Chapter Two

There's Always Optimism

               In this world there are two types of school superintendents, Tom was fond of saying. There are the young and idealistic who want to set the world on fire. And there are the other type, older and cynical …the superintendents who are content to let the younger teachers ‘lead the charge’ towards a better school system. In 1990, Tom Harant was a realist who knew that the School Superintendent couldn’t win every battle with the school board. Nevertheless, he was forty-seven years old, and still looked forward to improving one or two programs for his kids. He still believed that if you explain the need to a school board, in a majority of times, the board would agree with the superintendent.
               Tom was an optimist who believed the schools could be improved. He had a difficult time understanding the attitude of his predecessor.
               “When I met Arley Green a year ago, he seemed tired,” Tom told the audience in his breezeway one night. It was election night in May 1990. The Iron Lake voters had voted 1210 to 690 to approve an excess levy of $65,000 per annum. Crystal was serving iced tea with plum wine to their guests Percy and Eileen. Percy was the Vietnam veteran on the board. Eileen worked as an Early Childhood teacher. They wanted children, but Eileen had recently said she already had one child to take care of …her Percy.
               Tom’s third guest that Election Night was Corrine Harant, who had just finished her first year of teaching at Iron Lake. Corrine had walked over from her bungalow two blocks away.
               “How long did he work here?” Corrine asked. She was wearing a light cotton dress of pale yellow and a dark blue windbreaker. Tom smiled at her, knowing that his entire family was proud that Cookie became a teacher.
               “Thirty-five years, or so I’ve been told,” said Tom.
               “Why was he tired?”
               “That’s not what I meant.”
               “Not tired?”
               “No, more like he just didn’t care. He had done his stint, borrowed the money the school needed, and left the district in debt. He didn’t care.” Tom looked at Corrine looking at him and realized that she idolized her father. A stone turned in his stomach. Her blue eyes seemed to be laughing at him but he knew better. Her lips had formed into a half-smile, telling Tom that she was interested in whatever Tom had to say.
               “There’s a story they tell about Arley,” Tom added.
               “Tell your daughter,” Percy broke in. He was sitting back in the yellow wicker chair, admiring his iced tea. Percy was on the board two years earlier when the board fired Arley Green.
               “Well, it seems Billy Washburn was sitting in the last row of chairs in the board room, daydreaming. He noticed Arley looking at him and Billy moved his head. There was no reaction from Arley.”
               “He was asleep, with both eyes half closed.” Percy had been sitting next to Arley when he heard a soft rumble. “It was one of those marathon meetings you hear about.” Percy had touched Arley’s arm and he woke up, momentarily.
               “He fell asleep, again, with his head propped up on his fist.” Tom laughed, picturing the scene. For the superintendent to fall asleep, someone had to be talking an issue to death.
               “According to Mr. Washburn, Arnold Murkiwasser was talking about how the custodians need to use more paint in the summer. Arnie was going on and on about paint and its value for school morale.”
               “Listening to Arnie talk is about as exciting as watching paint dry,” added Percy. His wife Eileen perked up, and laughed. Arnie Murkiwasser owned a paint and home decorating store in Iron Lake.
               “He’s the same way in his store,” she said stridently.
               “Well, anyway, seems like Connie Cratt decided to shake up Arley. He sticks in a motion to fire the superintendent. The motion passed four to two. And they went on with the agenda.”
               “And ten minutes later,” Percy said, eagerly racing through the story, “Arley gets up and leaves for the men’s room. He slept through the entire motion.”
               Then Percy added, “So, while he’s gone, Curt Fitzsimmons, who hates Cratt’s guts, makes a motion to rehire the superintendent and give him a $3,000 raise.” To Corrine, Percy explained that Fitzsimmons runs the largest hog operation in Spencer County, feeding one hundred sows and producing eight hundred piglets every five months. Mr. Fitzsimmons distrusts Connie Cratt and believes every employee is entitled to be treated fairly.
               “So, what happened?” asked Corrine.
               “Well, Glacinda Fallow had gone to the lady’s room, leaving five members. Patty Trivic changed her vote and the motion carried three to two.”
               “And the superintendent?”
               “No one told him, figuring he could read it in the minutes.”
               “That’s the point of my story,” Tom added.
               “What is?”
               “That he just didn’t care” Tom was trying to make the story illustrate the cynicism he found in some of his fellow superintendents.
               “Next day, Billy Washburn, I mean Mr. Washburn,” he said looking at Corrine, who worked for Washburn, “takes the minutes to Arley’s office and congratulates him. Arley says ‘What for?’ And Mr. Washburn says, ‘for getting fired and a $3000 raise while you were visiting the men’s room, and you didn’t know it.”
               There was dead silence for a long minute. No one said anything. Corrine knew that her Dad liked to tell stories with a punch line. Crystal, who knew her husband, finally asked,
               “And what did Arley say?”
               “He said, ‘that’s nice’. That’s all he said.” Tom chuckled.

*****

                A dark four-door sedan drove slowly past Tom’s house. Tom heard the motor but paid little attention. Corrine was telling Percy and Eileen Smith about her first year as an Art teacher. Crystal had gone into the kitchen to retrieve Tom’s bottle of brandy. Tom had proposed that they have a toast to the Iron Lake schools. After all, he noted, the voters had said yes to the $65,000 annual levy by a landslide.
               Tom could hear the car turning around at the end of the block. It was a half-hour to mid-night on a quiet Tuesday night in May. Tom guessed some high school boy was bringing his neighbor’s daughter home. The car slowed in front of Tom’s and when it was even with the breezeway, stopped. The streetlight reflected off the car’s hood …it was a Ford sedan. A light breeze moved through the trees, and rustled pages of a magazine in Tom’s breezeway. The driver got out of his car, stood back from it and swung his arm, slamming the car door.
               The man took four steps onto Tom’s lawn. He stopped under one of the Norway pines that guarded Tom’s house. With the street light behind him, the people in the breezeway saw a black outline, but little more. Tom stood up just as Crystal re-appeared from the kitchen.
               “What is it?” she asked, putting the brandy on the table between Percy and his wife.
               “Someone wants to talk to me, I guess.” He moved toward the door out to the front lawn. The man under the tree had not moved.
               “Can I help you?” Tom said rather loudly.
               “Want to talk to you, Mister Harant,” came back the reply.
               “I’ll come to you.” By this time, Percy was standing behind Tom, asking why Tom was going into the yard. “He wants to talk to me and I don’t want him coming any further.”
               Tom pushed the screen door open and walked into the yard. Percy stood inside the breezeway where the man could see him. The three women watched Tom walk out to the pine trees. The man had not moved. As he approached, Tom said,
               “Pretty late at night for a visit isn’t it?”
               “Guess so,” the man answered.
               “And you are? …”
               The man stood quietly, not moving. His right hand suddenly came up and he smacked it into his left palm. He stood looking at Tom and his right hand slowly retreated until he put it into the windbreaker he was wearing. He leaned toward Tom and a whiff of whiskey passed by Tom’s nose.
               “George Fallow, I raise chickens east of town. My wife is on your so-called Board of Education.” The emphasis he placed on so-called turned the words into a sneer.
               “And what do you want?” asked Tom.
               “Piece of advice, Mr. Harant?”
               “You giving out advice, Mr. Fallow?” Tom felt defensive, being attacked at his own home by a man he had met once before, at a school district picnic. The man was about Tom’s height, at four inches taller than six feet. He was perhaps 50 to 60 pounds heavier with bulky shoulders and the arms of a farmer.
               “I’m here to tell you to watch out,” said Fallow quietly. “You may think you have this here town fooled, but we know what you are.”
               “And what is that?”
               “Some fancy salesman, that’s who.”
               “Are you talking about tonight’s election?”
               “Yes, I am.”
               “I only told people why they should vote yes.”
               “You hoodwinked a lot of people.”
               “Is this your opinion, or your wife’s opinion?” It occurred to Tom to wonder if Glacinda Fallow felt the same, that Tom was distorting the need for the $65,000 increase in the local levy. Glacinda and Cratt both voted against running the levy referendum …but they kept their mouths shut during the campaign.
               “Speaking for myself.”
               “Well, your neighbors voted for it.”
               “And raised my taxes.”
               “That’s how majority rule works.”
               “And raised my taxes. Connie says all of this tax increase is going into larger salaries for the teachers. Is that true?”
               “Depends on what happens in negotiations.”
               “So …it is true, isn’t it?”
               “That we will probably increase teacher’s salaries …yes, I suppose it is.”
               “More money for them teachers,” said Fallow with no enthusiasm. While he was saying this, Fallow reached into a back pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle. He unscrewed the top and offered some to Tom. When Tom refused, Fallow took a long hard swallow of the contents. The smell of whiskey again floated past Tom’s nose.
               “Majority rule, Mr. Fallow. That’s how it works.” The hour and the man were beginning to wear thin. Tom took a step backward. “If you have nothing else, you’ve said what you came to say, haven’t you?”
               “Just you watch out!” Mr. Fallow was replacing the bottle in his back pocket. “My wife Linda says you are an okay guy. But Connie thinks you’re some kind of slick salesman.”
               “Good night, Mr. Fallow.”
               “Same to you, Mr. Harant.” The man turned toward his car. Tom crossed the yard and was opening the breezeway door when he heard the car motor start up. To the four blank faces he encountered in the breezeway, he said simply that the man wanted to express his displeasure with how the election turned out.
               Crystal had poured cola into Tom’s brandy. She stood up and gave the glass to Tom. She looked at Tom and he patted her arm.
               “Nothing to worry about, my love.”
               “Let’s hope not.” Crystal turned away from Tom and began collecting the glasses. It was a signal that the gathering was over. Eileen pulled her light shawl over her shoulders and pulled Percy towards the door. Corrine followed them out, mumbling something about getting some sleep before another school day.
               When Crystal came back onto the breezeway, Tom was looking out the window, staring at the Norway pines in the front yard.
               “Was it nothing, Tom?”
               “I don’t know. That was Mr. Fallow, Glacinda’s husband. Sounds to me like Cratt has been stirring up some ugly opinions, where the teachers are concerned.” Tom knew all about ugly opinions. Cratt reminded him of a lynch mob leader who was willing to lead until someone with a fist or a pistol stood up to him.

*****

               Tom was taking a required class in college, Speech 101, when he first heard about ugly opinions. At Marquette University in the 1960’s, undergraduates were required to learn how to speak in public and how to build an oral argument for any position. Audiences learned to identify ugly opinions. These were arguments without solid foundation that amounted to personal attacks. After becoming a superintendent, Tom learned that it didn’t matter if you had good, solid rational reasons for making a proposal. The emotional fervor of a parent or a taxpayer could sometimes outweigh rational arguments.
               “Sometimes I just don’t understand the school board,” he said quietly to Crystal. They were sitting on the breezeway, enjoying the euphoria after the levy referendum passed.
               “What did they do?”
               “They approved a bus pickup at the ice arena.”
               “Is that bad?”
               “I told the mother who started the rebellion that she was less than a mile from the elementary school. Her five-year-old will not qualify for bus aid.”
               “So you told the board not to do it?”
               “Yes,” he said, looking out across their back yard. Tom had turned the fountain on earlier. The sound of the splashing, late at night, was restful.
               “So, what’s the whole story?”
               “The mother gathered up a petition from all the mothers up there in Conroy Addition, near the ice arena. They came …or many of them came …to the board meeting to plead for the ‘safety of our children’.”
               “That sounds like a good cause.”
               “Very emotional. They did not want to admit that their children have been walking to the elementary school for the past twenty years without an accident.”
               Tom reached over to Crystal’s arm and patted it lightly. She looked up at him knowing he would do as the School Board ordered. His role was to implement the decisions of the Board. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
               “Still, it hurts to have the Board ignore my recommendation. The Director of Transportation told the Board how much the extra bussing would cost. Did they pay attention? They listened and then ignored his advice.”
               Tom got up and walked to the back breezeway door. He found the switch for the fountain and turned it off. To his right, a full moon was throwing silver flashes across the back yard. The leaves on the triple birch were flashing as they shimmered in the late night breeze. A bat came flashing by, searching for insects. From a block away, Tom could hear a ‘Hoot’ owl calling to its mate, while it hunted flying squirrels. He heard Crystal picking up the glasses off the table and knew it was time for bed.
               “We had a card from Carl.”
               “Oh?”
               “Nothing serious. He needs more pocket cash.”
               “Figures. Why else would he write?”
               Tom picked up one last glass from the table and followed Crystal into the kitchen. Their son Carl was in his second year at Marquette University in Milwaukee. He had chosen Marquette because it was much closer than Notre Dame, and slightly less costly.

*****

               Tom had faced that same decision in the spring of 1961. Just about the time that Alan Shepard made his historic first flight aboard the Mercury capsule, Tom was preparing to graduate from Faribault High School and choosing a college. Minnesota’s leader of the Democratic-Farmer-Labor party, Senator Hubert Humphrey had nominated him for the Naval Academy. Something about the long years and arduous summer training sessions at Annapolis turned Tom away from Annapolis. He never had any money of his own and working during the summer months was mandatory. At least work seemed mandatory to Tom.
               He chose Marquette when the Navy offered him a full ride scholarship in the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps (NROTC). Marquette was closer, and he could work in the summer. Tom’s Aunt Jane, out in New Jersey, would add to the kitty with the $1,000 Tom needed to supplement his Navy scholarship. He enrolled in Marquette, telling his friends that there were girls at this college. As if that made a difference. It was years later before he admitted to himself that during his two years at Marquette, he was afraid of girls and ‘mostly uneducated’ where females were concerned.
               His one obsession, in those years, was to buy a car. He worked at Faribo Canning that first summer after graduation, and the second summer. Then he found a job in Milwaukee, stocking shelves at a liquor store. His job included protecting the owner. Aaron Burt wanted Tom and his 6’4” of bulk to protect the store if questionable people came in. It didn’t matter if they were black. If they were wearing long coats, Aaron wanted Tom to come up front and watch the customer. Aaron wanted Tom to make sure his liquor didn’t disappear into those long coats. That’s exactly what Tom did. But his grades dropped dramatically during his second year at Marquette.
               The $50 ‘beer money’ the Navy gave him, plus what he was earning from Aaron Burt almost guaranteed that Tom would get into academic probation. When he did his platoon leader assigned him to weekend study sessions that he attended with religious fervor. He dedicated himself to mastering calculus but the mysteries somehow floated over Tom’s head. Years later, he recalled the Christmas take-home test his sadistic Physics instructor had given the class. He tried to study the textbook all during Christmas break while trying to unravel the mysteries of the ‘period of an arc’ at sea level and three miles down a mine. When he should have been studying, Tom and his friend Richard were at a movie or in Richard’s kitchen drinking whiskey sours and arguing philosophy. Richard had discovered Kirkegaard and Kant. The physics test came back with a ‘D’ on it. In March of his second year, Tom was caught with his briefcase containing liquor in his dorm room. The university suspended him and he went home to Minnesota.

*****

               His trip home closed the book on Marquette. Tom was told to report for reserve duty at Wold Chamberlin Airfield in St. Paul. The Navy told him they didn’t need him. He stayed home in Faribault, looking for work. His buddies graduated from Marquette University in 1965 and 1966. They went on to service in Vietnam in the two years before the Tet Offensive. Thirty years later Tom realized he was carrying ‘survivor’s guilt’ for not serving.
               It had been a difficult two years at Marquette. While the other ‘boys’ in his group had girlfriends and bragged about their conquests, Tom couldn’t find the courage to ask a girl for a date. He had little pocket change and was embarrassed about the state of his clothes. Girls were a mystery. In his second year, Tom started weekly visits to Callahan’s Bar on 13th street. He was tall enough to bluff his way in. No one asked for a Wisconsin ID. It was during his second year that he developed an infatuation with his roommate’s girl, Patty.
               Miss Patricia Cellario was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty from a mysterious world of northwest Chicago. She came from an Italian suburb, as did her boyfriend Bob. Patty had a beautiful face, soft cheekbones and long black eyelashes. She was what was known, in those days, as a Latin Bombshell. She had attended a private high school for ‘upper-class’ girls and her girlfriends wanted desperately to have fun. Patty was a mystery …demure, quiet, and reserved. She was trying to find her way in a confusing world.
               Their last night together, Tom took Patty to their favorite pizza shop, and they shared a small bottle of wine. It was a night drawn with indelible ink. Tom would remember the strains of ‘their’ song, Nat King Cole’s version of ‘Misty’ played on the jukebox. He would remember with crystal clarity and sad regret the next two hours, parked on a side street. The words from ‘Misty’ kept rumbling through his mind “…I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree.” He remembered wanting desperately to kiss Patty, while she sat next to him, sighing. She was patient and said nothing. In the end, he had no courage. He never kissed her.

*****

               Months later, after making pool tables in LeCenter for three months, Tom was allowed to buy his first car, a 1950 Ford sedan. He had lost the Navy scholarship, embarrassed his family and tried desperately to pretend that it meant nothing to him. It was one of those incidents that Tom, with his strong willed determination, filed away for future reference. He wrote one letter to Patty in Chicago and she sent one letter when she was in Mexico. In the back of his mind, he knew he had been ‘way too timid’ with Patty. He somehow knew that he might never see her again …and he filed Marquette into the back of his mind.
               “Sometimes,” he admitted to Crystal, “I miss some of the people I met at Marquette. They were special to me.”
               “Do you want to go back?”
               “Someday, at least to look up Patty and Bob and Ted and see how they survived the past 25 years.”
               “But you can’t go back.”
               Tom looked out over the back yard, with its quiet calm. Crystal walked over and touched him on the arm. And he added, “Yes, I know.”

*****

               Perseus Alexis Smith had both hands hooked under the edge of the long table in front of him. He was standing, glaring at Robert Barnes, the lead negotiator for the teachers. A small group of ten teachers was sitting behind Barnes, providing moral support. Three school board members were sitting to the right and left of Percy Smith. Two other board members were standing to the back of the room, talking quietly with Arley Green, the superintendent.
               It was three years before Tom Harant arrived, the year the teachers claimed that the School Board didn’t respect their efforts, and the Board’s proposal of a 3.2 percent increase was too small. February had rolled around, and Percy Smith had convinced the Board to increase its offer to 4.5 percent.
               “But it’s not enough. Our neighbors in Urholt just offered 4.8 percent. If we accept your offer, we will be laughingstocks for settling too early.”
               Percy was looking at a man who invariably managed to get Percy ‘rather riled up’ as observers noted. Barnes was wearing his large ‘Teachers Care’ button on the lapel of his brown suit jacket. His brown-rimmed glasses were partially down his nose …he looked like a professor dressing down a recalcitrant student. Some members of his team actually thought he was trying to ‘get under’ Percy’s skin.
               “I know all about the dimes,” Percy stated bluntly.
               “The Urholt teachers can take their opinion and stuff it. We sent the dimes back.” Robert Barnes was still furious. The teachers at Urholt had sent $10.00 in dimes, to imply that Iron Lake teachers would settle for a dime when they ought to hold out for a dollar.
               “Is the Board…” but Barnes stopped in mid-sentence. For a man who was known in Iron Lake as ‘Bluster Barnes’, he had been relatively polite during this negotiation session. “Are you going to increase your offer?” The veins in his neck were bulging. His face was starting to turn red. He stood and glared at Percy. The board members at the table were looking down at a sheet of paper, on which Conrad Cratt had written ‘Drop the offer to 3.6 percent. They don’t want to negotiate’.
               “It’s been suggested,” said Percy softly, “that we lower our offer to 3.6 percent.”
               There was a moment’s quiet, before Barnes exploded. He picked up the Board’s written proposal and threw it at Percy. It hit the floor with a plop and slid up to Percy’s right foot. He looked down at the crumpled pages, then back at Barnes. “You don’t want to negotiate. All you want to do is squeeze and squeeze and squeeze,” Percy said.
               “Well, make us an offer we can take back,” shouted Barnes. There was silence throughout the auditorium. The two board members at the back of the stage were walking toward the front. Superintendent Green was beginning to shake his head, almost as if he were chastising Barnes for his outburst.
               “Damn you, Barnes …” Percy began to say. His shoulders were slumped as he grabbed the back of the long table. He heaved and the table flew upward, turning slowly as it fell into the space in front of Barnes. Papers continued to fly and float and scatter across the area between the two men.
               His audience was dumb-founded. No one said a word. Connie Cratt started laughing, and the teachers walked out en masse. The contract was settled at the next session. Four years later, when they went into the next round of negotiations with their new superintendent named Harant, Cratt told the story while Percy Smith sat and watched.
               “I only have one thing to say, Tom.”
               “Go ahead, Mr. Smith.”
               “I’ll support you on almost everything. Especially if it’s good for kids.” Percy went on to issue a warning and said, “The Iron Lake teachers are out for blood. They settled for less than Urholt and it has rankled them for years.”
               Tom looked at Percy, considering his words. He thought back to a conversation he had downtown with a farmer. The farmer warned him that Percy Smith was obstinate. ‘He’s been to Vietnam …infantry. He ain’t afraid of them teachers you got up there on the hill’.
               Tom had responded that he appreciated the man’s opinion. Listening to Cratt’s story, Tom wondered. Would Percy let his animosity toward the teachers override his better judgment? The Board members standing around the meeting room laughed. Barnes started to snicker, and Percy smiled. Tom watched them laugh, and wondered if this group would be laughing in November.