I will forever cherish the life lessons I learned from Mr. Mitchell. I learned about love, about tragedy, about overcoming setbacks and I learned about myself Shannon Suess "I may not remember all the poems we read in AP class, but I will remember the man who taught me a lifelong love for poetry" Edward M. Shine "The questions you ask are spiritual, they're real, they manifest themselves in peculiar ways that we may only glimpse once, but ponder for decades" Andrew Steel "I read the full book in only one day! These stories inspire me to do so much. I can't thank you enough" Anthony Fertitta "I love all these stories so much, and their meanings are poignant and relatable" Brendan Thomas Photos by Cooper Vacheron

STORIES I TELL MY HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH STUDENTS

(FOR ENCOURAGING A NEW GENERATION OF WRITERS AND POETS)By Walter B.J. Mitchell

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Walter B.J. Mitchell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-4799-0

Chapter One

Story 1

C+ Nice Try Mitchell

In 1970, as a Fourth Former (10th Grader) at the Canterbury School, a private boarding school in New Milford Connecticut, I had the privilege of having Mr. William D'Alton as my English teacher. In truth, Mr. D'Alton was about the most disorganized and disheveled man I have ever met. Assorted books and stacks of essays were scattered all around his room. Rumor had it that some of those stacks of essays were over ten years old. Apparently, they were the essays that Mr. D'Alton had either never managed to correct or ones he had somehow forgotten to hand back. That's the thing with Mr. D'Alton—whenever you handed in an essay, you never really knew if you would get it back.

Sometimes, we thought, that might be a blessing.

We called him "Wild Bill." Every morning he would arrive at class with a fierce look in his eyes—his wavy salt and pepper hair flung haphazardly back toward the roof of his crown, his tie pulled down as far as the second button of his white shirt, his shirt tails hanging below his belt underneath the bottom hem of his tweed blazer.

He started every class the exact same way—he'd come bustling into the room, take a sweeping gander at us and then head for the window at the back of the room. As he stood there peering out of the window at the woods beyond, he would say, "You will never guess what I saw this morning."

Some wiseacre would invariably chime in at that exact moment: "Um, would it be the small family of deer in your backyard Mr. D'Alton?"

"YES! How in the world did you know?" he would ask EVERY time!

We truly weren't sure whether Wild Bill was pulling our legs or whether he suffered from a chronic case of amnesia.

In either case—as redundant as the whole routine was—we never tired of it. In fact, the routine drew louder and louder chuckles each morning, to the point where by the spring trimester we were all guffawing.

Well—most of what went on in Wild Bill's classes was highly amusing—like the number of occasions he told about the time he was in New York City and on a total whim ran into the famous F.A.O. Schwarz toy store and with the very last little cash he had in his wallet purchased a toboggan that he hoisted over his shoulder into Central Park where he tobogganed into the dark.

We referred to the story as "Wild Bill's Wild Ride!"

But, for me, there was one thing NOT the least bit amusing about Mr. D'Alton. Whenever we handed in an essay it took almost a month to get it back. And in those days when you were given back an essay they were folded down the middle lengthwise, so when you got an essay back you would open it up slowly much like the way you open a poker hand after you've drawn one card in the hope of landing a straight or a flush. Well, get this—EVERY essay I got back from Wild Bill said the exact same thing:

"C+ Nice Try Mitchell".

It was as if he took one look at me and said, "Now there's a "C+ Nice Try student if I ever saw one." No matter what—no matter how long or short my essay was—the result was always the same:

"C+ Nice Try Mitchell".

By the spring trimester I was desperate. I told myself, no matter what, I had to beat the "C+ Nice Try Mitchell" mold. Wild Bill asked us to write a short story.

That night I found a passage that could very well pass as a short story from a horror novel called The Other, by Thomas Tryon.

I copied the passage word for word.

I was either going to get an A+ or a zero—but, in my way of thinking, that was all right, because at least I wouldn't have to suffer through another "C+ Nice Try Mitchell."

Wouldn't you know—it seemed like an eternity before Wild Bill handed back the short stories. During some of my more paranoid days, I convinced myself that it wouldn't be all that bad if the stack of short stories were the next batch of papers to remain on the corner of Wild Bill's desk for the next ten years.

But mostly I was hopeful. I knew I had a very good chance of knocking Wild Bill's socks off.

Finally, the day came. Wild Bill said—looking straight at me—that he found several of the stories rather "horrifying." He then flashed me a smile.

I smiled back.

I slowly slowly slowly unfolded the paper at the top—this was going to be a royal flush for sure!

Much to my own horror—it read:

"C+ Nice Try Mitchell"!!!

Then Wild Bill had written, "read my note at the end."

I rushed to the back of the second page.

The note read: "For Crying Out Loud Mitchell, See The Other, p. 38-39".

Questions:

1. Why didn't Wild Bill bust me for plagiarism and give me a zero on the paper?

2. What does this story suggest about Wild Bill as a teacher?

3. What grade and comment do you think I received on the final paper of the year?

4. What is the moral of this story?

Chapter Two

Story 2

Laurie Moynihan

It was Homecoming Day my senior year at Canterbury. In a driving rainstorm, my football teammates and I played our best game of the season in a 7-0 waterlogged win over an undefeated Hopkins team. We were delirious. In fact, we were going so crazy after the game that were taking 30 yards sprints and diving and sliding head first through a giant puddle behind the goalpost. The next thing we knew practically the whole team was sloshing around in the puddle, wrestling and jumping on top of one another.

As we headed for the showers I noticed that I was missing the chinstrap on my helmet. So I jogged back out to the field to try to find it. And lo and behold, there it was in the middle of the puddle.

On my way back to the gym, all of a sudden I saw a figure of a young lady sloshing her way up to me at a rapid pace. She called out, "Hey, Mitch."

She stood there right in front of me—and by now the rain was coming down so hard it was pinging and ricocheting off my football helmet. But there she stood: no hat, no raincoat, no umbrella—she was soaked to the bone, as they say. Water was dripping down her bangs and down her cheeks like she was standing under a waterfall.

She looked so sweet and cute—and yet, so visibly vulnerable.

At that moment of truth, much to my intrigue and confusion, I wasn't sure who in the world she was.

"I hear that you and your friends are going to Chuck's Steak House tonight for a celebration dinner," she said.

Then, I recognized her voice. She was the girl in English class who always had the right answers. Her name was Laurie Moynihan.

"Yes, we are," I replied.

"Listen, I know this may seem like a strange request, but do you think it would be all right if I came to Chuck's as well?"

Habba-da-Habba-da-Habba-da—I didn't know what to say!

I mean none of my friends knew Laurie Moynihan, and to my knowledge neither did the couple of girls we invited. What was I going to say?

Well—there she was—standing undaunted in the rain—peering through my helmet and straight into my eyes—

"Boy, Laurie," I said. "For someone who is a genius in English class you would think you would have put on a raincoat."

Her dripping lips formed a cunning little smile and she said, "I find the rain can be very romantic, don't you?"

"Um, yeah, I guess I never thought of it that way," I...