Greg Manning. In sixth grade he and his strange Northern accent moved to my small southern town from a place called Michigan. I heard adults whisper that his father had lost his job and the family needed help. Greg cussed and puffed his chest out and told us he smoked cigarettes and would beat us up if we told on him for any of the cruel things he did to some of the other kids. I was both scared and fascinated by him.
His family eventually moved and he left our small town and took his troubled childhood with him. Our teacher, Mr. Grindstaff told us that Greg's father had been called back to work in Michigan and he wouldn't be in our class any longer. Each of us slowly started telling a dismayed Mr. Grindstaff some of the mischievous, spiteful and downright mean things poor Greg did during his time with our class.
I can still see Mr. Grindstaff's face, his long corduroy clad legs crossed at the ankles leaning against his desk as we told of ketchup in seats, punches on arms, ransomed lunches and the use of words I blush to remember. Our kind-hearted and protective Mr. Grindstaff promised us that if he'd known he would have paddled Greg and if he ever saw him again he do it twice as hard to make up for our torment.
As life happens, whose father do you think lost his job and moved back to the coalfields with his family and right into Mr. Grindstaff's sixth grade class and a group of bewildered and frightened 12 year olds? Greg Manning.
I didn't know whether to hide or cry I was so afraid he'd find out we told all of his secrets but before he got his coat hung up in the cloak closet, Greg was told that the jig was up. Mr. Grindstaff told Greg about his promise to us and took him into the hallway and paddled his bottom.
He was a model student from that day forward.
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