Flashback Friday: The Peanut Butter Ball Incident
The Ledgeview Elementary Cafeteria was one of those gymnasium/cafeteria/auditoriums. A gymterium, if you will. I have a lot of memories in that multi-functional room. I remember when I was in second grade, I was sitting at my table, eating my packed lunch, minding my own business, when a fourth or fifth grader standing in the nearby line to buy a lunch, pointed at me, and remarked, "Look. That girl eats like a rabbit." I spent the next decade trying to figure out how to chew with my mouth closed, without resembling a rabbit in any way. It's tough.
But that's not the story I meant to tell. That's a bonus flashback.
This story began in the lunchroom. I was in fourth grade, and I had bought my lunch that day. As was often the case, the dessert was a peanut butter ball. If you're not familiar with this delicacy, it is a greasy, doughy ball formed of peanut butter, flour, and probably lard. I think this was before people were concerned about childhood obesity. Anyways, peanut butter balls were a pretty big hit among the elementary school crowd.
It was forbidden to take food out of the gymterium, but this was not an easily enforced rule. On this particular day, I had not finished my lunch, (probably as a result of trying to be as un-rabbit-like as possible), and I still had the peanut butter ball on my tray. Lunch was over and it seemed a travesty to throw it out, so I hid it in my palm and made my way to recess.
I saw Bryan in the hall. He was a classmate of mine, and we had an on-and-off relationship from grades 1 through 5. By that I mean in first grade, we got in trouble for kissing on the playground, and in fifth grade he gave me a heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates on Valentine's Day. As we neared the doors to go outside for recess, I had a brilliant idea. With a peanut butter ball in my hand, and a ceiling above my head, what else was I to do?
Well, I had a hypothesis about what might happen next. And it turned out I was right. We looked up and there was my peanut butter ball, glued firmly to the ceiling. It was a satisfying experiment. Bryan thought it was pretty awesome, and let's be honest, it sort of was. Bryan quickly procured another peanut butter ball, and in what seemed like a very romantic gesture at the time, he launched it at the ceiling, where it joined mine. They were a perfect pair. And I saw them as a symbol of our love.
But the good feelings were soon replaced by terror. I had acted impulsively, and I didn't have an exit strategy. So I fled the scene of the crime. But it was too late - I had inspired quite a few copycat peanut butter ballers. By the time all the students had gone out to recess, there were a good half-dozen more balls stuck to the ceiling, all in the same general location.
I didn't enjoy recess that day. Then again, I didn't often enjoy recess. Not a fan of running around, or throwing balls, I usually spent recess standing against the building, waiting to go inside. But this was a particularly unpleasant recess. I sat on the asphalt, racked with guilt, waiting for the inevitable.
I was sick. 10 more minutes and I probably would have turned myself in. But I didn't have to. Finally, one of the recess aides walked over to me, and informed me that the principal would like to see me in his office. It was the beginning of the end.
I had never been to the principal's office before. Well, actually, I had. But only to get my picture taken for being Student of the Week. This was different.
His name was Mr. V. He was a nice guy and he kept a jar of those little caramel squares on his desk. But I sensed this was not going to be a candy-eating occasion.
Bryan had been apprehended as well. Mr. V sat us down and instructed us to write letters to our parents explaining what we had done, why it was wrong, and how terribly we felt about it. I did not have to lie. I was a wreck. I had broken the rules and now the janitor would have to scrape peanut butter off the ceiling, all because of me. Mr. V collected our letters and informed us that he would mail them to our parents.
I couldn't imagine a worse punishment. The waiting would kill me. When I went home from school that day, I tried to act like nothing was wrong, but I just couldn't do it. That night, I broke down in tears and confessed to my mom. I assumed I would be shipped off to boarding school. A boarding school that didn't serve anything in ball form. I was sure that my parents would be furious. I had been sent to the principal's office; I had sullied the family name. But in a shocking turn of events, my mom laughed. She hugged me and said, "Oh Jeanne, we'd still love you if you threw 100 peanut butter balls at the ceiling." Of course I would never waste so many precious peanut butter balls, but I was comforted nonetheless.
Life would return to normal. And as it turns out, Mr. V never mailed those letters. I felt a little betrayed. I also wondered what he had done with them. Did he keep a file of confessions written by 9-year-olds, just in case he ever needed to blackmail someone? Perhaps. But what I didn't know at the time was Mr. V was a very disturbed Vietnam vet. The following year, he instituted a program of calisthenics designed to punish troublemakers. And the year after that, he killed himself.
But Mr. V did succeed in scaring me straight. I never threw another dessert. And while the punishment seemed cruel at the time, looking back on it, I'm really glad I didn't have to do any jumping jacks.
But that's not the story I meant to tell. That's a bonus flashback.
This story began in the lunchroom. I was in fourth grade, and I had bought my lunch that day. As was often the case, the dessert was a peanut butter ball. If you're not familiar with this delicacy, it is a greasy, doughy ball formed of peanut butter, flour, and probably lard. I think this was before people were concerned about childhood obesity. Anyways, peanut butter balls were a pretty big hit among the elementary school crowd.
It was forbidden to take food out of the gymterium, but this was not an easily enforced rule. On this particular day, I had not finished my lunch, (probably as a result of trying to be as un-rabbit-like as possible), and I still had the peanut butter ball on my tray. Lunch was over and it seemed a travesty to throw it out, so I hid it in my palm and made my way to recess.
I saw Bryan in the hall. He was a classmate of mine, and we had an on-and-off relationship from grades 1 through 5. By that I mean in first grade, we got in trouble for kissing on the playground, and in fifth grade he gave me a heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates on Valentine's Day. As we neared the doors to go outside for recess, I had a brilliant idea. With a peanut butter ball in my hand, and a ceiling above my head, what else was I to do?
Well, I had a hypothesis about what might happen next. And it turned out I was right. We looked up and there was my peanut butter ball, glued firmly to the ceiling. It was a satisfying experiment. Bryan thought it was pretty awesome, and let's be honest, it sort of was. Bryan quickly procured another peanut butter ball, and in what seemed like a very romantic gesture at the time, he launched it at the ceiling, where it joined mine. They were a perfect pair. And I saw them as a symbol of our love.
But the good feelings were soon replaced by terror. I had acted impulsively, and I didn't have an exit strategy. So I fled the scene of the crime. But it was too late - I had inspired quite a few copycat peanut butter ballers. By the time all the students had gone out to recess, there were a good half-dozen more balls stuck to the ceiling, all in the same general location.
I didn't enjoy recess that day. Then again, I didn't often enjoy recess. Not a fan of running around, or throwing balls, I usually spent recess standing against the building, waiting to go inside. But this was a particularly unpleasant recess. I sat on the asphalt, racked with guilt, waiting for the inevitable.
I was sick. 10 more minutes and I probably would have turned myself in. But I didn't have to. Finally, one of the recess aides walked over to me, and informed me that the principal would like to see me in his office. It was the beginning of the end.
I had never been to the principal's office before. Well, actually, I had. But only to get my picture taken for being Student of the Week. This was different.
His name was Mr. V. He was a nice guy and he kept a jar of those little caramel squares on his desk. But I sensed this was not going to be a candy-eating occasion.
Bryan had been apprehended as well. Mr. V sat us down and instructed us to write letters to our parents explaining what we had done, why it was wrong, and how terribly we felt about it. I did not have to lie. I was a wreck. I had broken the rules and now the janitor would have to scrape peanut butter off the ceiling, all because of me. Mr. V collected our letters and informed us that he would mail them to our parents.
I couldn't imagine a worse punishment. The waiting would kill me. When I went home from school that day, I tried to act like nothing was wrong, but I just couldn't do it. That night, I broke down in tears and confessed to my mom. I assumed I would be shipped off to boarding school. A boarding school that didn't serve anything in ball form. I was sure that my parents would be furious. I had been sent to the principal's office; I had sullied the family name. But in a shocking turn of events, my mom laughed. She hugged me and said, "Oh Jeanne, we'd still love you if you threw 100 peanut butter balls at the ceiling." Of course I would never waste so many precious peanut butter balls, but I was comforted nonetheless.
Life would return to normal. And as it turns out, Mr. V never mailed those letters. I felt a little betrayed. I also wondered what he had done with them. Did he keep a file of confessions written by 9-year-olds, just in case he ever needed to blackmail someone? Perhaps. But what I didn't know at the time was Mr. V was a very disturbed Vietnam vet. The following year, he instituted a program of calisthenics designed to punish troublemakers. And the year after that, he killed himself.
But Mr. V did succeed in scaring me straight. I never threw another dessert. And while the punishment seemed cruel at the time, looking back on it, I'm really glad I didn't have to do any jumping jacks.
Labels: guilt, peanut butter
posted by lady at 4:17 PM
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