Red Hot Momma

    Senior year high school English was a stressful experience. Mostly, I was terrified of the teacher. Mrs. Meisenheimer was kind of third in command over the whole school after the principal and assistant principal. She ruled the yearbook and was strict on the dress code for school pictures – so I already had three years of interacting with her and her demand for white blouses with buttons down the front and Peter Pan collars. My clothes were not good enough for her – what would happen when she found out I was a fraud in AP English?

      The class was right after lunch every day. I could hardly eat – my anxiety levels were so high. Worrying about what might happen in class got my stomach all tied up in knots. Why did I choose AP English? It was a question I asked all the time. Would she use something I wrote to ridicule in front of the class? Would she sooner or later tell me I didn't have what it took to be considered on the same level with the other kids? I dreaded the end of lunch period every day, and I watched the clock all through English.

       There were two times my answer was among the batch Mrs. M singled out as not worthy of 12^th grade English – one was the title for an essay - The Day We Lost – and rightly so, it was a crummy title since it gives away the story. Another time we had just finished Hamlet and were beginning Mourning Becomes Electra. Mrs. M told us to get out a piece of paper and write 5 things both plays had in common. Given enough time I could have come up with thoughtful answers, but I felt rushed, and my brain would not think – one of the things I put down that both plays had in common was – they are both tragedies! Yeah, there were a few chuckles in the room with that one. Mrs. M said that it was obvious they were both tragedies. Now in my old age, I think I would contend it was a legitimate response. But at the time I know I was merely being brain lazy.

       One time we were put on the spot when Mrs. M was irritated with cliches that we were using in our writing. “Red as an apple is too trite.” She seemed so miffed with our lack of originality that, in what looked to be a move of total spontaneity, Mrs. M told us each to get out a piece of paper and complete the expression Red as a...... being as creative and yet as accurate as possible.

      Not only was the pressure on to get the brain working and fast, but Mrs. M was walking up and down the aisles reading other kid's answers out loud as they wrote them down – her voice as she read, was critiquing them! Oh no! And the only thing I could think of was a variation on the apple. Would she mock me for completely missing the point? But my brain could not get past my first thought. I'd have to trust that she would appreciate that my apple painted a different picture.

       Mrs M saw my answer. She said to the class, “Red as a candy apple.” Then she straightened up (she was a tall woman) and commented, “That is a different kind of red than a red apple, isn't it? And it conjures up images of childhood.” Her voice was soft and sounded satisfied. Whew! I had super lucked out on that one.

      Red as a candy apple has stuck with me forever – the phrase that is, I don't particularly care for candy apples to eat. The words do however bring to mind thoughts of childhood.

     One summer when Sarah and Amanda were still in grade school, we sat together at the dinner table a few nights in a row and came up with three pages of statements that filled in the “red as a....” . We envisioned being at a storytelling event and each sitting on a stool on the stage – taking turns with the red as a...... story we had written – red as the sand on Mars, red as the traffic light that just changed from yellow, red as our Red Hot Momma!

       We never did present the story in public – but I still have it, so maybe one day we can. I do know we had a lot of laughs putting it all together.

       And I have Mrs. M to thank for that.

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