As the Class turns....

(or, Will vacuous rhetoric burn our minds?)

“Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap….” sounds the cadence of Miss Jones’ Ticonderoga number two pencil bouncing up and down upon the table top. Slightly humored, she observes her class focusing their attention upon the tapping pencil. Up and down the multiple pairs of eyes jump in rhythm with the school bus yellow writing instrument. All pairs, but one.

“Ah yessss,” Miss Jones silently ruminates, “Mary has ended her twaddle and is waiting for my judgement upon her suggestions.” She notes no guile or defiant challenge in the behemoth-sized girl’s gaze. Mary’s beady eyes fill with a simple, yet eager, expectancy. Unlike most of her students, Mary’s mind harbors a vast storehouse of tedium and detailed intelligence (albeit, some fantasy details misaligned with actual facts). If one could transcend the callow exterior, which belied the young lady blossoming within, a malleable, delightful mind awaited an engaging educator. “Does the girl have no governess or genteel influence in her life?” Miss Jones ponders as she assesses the gangly shell of the child.

With cat-like grace, Miss Jones turns to her map collection and slowly pulls down the detailed drawing of the North American Continent. As her eyes expertly skim across the delineated borders of states and provinces, she catches the barely audible sound of whispers and ill-repressed giggles.

“Class?” Miss Jones calls in her velvet-toned voice. Immediately, all noises cease with the exception of the mechanical humming of the bell clock. From some distance, disturbing the artificial silence, whisking, methodical strokes of the grounds-keeper raking trespassing maple leaves from immaculate greens can just be detected. She wonders absently why the guardian of the grounds vainly toils to eradicate irrefutable proof of a waning summer and an ensuing change in weather. Frequently every Fall, Miss Jones often fantasizes about running barefoot across the campus lawns while releasing the captured leaves from their non-biodegradable Hefty-bag prisons.

Refocusing her thoughts to the task at hand, Miss Jones rests her manicured finger upon the first suggested province. After a moment of consideration, she withdraws. Amused, but retaining a stoic face, she pivots to face her students.

Will Miss Jones chide massive Mary for her incorrect assumption? Will Mary wilt under the piercing gaze of Miss Jones? Will the bell ever sound, releasing the students from Miss Jones’ enclave? Tune in again (not necessarily, tomorrow) to see where creative verbosity takes us…until then pursue creative rhetoric.