That’s right, the Jack of All Trades — he who is incredibly sensitive at the same time he revels in snakes and dinosaurs and his pet land crabs; mature beyond his age (heck, he was 10 seconds old, going on 50 years, before the cord was even clipped); a bon vivant since preschool; a stand-up comic, the list can go on — can add the additional distinction of being a character WITH character to his résumé.
His classmates voted him the honor based on character traits they learned throughout the year: responsibility, respectfulness, citizenship, trustworthiness and honesty. He snagged a trophy and a certificate, not to mention the steak dinner his family treated him to the night after the award at a school assembly gobsmacked him.
Proud parents Melissa and Skip with their honored son Jack and his trophy and certificate. He doesn't put on airs, despite his accolades.
I know Melissa and Skip should get the lion’s share of the credit for building this little man of character, but I’d like to think I had some influence, too. Nonetheless, I won’t toot my own horn, but rather salute Jack on this momentous occasion.
A great indicator of the depth of his character is that he recently narc’d himself out for a little mischief at school in which he wasn’t really the main culprit. I won’t go into details, other than to say he went home, agonizingly explained the situation to Melissa, and then suggested that she accompany him to school so he could confess to the teacher.
Imagine THAT. He wasn’t even indicted for the incident, but he felt the need to plead guilty. He also had apologized to the offended party, who is one of his friends, on the day the “crime” occurred. How’s that for character, and loyalty?
Frankly, it leaves me feeling a bit ashamed about a stunt I pulled when I was in fourth grade. We boys decided it would be fun to tackle the girls on the playground during noon recess. Fun, yes, but not such a good idea, we discovered in that era of paranoia over patent-leather shoes, when the nuns called us on the carpet and sentenced the guilty parties to a suitable punishment.
I now plead guilty to not pleading guilty then. I think my alibi to myself when S’Ter DeSales asked for a show of hands of boys involved in using the girls for tackling dummies was that, although I helped hatch the plan, I was too chicken to participate. Or maybe it was just that Jeannie Bartek, my girlfriend throughout grade school (in my mind; she never really seemed to acknowledge it, and she was even downright rebellious when she spat on the ground after I stole a smooch from her in first grade) eluded my grasp.
Whatever propelled my character lapse, I didn’t have to kneel at the front of the classroom, arms extended, as a penance. A couple of girls whined to S’Ter that I was in on the caper, but she dismissed their caterwauling by saying I wouldn’t do such a thing.
When the culprits’ arms sagged, S’ter berated them and told them to hold up their arms, scolding: “Now you’re feeling how Christ felt on the cross!”
If I had it to do over again, I’d ’fess up, and I’d try to swipe another kiss from Jeannie, who ended up carving her REAL boyfriend’s initials in her arm when she reached high school. And they weren’t “M.T.”
Years later, when I was a senior in high school, my image as an angel continued to bless me, and curse me. We senior boys decided it would be great fun to depants a freshman during recess. Great fun, except we picked a big, burly farm kid who cleaned our clock.
Of course, the brawl attracted the attention of the nuns, who told the priest, who not only raised hell with us, but called all of our parents to school to revile us in front of them.
In that case, I confessed to S’Ter Reparata that I was one of the ringleaders, but she pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Michael, you’d never DO such a thing.” Instead, she singled out Mike Rooney because, as everybody knew, he smoked.
But enough about me. Back to Jack, and I don’t mean Black, although it was rather black of him, the way he reveled in looking at my hernia scar and pleaded to get to take out the stitches. Two of my fave recollections of the lad’s youth:
When he was about 2, I served him his traditional bowl of ice cream in the living room when he was over for a visit. I then went into the kitchen for a bit and, when I returned, I beheld the horrible sight of him with chocolate ice cream not only all over his face but also down his belly and dripped over quite a bit of the couch. Fortunately, he was shirtless, so he needed just a minor hosing down, and the couch was leather, so the goo wiped off fairly easily.
When he was a tot, he liked to run around the house nekkid after his bath. Lots of kids do that, I’m told, but I suspect that few have tried this pose: He stood on his head on a chair, leaving his, uh, privates (I guess some people call it junk these days) exposed to the world.
I wonder how many of his peers would have voted for him THAT day? Well, I guess he still would have gotten the nod for being a “character.”
Anyway, I salute Jack and his parents, and his siblings, for his honor. After all, it takes a family to raise a child. Of CHARACTER.
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