, nor the wedding band that no longer bound him to a woman who no longer loved him.  Half past one, the witching hour, as his mother used to say.

 

Jared had some time to think.  He was a little early for his appointment, so his mind started thinking back to the coffee break he had with a fellow writer, Art Longhurst.  Art had approached his desk in the copy room and suggested that they take a coffee break.  Jared was tired and needed a break and his third cup of coffee was already cold.

 

Sure, why not.  He remembered saying.

 

As he headed for the breakroom, Art had grabbed his arm and whispered, “Not here.”  Art then led him, still holding on to his elbow toward the stairwell.

 

“Where are we going?”  Jared asked him.

 

“Too many ears here.”  

 

Jared remembered that they sat down at a table in the coffee shop around the corner and both ordered a cup of black coffee.

 

“What’s going on, Art?”  Jared asked him.

 

Art had looked uneasy and appeared nervous.  “I need you to do something for me.”  Jared remembered him saying.  Art leaned over toward him and said that he thought he was being followed.

 

“Followed?  By whom and why?”  Jared asked.

 

“It doesn’t matter right now.  I’ll tell you later.”  Art said.  “But, right now, I need you to meet someone for me.”

 

So, here Jared sat.  Sitting in his car in the middle of the night in the worst part of town.  He decided to go over the instructions Art had given him one more time before getting out of his car.

 

“Okay.”  He said to himself.  “I am to meet some woman; Whose name I do not even know.  I am to knock on her door, and she is supposed to hand me a large envelope. I am to take this envelope home, read the instructions inside and then guard the envelope with my life until I make the delivery.”  And he distinctly remembered Art telling him that he was to be totally hush, hush about all this.  He was to tell no one, absolutely no one, about the meeting or the package.  It was all very mysterious.  But he did tell Art that he would help him out.  And that was what he was going to do. 

 

Taking a deep breath, Jared reached for the door handle when suddenly, something flashed behind him and caught his eye in the rearview mirror.  Someone had just pulled in and parked on the opposite side of the street less than a block behind him.  Although they were parking in the wrong direction, Jared did not think there was too big a risk of getting a ticket in this neighborhood at this hour of the night.  Maybe he was nervous, or just over cautious, either way, Jared’s hand froze on the metal door handle, his eyes fixed on the car behind him.

 

When your nerves are on edge, a minute can seem like an hour.  Jared crouched low in his seat and remained as still as possible.  The intruding car’s lights were off, and he could not hear the engine running, yet no one had gotten out of the car.  As it always did, his mind began to race, thinking of all the different possibilities of why no one was getting out of the car.  It could be someone waiting for a drug deal; it could be someone with a prostitute, in which case he knew it could be a while.  For all he knew, the person lived in his car.

 

Just as he was contemplating his judgment of this whole affair, someone stepped out of the car and began walking up the sidewalk away from where Jared sat.  Letting out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, he shook his head at himself in near disgust.  Swearing in exasperation, he reminded himself that only one person knew he was here tonight, and if he could not trust him, he had no hope at all.  Stealing one last glance in the review mirror, Jared pulled on the handle and opened the door.

 

He had been in similar places many times, but as the initial stench of rot and poverty assaulted his nostrils, he briefly closed his eyes and paused in his movement to close his car door.  Closing the door quietly, Jared glanced through the Buick’s windows to the car across the street; he did not see anyone.  He turned around and began to walk as casually as he dared, but with purpose, towards a row of tenement houses in the distance.  

 

Flint Street was once considered a fairly decent neighborhood; its homes were made of brick and were built side by side.  Each home had a set of eight steps leading up to the front porch.  From the vantage point of any of these porches a person could look either way through all the other porches along the street.  It was a popular way to build at the turn of the century and the symmetrical view it created had been featured in more than one magazine throughout the years.  Jared knew that some of these homes had become speakeasies during the prohibition years of the nineteen twenties.  But over the last fifty years the neighborhood slowly disintegrated into a collection of crack houses and makeshift shelters for the neighborhood’s vagrants.  At every tenth house there was a small alley that cut through to the back of the houses, it was one of these alleys that Jared intended on entering.

 

According to Art, the woman he needed to find could be reached by knocking on a particular window in the alley.  So far, so good, Jared thought as he neared the alley.  It was located across the street and he knew this would be the riskiest part of his walk.  He would have to leave the darker side of the street and walk out into the open for twenty paces or so before disappearing into the shadows of the alleyway.  Looking in both directions twice, just as his mother had taught him to do when life was so much simpler, Jared stepped out into the street and quickly crossed.  While hopping up to the curb on the other side, Jared thought he heard a noise off to his right.  He quickly peered down the sidewalk but did not see anything.  Commanding himself to be calm, he walked into the alley.

 

After giving his eyes another few seconds to adjust to the near pitch blackness, he spotted his target and began to walk towards it, careful to avoid the alley garbage that was strewn everywhere on the ground.  He was only ten paces or so from the window when he first heard him.  Out of nowhere the sound of running feet echoed off the brick walls of the buildings.  Jared half turned to see what was happening when he felt a hard blow to his side and heard the sickening crack of his ribs breaking.  Jared fell hard to the ground, his head landing on a paper bag full of garbage.  Immediately it was as if he were trying to breathe through a soda straw. 

 

“What is happening?”  He mumbled.

 

Another blow struck him in the lower back; he felt his bladder let loose.

 

As he lay there trying to suck in air, he tried to focus on his senses.  He could feel the paper bag damp against his face.  He could see a dirty diaper in front of him and caught the whiff of sour milk in the air.

 

So, this is what it feels like to die?  He thought.  Where did I go wrong?

 

He could not hear anything for the ringing in his ears.  It seemed like he had been there for an eternity.  Hands roughly tugged at his back pocket.

 

All of this for twenty bucks and a maxed-out credit card?  If he could have laughed, he might have seen the irony of it all.  To have gotten this close and have it ended by a petty thief.

 

A sharp pain in his back brought him out of his thoughts.

 

Stabbed!

 

He faintly heard someone running again.  His throat and nose felt like they were on fire.  His body felt numb.

 

“Angela, I’m sorry I let you down…”

 

Then everything went black.

 

“Angela…”  And the earth fell silent.

 

 

 

*                      *                      *

 

 

 

Clarence Harris shot straight up in his bed.  Ever since his forced retirement, Clarence started having dreams.  At first, he cast them aside as nothing more than just crazy dreams, but eventually he realized that they were more than just dreams.  They were messages, or epiphanies.  Whatever they were, he learned to embrace them and act on them.  The first dream he took seriously was that of a little girl drowning in a swimming pool.  Clarence remembered waking in a cold sweat.  He tried to recall the dream in detail, but the longer he sat and contemplated the less vivid the dream became.  Clarence remembered that he eventually got up and dressed in his usual workout attire and started his morning ritual of jogging/walking 5 miles as he did every morning.  One of his favorite spots along his run was the mile stretch along the Susquehanna River.  It was always quiet and calm with few people up so early in the morning. 

 

On the morning of this particular dream, he felt something pull at his conscience as he neared the river.  Directly in front of him, probably less than a hundred yards away, was an ambulance.  As he neared the emergency vehicle, he asked one of the paramedics what had happened.  He was shocked to find out a woman and a little girl drowned when their car had plunged into the cold waters of the Susquehanna.  The accident happened at approximately the same time Clarence had had his dream.

 

Clarence could not help but feel somehow responsible for their deaths.  He had been given a sign and he did not heed it, and as a result a mother and her little girl were dead. 

 

From that moment on he vowed that would never happen again.  He did not understand it, how it worked or why he was having these dreams.  What he did know was that for some reason he had been given a gift…or maybe a curse, he was not completely sure.

 

On this particular night, the dream Clarence had was of a man who had been beaten and stabbed and left for dead.  He awoke and glanced at the alarm clock on the stand next to his bed.  4 AM.  Clarence got out of bed, dressed and made his way to the kitchen.  It was a vivid dream but it left little to go on as far as what he was supposed to do.

 

Clarence was a large man; close to 6’3” tall.  He was in good shape for a man in his early-sixties, which he attributed to his daily workout schedule.  He still had a full head of wavy hair even though it had turned completely white.  He sported a neatly trimmed beard and smiled at himself as he looked in the mirror, realizing how much his wife would have hated the beard if she were still alive.

 

Clarence started thinking about his dear sweet wife, Doris.  They had been married for almost 40 years before her untimely death.  He often grieved for her even though she had passed away several years earlier.  He picked up a much beloved photograph he had lying on his dresser.  It was a family picture of he and Doris, and his daughter, Marci.  He studied the picture for some time before he carefully sat it back in its place.  He was all alone now, his wife was gone and his daughter and her husband died in a tragic traffic accident a few years ago.  All he had left was his two grandchildren.  He felt close to both of them, although the younger granddaughter, Mary, had disappeared after the death of her parents.

 

Clarence was dressed and his first cup of coffee was half gone.  He decided he needed to analyze the dream he had and try to figure out what he could do to help this man who had been beaten and left for dead.  One thing he knew for sure, the man was not dead, otherwise why would he have had the dream.  He did not know where the mugging took place or what he was supposed to do.  Eventually, he found himself behind the wheel of his Lexus driving toward the heart of the city.

 

I will let my instincts guide me, he thought.  Even so, he drove around for a couple of hours until he found himself sitting in his car in front of his house.  He just sat there for some time wondering what, if anything, he should do about his latest dream.

 

 

     

*                                  *                                  *

 

 

The City of Hillsborough boasted one of the lowest crime rates in all of Pennsylvania for cities of that size.  The Police Department was proud of their record, which was due, in part, to its excellent staff, especially their detective division.  Reginald Hess, Hillsborough police chief was proud of the officers on his force.  He was a no nonsense, hard nose cop from the old school.  He expected his officers to work hard and long.  But he demanded nothing from his underlings that he, himself, did not do.  One of his most trusted officers was a young energetic detective named Mark Salisbury.  Salisbury started his police career with the Hillsborough force as a traffic cop and worked himself up to a lieutenant in the detective division.  Salisbury was a tall lanky black man with a shiny baldhead that he shaved smooth every morning.  He had a neatly trimmed goatee and dressed immaculately.  While most of the detectives respected Salisbury as a detective, few cared for him otherwise.  Several of the detectives were put off by the sudden rise to his present position.  He moved quickly up the ranks and while many of the detectives had been there longer, they were passed over for promotion in favor of Salisbury. 

 

Mark Salisbury took it all in stride and did not appear to be too disturbed by his lack of popularity.  While he was not rude or coarse with the others, he did not go out of his way to be friendly with any of them.  No one except, perhaps, his partner Ms. Monica Richards. 

 

Monica had been with the Hillsborough Police Department for a little over 10 years.  Like Salisbury, she started out as a traffic cop, then quickly moved into the office as a glorified secretary.  Within a short time, she was assigned to the detective division and eventually promoted to a full-fledged detective.  Even though she, too, moved up the ranks quickly, she was accepted by almost everyone in the department due in part to the fact that she was breathtakingly beautiful.  Because she was a woman doing what was commonly thought of as a man’s job, she was considered the token female and, at least in the beginning, was not taken seriously by most, but she was nice to have around, if for no other reason, to look at.  Her rise to the position of detective was also seen as a direct result of the fact that her father and grandfather had been successful policemen on the force, at least in the beginning.  The fact that Monica was assigned to be Salisbury’s partner was also seen as a slap in the face to many of the other detectives as they were all hoping that she would be assigned to partner up with one of them.

 

When Monica was assigned to the detective division, Salisbury met with Hess behind closed doors and the partnership was born. 

 

Salisbury sat at his desk studying Monica Richards shortly after they had been assigned as partners.  She had been working on a report of a recent case they had been assigned.  Even though Salisbury was married, he was obviously taken by Monica’s beauty.  She was about 5’ 6” tall, and a knock-out with her long soft blond hair that sat delicately on her shoulders.  She had a soft, warm complexion with a smile that brought out her womanly features.  She had large dimples at each corner of her mouth that highlighted her attractiveness.

 

While Monica appeared to some to be more of a beauty queen contest than a cop, she was a very dedicated detective.  She refused any, and all advances made by her co-workers to the point that they now only admired her from a distance.  They soon discovered that while she appeared to be a delicate fragile female who needed the likes of a strong macho type male to protect her, she was anything but.  She would take on all her fellow officers at their regularly scheduled physical training exercises and would usually have the men begging for mercy before she was done.  Even so, Monica, for the most part kept to herself.  The men really knew little about her.  She did not socialize with them, and certainly did not share anything about her personal life.  She was a mystery to most.

 

Salisbury was intrigued by Monica, and he wanted to know more about her.  He vowed to himself that he would find out what made her tick.

 

When Mark and Monica arrived at work early the next morning, they were immediately called into Hess’s office.

 

“I’ve got an assignment for you this morning,” he said.  “We had a mugging last night down by the river.  The guy’s in the hospital with a stab wound.  I want you to go down and question him and see what you can find out.”

 

As they left Hess’s office, Salisbury informed Monica that he had some pressing paperwork he had to finish up, so she agreed to visit the victim on her own to see what she could find out.   

     

 

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

 

 

“Mr. Turner?  Mr. Turner?  Can you hear me?” 

 

Jared tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they had been glued shut.  Where am I?  He thought. 

 

As he parted his eyelids, he could see that he was in bed…someone’s bed, anyway, but at least he knew it was not the hard bricks of the street where he was walking earlier.

 

“Mr. Turner, I’m Doctor Goldberg.  How are you this morning?”

 

Jared tried to get his bearings, and then he tried to talk.  “Where….”  That was about all he could muster.  He felt like every bone in his body was broken, as he tried to move a little in his bed.  He wondered if he looked as bad as he felt.

 

“You’re in a room at the hospital.  I would say you are an incredibly lucky man.  If the police had not found you…well, let me just say, you’re here and you’re alive.  I’ll be back later when we have some test results.”

 

Before Jared could ask the doctor anything, he was gone.  There was nothing more to do other than lie there and think.  And thinking was not Jared’s most popular past time at the present.

 

He tried to recall what had happened, but the sharp pain in his back was too intense.  He tried moving to a more comfortable position, but it was no use.  All he could think about was more pain medicine.  A nurse entered his room moments later and asked him how he was feeling and gave him another pain shot.  As he was drifting off to sleep, he started thinking about the events of the past 10 months. 

 

Jared was a successful writer.  He had a good job with the newspaper; everything seemed to be working in his life.  Everything, that is, except his marriage, and that was probably his fault, as well.  Angela was a good woman and a loving wife.  Even though he knew they had grown apart, he was not prepared for the breakup.  As he thought back, which he did quite often over the past year, he tried to analyze what went wrong.  He knew that the marriage was shaky at best, but he had no idea it had deteriorated to the point it had. 

 

His mind went directly to his two kids.  He figured he had lost them as well.  He wondered what they were doing and what they were thinking.  Both were remarkably successful in life, in their own way, and they simply did not need him anymore.  Adam and Aaron, twins.  They looked exactly alike, but their similarities stopped abruptly at that point.  Both boys graduated from high school and shared the distinction of being co-valedictorians.  They went on to college on full ride scholarships, and both graduated in the top 10% of their class.  Adam graduated from George Washington University with a Political Science degree and then earned his master’s degree in International Law.  He recently graduated from Law school and was currently a junior partner in some law firm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  Aaron was of the opinion that Adam was on the fast track to fame, fortune and notoriety.  But, if the truth be known, he was not really sure where Adam worked or who he worked for, or what he was up to seeing as how the only information he ever received concerning the family was an occasional card from Angela, his mother.

 

Aaron, on the other hand, had decided to live a more normal life.  He had married his high school sweetheart, Sandy, and they had settled down in a small town in Pennsylvania called Jackson.  Aaron and Sandy had struggled off and on, but seemed to be happy, as far as Adam could tell.  Aaron, like Adam, was also successful in the career he had chosen, even though Adam apparently thought he had sold himself short. 

 

“What the hell are you thinking?”  Adam had bellowed when Aaron had announced his employment shortly after graduating from Penn State with a degree in History.  “You’re going to teach?”  Adam laughed.  “How do you plan on making any of your dreams come true on a teacher’s salary?”

 

“That depends on what one’s dreams are, doesn’t?”  Aaron answered back.

 

Enough of this reminiscing.  Jared thought.  In the past 10 months I haven’t heard from anyone in the family, at least not directly, and probably won’t. 

 

Jared’s thoughts were immediately interrupted when the door to his room opened and in walked the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  She stopped short next to the foot of his bed and stared at him for a moment.

 

“Mr. Turner?”  The mysterious woman asked softly.

 

Jared was so taken he could not utter a word.  He just stared at her beautiful blue eyes.  They seemed to sing the praises of springtime.

 

Finally, after he found his voice he stated, “you have the advantage, Miss…?”

 

“I’m sorry.  I should have introduced myself.  My name is Monica, Monica Richards.”

 

 There was a long pause, as Jared continued to stare at her.

 

“Mr. Turner?”  Monica interrupted his thoughts.

 

“I’m sorry.  Yes, I’m Jared Turner.” 

 

Again, there was a pause and Jared finally asked, “Do I know you?”

 

“Like I said, my name is Monica Richards.  Detective Richards.  I work for the Hillsborough Police Department.  Apparently, you were mugged last night down by the river.  We got a call that a man had been beaten up and left for dead. You were brought here, and I have been assigned to your case.”

 

“I guess I owe you my life Miss Monica Richards.”  Jared said her name slowly and deliberately as if he were committing it to memory, which he was. 

 

“I’d like to ask you a few of questions.  I was hoping that you could tell me what happened.”

 

“So, where’s your uniform?”  Jared asked, quite taken by the snug fitting black T-shirt she was wearing.  He also noticed the way her shoulder length blond hair contrasted against the black T-shirt. 

 

“Let’s just say this is the uniform of the day.  So, Mr. Turner…”

 

“Please, call me Jared.”

 

“Mr. Turner, what can you tell me about last night? 

 

What do I tell her?  He thought.  The instructions from Art were quite clear.  He was to tell NO ONE about the events of that night.

 

If I tell her the truth, could I be putting my life in jeopardy.  He wondered. 

 

“What were you doing down on Flint Street at such a late hour, Mr. Turner?”

 

“I was supposed to meet someone.  And, please, my name is Jared.”  He added.

 

“Who were you to meet?  Can you give me a name?”

 

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.”

 

“You were to meet a woman?”  Monica asked.  She did not know why, but she immediately felt disappointed assuming Jared was there to meet some hooker.

 

“Yeah,” Jared sighed.  “She had some information for me.”

 

“Oh?” She verbalized, feeling a little relieved.  “What kind of information?”

 

“For a story I’ve been working on.”

 

“A story?”

 

“Yeah, I’m a reporter for the Times.” 

 

“And you do not know the name of this woman.”  Monica asked.

 

“No. I’m sorry, I do not.”

 

“Do you remember anything about what happened?”

 

“All I remember was turning into an alley, hearing what I thought were footsteps, and then…waking up here.”

 

“Well, that’s not much to go on.”  Monica said, “but we’ll see what we can find out.” 

 

Monica had asked him all the pertinent questions, but she found herself not wanting to leave just yet.  For some strange reason, she was draw to Jared.

 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”  She added with genuine regard to his well-being.

 

 My God, he is handsome.  She thought.  Then quickly brushed aside what she was thinking and turned to leave.

 

Jared was hoping that Monica would stay a little longer.  She was the only positive thing to come his way in quite some time.  He spoke up just as she was walking through the doorway.  “Will I see you again, Monica, er…Detective Richards?”

 

She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder and smiled.

 

Monica made her way down to the lobby all the time thinking about her new assignment.  What was that little over-the-shoulder, Marlena Dietrich smile all about?  She thought to herself.  That was so unlike me.  But she could not shake the thoughts from her mind of the past 15 minutes.  “What is wrong with me?”  She quietly questioned herself.  “This is stupid.  I don’t even know this man.”  She had seen many men in as bad as shape, or worse, but she found herself thinking of him all the way back to the station.  There was something about him that she could not quite put her finger on.  We only talked for a minute or two and it was all quite business like.  When she pulled into the parking lot of the station she sat in her squad car for a few additional minutes pondering the events of the past half hour.  She finally admitted to herself that she did not know why, but he had stirred some feelings she had not felt in a long time. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grimm(way) Fairytales Edition 6, 10/5/17

Here is the next installment of Grimm(way) Fairytales.

Edition 6

October 5, 2017

I know this is coming out a day earlier than usual, but tomorrow is a no student day, so I figured with most of the cute and funny happenings coming from students, there would probably not be a lot of entries from tomorrow.

Things have been relatively slow this week, until yesterday and today. I have been filling in for Mr. Cervantes this week as the IA for Miss Salazar in her 2nd grade class. Mr. C got married last Saturday and he felt like he needed to take the week off to go on a honeymoon or something...go figure.

Second graders are professionals when it comes to speaking right out and saying what is on their minds. From some of their answers to questions I asked them and just free input to discussions we had, it is apparent that instruction in Miss Salazar's class is different. They are fiercely devoted to her and what she teaches them as illustrated in the following conversations.

"Did you know." one scholar asked excitedly, "The earth actually goes around the sun!"

"You don't say." I answered.

"Yes! And guess what?"

(Oh no, not the 'guess what' dialogue again) "I don't know, what?"

"If you put a frying pan on the sun it would cook an egg in a second!"

And another...I was sitting at a small table working with 4-5 students practicing the recognition of odd versus even numbers. (Yet, another process that I just thought everyone is just born knowing.) We came across the number 19 and I asked them if it was an odd number or an even number. With a moment of intense thought one girl announced that it was even. I asked her if she was sure. And, quite emphatically she said that it was definitely even.

"Well, actually, it's odd." I explained.

Without any hesitation at all she declared, "Well, in Ms. Salazar's class it's even!"

"OK, then. Let's practice our counting by 5's."

For clarification. I should probably explain for all my friends that are not sure just how the Grimmway Academy operates, scholars rotate quite extensively. One such section is called the Literacy Block. Small groups of scholars are separated into ability levels and taught reading. Because I have been filling in for Mr. Cervantes, I took his group that consists of 9 students. Some of those students are 2nd graders, some are 3rd graders and some are 1st graders. It has been a real challenge for me, basically because I do not know what I am doing. Today, Thursday, was a particularly difficult day. I was frustrated because I felt I had no control over them whatsoever.

However, as the day progressed, it was those little tykes that pulled me out of my doldrums.

We have one little guy that has a very difficult time staying focused for more than about 4 seconds. As the rest of the students were writing a story of their own choosing, and they could choose anything they wanted to write about, it just had to include detail. We spent a fair amount of time going over what detail is and how you include it in the story. Immediately, Joshua (not his real name, of course) was bored with it all. He started running around the class stomping on some ants that had made their way to the food crumbs left after snack time. Miss Salazar finally asked me to take Joshua next door to an empty classroom and try to get him to write something...anything. With much persuasion and probably a few threats, we plopped down in a couple of chairs in the adjoining classroom.

"So, Joshua, what are you writing about?" I asked. He just shrugged his shoulders. "Did you go on vacation this summer?" Again, he shrugged. This kind of dialogue went on for a couple of minutes when I finally concluded that we were not going to accomplish anything at this rate. I finally asked him what his favorite animal was. He immediately sat up straight, looked right at me and announced that it was the shark.

I asked him if he had ever seen a shark in real life? And he nodded that he had. "Was it at the ocean?" He shrugged. "Was it at the zoo?"

"Yea! It was at the zoo." We talked about his experience with the shark for the next few minutes and then I told him that that is what he should write about. This is what he wrote...

"I went to the zoo and saw a shark. It was big and scary. And it was gray. I touched it. His skin was hard. (He stopped at that point to draw some pictures of the shark.) He had big teeth and he started eating me. Then we went home."

When we came back to the regular classroom, he made a b-line to Miss Salazar so she could read his story.

As crazy as it sounds, he made my day.

There was also the girl who ran up to me and said, "How do you spell...ah wait...ah wait...I forgot." And then scampered back to her seat. Moments later, she was back. "How do you spell...ah wait...ah wait...I forgot." This same back and forth game continued 4 or 5 times. Finally, on her last request, she asked, "How do you spell 'wait'?"

"Wait?" I questioned.

"Yea, how do you spell wait?"

Another girl wrote her story about her cat, who had kittens. She wrote..."The mother had her first 4000 babbys and it was hard for her to pop her babbys out."

I was also reminded that 2nd graders do not understand sarcasm. This was evident when another little girl came up to me and in a voice that suggested that she was totally frustrated said, "I need some help."

"You can say that again." I threw out at her. She looked at me, totally confused, and said, "I need some help."

And finally, I was pretty excited toward the end of the day. I had a lovely lady come up to me and told me that she loved me...too bad she was a second grader.