I was a high school senior when I discovered my astonishing talent. Some people have a photographic memory or perfect pitch. I had perfect timing.
I’d been helping my grandfather with his job as janitor of the K-12 school I attended in Java, South Dakota. In my senior year, I volunteered to stoke the school’s coal-fired furnace.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Sometimes you discover you have a true superpower. And sometimes things are not exactly what they seem.
This meant rising an hour earlier, going to school, and shoveling a half-ton of coal into the furnace’s hopper.
Then I’d go home, clean up, change, eat breakfast, and return to school.
That first week, twice in a row, the instant I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the school, the bell rang. Thus encouraged, I became obsessed with punctuality. I’d step onto the school’s sidewalk, and the bell would ring. It was rewarding – and eerie.
The weather warmed; the stoking stopped. My zeal faded.
Decades later, I ran into the school superintendent in charge of ringing the bell back then. I couldn’t resist bragging about how I’d managed my complex mornings and still arrive at school just as the bell rang.
“Oh that,” he said. “My desk and office windows looked out over the front of the building. I often saw you coming. And when you hit the sidewalk, I’d ring the bell.”
I was a high school senior when I discovered my astonishing talent. The discovery so shocked me that I kept mum about it, thinking that no one would believe what I was able to achieve morning after morning.
Some people have a photographic memory; others have perfect pitch. I had perfect timing. Perfect!
I was living with my maternal grandparents at the time. My mother had died when I was 13, the oldest of four children. Our father was largely absent, so our grandparents graciously took in my two sisters, my brother, and me.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Sometimes you discover you have a true superpower. And sometimes things are not exactly what they seem.
Our grandparents were not wealthy. They had recently retired from years of sharecrop farming. While they’d managed to save enough to buy a home in the tiny town of Java, South Dakota, they were short on living expenses, especially with four kids to feed and clothe.
So, our grandfather took a job as janitor of the Java school building, a large two-story structure that housed grades 1-12. Keeping the entire building clean was a stressful job for one man. Realizing this, I began helping him after school, sweeping rooms and emptying wastebaskets, for a small wage. I continued this work until my final year of high school.
By that time, Grandpa was eight years past retirement age. When the first cold snap of that year arrived, he fired up the school’s furnace. He quickly realized how difficult it had become for him to shovel the huge pile of coal chips required to fill the hopper of the furnace’s stoker.
I volunteered to take on that job, a commitment that required me to set my alarm clock an hour earlier each morning. I’d fumble into coal-darkened jeans, go over to the school, and shovel a half ton of coal into the hopper, enough to keep the fire blazing for 24 hours. Next morning, I’d fill it again.
After finishing that chore, I’d go home, clean up, change clothes, and eat breakfast. I’d pace my preparations by glancing at the mantel clock in the dining room – it would be years before I’d have a watch. Then I’d head back to school, always at the last minute.
It was during those morning rushes to school that I discovered my superpower.
On two consecutive mornings the week I began stoking the furnace, at the very instant I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the school, the first bell rang. That was the signal for students to head to class. This astonishing coincidence prompted me to hone my precision. I became obsessed with maintaining my split-second timing. I scrupulously planned each phase of my morning activity. I paced myself. I achieved astonishing precision. Often I’d step onto the school’s sidewalk just as the first bell rang.
Not always. Some days I was a bit off. But most mornings, my arrival and the first bell coincided. This accomplishment gave me enormous pride – and some eerie feelings.
I enjoyed my newfound precision for only a few months. As warm weather arrived, there was no need to stoke the furnace. I missed my former routine, but I easily adapted to sleeping longer. I soon lost my zeal for arriving just in time. Nevertheless, I was proud of my amazing inner clock. I sensed it snoozing in the background, ready to awake and snap back into action when needed.
***
Decades later, at a school reunion, I happened to meet Harold Spiry, the superintendent of our school in my time, He’d been in charge of ringing the bell by pressing a button in his office. My mind flashed back, and I couldn’t resist bragging. I told Mr. Spiry about how well I had ordered my complex morning work back then, how – despite that lengthy string of morning duties – my timing had been impeccable. Morning after morning, I said with pride, I’d stepped on the school’s sidewalk just as the bell rang.
“Oh that,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he thought back to that time. “Do you recall that my desk and office windows looked out over the front of the building? I often saw you coming. And when you hit the sidewalk, I’d ring the bell.”