The Shoeless Principal
Page 8/8
“Ready to hear Chapter Two of Shoeless Principal: The Marriage Years?” Sheila asked. “Absolutely,” I said, and with that, Stan was off on another yarn, a tale worth listening to for fifteen minutes, or thirty, or maybe even longer. I didn’t have any particular place to go the following day. Although I knew Beardsley, my eleven-year-old orange tabby, was probably growing fed up with me now, looking out for his dinner. He wakes me in the morning by nibbling on my ears at 5:30 a.m., and then biting my neck at 6:30 and not stopping the onslaught until I supply him with kibble and tuna and liver downstairs in his bowl. Whenever I first come through my front door, Beardsley shows me love with his multiple bunting on my shins, and purrs like a contented leopard. For now, though, I’ll listen to another chapter by my new friend, Stan, before I take my buzzing brain and head homeward. Perhaps catch the 10 p.m. news. I’ll go for a couple brisk walks down to the red Stop sign tomorrow and return home and write. I’ll shoot for at least five full pages of decent storytelling and try to sell some of them. That’s my goal every morning – perhaps I’ll pen a tale about a wounded, fragmented teacher who re-constructed himself and his career after a bizarre move nearly wiped him off the sanity map. Everyone still adores the underdog in America, though, right? My own stories don’t have to offer much boost, but I do believe in redemption, or at least, that spirit of possibility within us all. And despite our warming planet’s plagues and rages, there’s also room for love, and life. At least, I hope there is.