By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer

Like so many defeated soldiers, they line driveways and porches every morning, eyes cast downward, mourning written across their little faces.

I feel for them; no more the freedom of a summer’s afternoon, the luxury of sleeping until noon, or the unrestrained joy of no responsibilities, no fears, and no homework.

Yep, school’s started again.

I was different than most kids, because I enjoyed school. I looked forward to it, although after a few weeks that wore off pretty quickly. Due to the poor quality of my hometown’s elementary and middle schools during those years, my folks sent me to private school. Hence, I didn’t really know the kids in the neighborhood, so by the end of summer I was getting kind of lonely.

Of course, one year when I wasn’t lonely – I was madly, passionately, blindly in love. The fact that I was 8 and the object of my affections was in her mid-20’s didn’t faze me one bit.

And wouldn’t you know it, she was a teacher.

I met her while playing with her dog one afternoon, and pretty soon I became insanely jealous of her husband. Thankfully, they both just considered me nothing more than, much to my mortification, a cute little chubby kid. It should be noted that this was the last time in recent memory anyone used cute when referring to This Writer.

I hauled an armload of ancient textbooks across the yard one day and presented myself at her front door. It never occurred to me that a schoolteacher might want to think about anything but schoolteaching during the summer. To her credit, she returned with the old books, most of which were leftovers from before she was born, and every few days we’d spend a few hours on geography, history, English and science. I somehow avoided finding a math text, since that was my worst subject.

Anyone else might have just shooed the young’un away, or said she didn’t have time, but that summer, the teacher kept on teaching, and when school started back, I had learned about subjects that were still a year or three away.

My summer romance with the teacher next door was doomed from the start; not only was I a bit young, but she was a happily married woman, and she taught at a public school. The next year she moved away, but I was too busy with the preacher’s daughter to notice. She was closer to my age, anyway.

My folks encouraged me in my schoolwork, but they expected results and they rarely allowed me to get away without doing my best. Having learned the boundaries early on, I could throw myself into learning. I loved to read, especially about history and geography, thanks in part to my teacher-girlfriend as well as my family. I was always anxious to see what new books the school year would bring. We were also blessed with fine teachers, since our school could afford to fire the hacks and hire real teachers.

School meant I again got to see friends I’d missed all summer, and even a bus ride on a cold, wet morning could be an adventure.

When I see those young’uns almost every morning, trudging their way to the school bus with the enthusiasm of a condemned criminal, I hope they learn to look forward to the beginning of the school year. I hope they have folks who know learning doesn’t end at school. I hope they have real books in their classrooms, as opposed to the computers which are so pervasive – even though a technophobe such as I must admit they are efficient, at least for some courses of study.

I sincerely hope that at least a few of those dejected bus-riders will be so blessed as to live near a very patient young teacher who loves his or her craft.

I know most teachers do indeed love their craft – they must, to put up with feral children who may or may not have any parental guidance, ridiculous regulations that stifle the education process, and layers of administration and bureaucracy thick enough to shock even the most ardent big government fanatic.

For those few teachers who still understand why they do it, I hope there are a few children whose eyes are opened, and who come to realize that the first day of school doesn’t have to be the end of the good times – but only the beginning.

Jefferson Weaver is a staff writer with The News Reporter. He may be reached at 642-4104, ext. 227, or via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.