Power failure in Mr. Stanley’s class

Back when I was 10 years old, I had the misfortune of being one of a handful of students who were required to change elementary schools for one year.

I’m not sure why this was so. I’d been fairly happy in my old school, which included such amenities as friends, an on-site playground and working heat in the winter; whereas the school I was being transferred to had none of these. It did have plenty of bullies, though, enough to make fifth grade the longest and least pleasant seven years of my life.

Perhaps it was because the building was to be closed and the property sold in two years, as the school facility was no longer up to code and couldn’t be renovated any further? If my parents recall, they’re welcome to share.

In any event, there was one day I was in science class, struggling to hear the teacher, who spoke in inaudible whispers in the belief that this was the best way to maintain our interest. Outside, a large garbage truck rumbled down the road, stopping every 40 feet for workers to collect the bins residents had left outside the previous evening.

As it went, the truck must have brushed against a tree branch outside the school, and the branch in turn jostled with an electric cable, because the power cut off.

And at that very minute, I was transported outside to the curb in the middle of science class. The doors and windows were locked, and when the power came back on I had to jump up and down, screaming and making as much noise as I could to be let back into the school, because no one noticed I had left.

I hope we get a working vaccine soon; because damn, I hate distance learning.