There are times I am better at writing my thoughts than speaking them. I enjoy the opportunity to verbally relate a story as it gives more freedom of expression. I enjoy the organization of being able to write a story, though when writing one has to go to greater effort to paint a verbal picture for the reader. I do not claim to be adept at creating either written or verbal stories. Practically every story I tell is an event that happened in my past. As an illustration, I will relate what to me is one of the most bizarre events I ever witnessed.
As a disclaimer, let me assure you, Dear Reader, that I intend no offense in any way to any living or deceased person through my relation of this true story. The humor for me is heightened by a certain element of the unexpected bizarreness. This tale will illustrate what sometimes happens when a person tries too hard to be proper and avoid offense.
I was about to begin fall quarter of my senior year of college. I was scheduled to take a course on the history of Latin America to be taught by a veteran professor. Unfortunately, the professor took a job with another university two weeks before fall term was to begin, and no qualified instructor could be found in the short time available. A retired teacher from a local Tennessee school system (I’ll call her Ms. A.) was secured to teach the class. Ms. A. was an extremely sweet individual who had taught elementary school for probably forty years, and this was evident in her teaching style. She talked to the approximately ten of us college undergraduate juniors and seniors in this 8:00 a.m. class as if we were elementary students. I doubt she knew much more about Latin American history than any of us, for she taught by having us highlight the text as she read it. It took us ten weeks to cover about 150 of an over 1,000 page green clothbound text (copyright 1968) that had not one picture in the entire book.
I remember an occasion when Ms. A. held up one of my test papers before the class and said, “I want you all to look at how Ronnie Mincey has so neatly completed his test paper. Note that each question is fully and completely answered. Good job, Ronnie.” Of course this was emphasized by the fact that there was a big red “100—A+” in the upper right-hand corner and that I sat in the first seat of the row closest to the door, just as a good little student should. There I sit, red faced and embarrassed. A baseball player sat in the seat directly behind me, and he patted me on my blushing back and said, “Way to go, Ron!”
Most of us had probably “catted around” most of the previous night, and I seriously doubt if any of us in this earliest class of the day were very interested in how any long dead Brazilian figured into the history of Latin America. Our class members always seemed very sleepy. The small class was composed of all male students save one; this shy, rather quiet female black student was also the only minority represented in our group. I to this day remember her name (I’ll call her J) and what she looked like as she sat in the orange plastic student desk with the faux wood top in the very back of the center row between the two tall windows. This classroom was on the second floor on the back side of the building.
On one particular day Ms. A. introduced her class with the statement, “Today, class, we are going to discuss the people of Brazil. The people of Brazil are called Negroes. Can you say “Negroes”?
I barely lifted my head from the hand which prevented it from hitting the desktop to mumble half-heartedly, with the rest of the class, the word “Negroes.”
“That’s right,” Ms. A. continued, “very good. Capital N-e-g-r-o-e-s, Negroes, the very proper name of a specific race of people, not to be confused with that foul slang term that starts with the letter N that uneducated and uncivilized people use to denote any individual with a skin color darker than white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant.” Ms. A. continued in this vein for several minutes until she was sure she had driven home her point, and then asked, “Does everyone understand?”
Once again I barely raised my head from my semi-slumber to nod assent profusely.
“Very good, class,” said Ms. A. “Now, about these -------.” Ms. A. used the very term she tried so hard to avoid and to warn us against. How inappropriate. How unintended.
The instant the word left her lips Ms. A. realized what she had inadvertently said and immediately began to pray aloud, “O sweet Jesus, forgive me for the sin I have committed by saying that horrible word . . .” She continued her supplication for forgiveness from Jesus, and I’m sure in hopeful anticipation from J, for several minutes.
It had to be Satan at this point that entered my soul and caused me to find this mortifying situation so humorous. Not humorous because of the use of the scurrilous word, but because of Ms. A.’s reaction to her own shortcoming. I felt sorry for Ms. A. and for J, but this was just so bizarre! It took every ounce of whatever I could muster to keep from bursting into peals of laughter. They came later, and have continued for all these ensuing years whenever I think of this event. My thoughts kept running toward visions of Archie Bunker, the Meathead, and my very prejudiced half-brother and what they would do and say had they been there. As I sat there, trying so hard not to laugh aloud, I had the thought that if I could get just one good, deep breath that I could maintain composure. Every time I thought I had reached that point, Mr. Baseball who sat behind me would poke me in the back and off I would go again. He later told me he could tell when I was about to lose it because my back just jumped up and down, so he gave me those little pokes to “help me along.”
I don’t know how or if Ms. A. ever made it right with J, but class continued until the end of the term in the same manner as before this strange event occurred. The return to the routine made the event even more bizarre in my mind. I never heard of Ms. A. being reprimanded for this incident as could so easily have happened if God and Jesus, and maybe J, had not come to this kind lady’s rescue.
Ms. A. to my knowledge never married—she was the classic example of an old maid schoolteacher. I met Ms. A. a few years after the class when she worked at the same school as a volunteer. She was serving in that capacity at her death. I still have the textbook to that Latin American history class and think of Ms. A. every time I see or touch it. Ms. A. was truly a warm and gracious lady. She will live in my memory as long as I live, and I am happy to have been privileged to encounter this sweet individual and am thankful for the accidental entertainment she provided a college senior close to student teaching, when humor was often needed badly. I know God forgave her, and I am sure she and He are up there waiting for that Latin American history class of fall 36 years ago, J included, to join them.

As you get older, you tend to use more 4 letter words . . .
"What? When?”

In the Winter of Life, Someone Said,
“Yes, I have regrets.
There are things I wish I hadn't done . . .
things I should have done,
but indeed,
there are many things I'm happy to have done.
It's all in a lifetime.

“But, at least I know,
that though the winter has come,
and I'm not sure how long it will last . . .
this I know—that when it's over on this earth . . .
it's NOT over.
A new adventure will begin!

"’Life’ is a gift to you.
The way you live your life is your gift to those who come after.
Make it a fantastic one.

“LIVE IT WELL!
ENJOY TODAY!
DO SOMETHING FUN!
BE HAPPY!
HAVE A GREAT DAY!

“TODAY IS THE OLDEST YOU'VE EVER BEEN,
YET THE YOUNGEST YOU'LL EVER BE.
ENJOY THIS DAY WHILE IT LASTS.”