Bully

In my nostalgic mind, northwest Iowa was a great place to grow up. But it wasn't without its troublemakers.

My parents and our Reformed, Dutch church denomination took Christian education pretty seriously, so the school bus ride was 35 miles each way to and from the nearest Christian high school. The bus driver was another student, and the behavior of students on that long ride was sometimes less than perfect.

I was a freshman, and an older student (let's call him Steve) liked to torment some of the rest of us. One day he heated up the lid of his cigarette lighter and then briefly pressed it to the bare arm of one of the older girls on the bus. She was pretty and popular, and I think he wanted her attention. He got it.

Not satisfied with the results, he decided to pick on me. Trying to be a man, I let him brand me for as long as I could stand it. Finally, I pulled away, someone (maybe my older sister) yelled at him, and he laughed and sat down, satisfied that he had asserted himself.

Later that day the girl he had burned went to the office for a bandage for her blister, which had broken. The office staff asked what had happened and if anyone else had been burned. I was called out of a classroom to the office. Yellow, watery pus was dripping down to my elbow and I had been sopping it up with tissue. Fifty years later, the scar is almost invisible.

Steve got suspended for three days. I was worried he would blame me for getting him in trouble, but when he came back to school he bragged about getting to stay home drinking pop.

One of Steve's favorite victims was a short, shy, wiry kid his age, with big teeth and an acne affliction. Gerald silently bore insults and having his glasses knocked off from behind. But one day after it went on too long, Gerald stood up, whipped around, and slapped Steve hard on the face all in a single move too fast for Steve to duck or defend himself. Then Gerald sat down.

This was an offense against Steve's pride, and vengeance was his only option. But as he moved toward Gerald, most of the rest of the students on the bus took in what  happened and burst into applause. Steve moved away and sat down.

It would be nice to say that after that incident Steve behaved himself. But he didn't. It was after Gerald and cheering students had put him in his place that he took to burning arms.

It is hard to say why Steve got away with being cruel so long and so often. Did we tell ourselves we shouldn't interfere with someone else's business? Did we remember a time in middle school when we had picked on someone and so had no right to judge another? Why did we sit silent and not interfere?

But on one day, at least, the people spoke. They overwhelmingly voted against a bully.

Uh-huh

Growing up in Iowa, I would spend as much time at the VanderPols' farm as I could get away with. Gary was my best friend. His dad's name was Garrett. I can't remember his mom's name, but I can't forget her. She used crutches, and though her disability may have slowed her down, I can't remember it keeping her from doing much of anything. She fixed our meals, cleaned up after them (and us), and walked to and from the outhouse in all weather.

On their wall was a postcard of the Crystal Cathedral. This was before the Crystal Cathedral was built, but even then it was a very big church. They were proud of of this postcard since it had been sent by Mrs. VanderPol's brother, Robert, who was pastor there. Gary's brother was named after him. Once I figured out who Robert Schuller was, I wasn't too fond of him. His exceptional sister deserved more than a postcard.

But I was going to talk about Garrett. That's Mr. VanderPol to me. He was always in a kindly mood--at least when I was there. It may have been deference to the preacher's kid, but I suspect he was kind most of the time. The only time I felt disapproval from him was when I rode my bike the couple of miles to their place on a Sunday when my parents were gone. He knew when he asked me about it, rather sternly I thought, that I wouldn't have been there had my parents been home.

He worked hard keeping his rented 120 acres productive, and he may have had a sore back. Whatever the reason, when he took a smoke break, he didn't stand quite straight. His legs were bent at the knees, and he leaned back a bit like Dagwood Bumstead can. He would stand there rolling his Prince Albert tobacco in a cigarette paper, and there would come a pause in our discussion, such as it was. He would chuckle in that deep gravelly voice of his and say, "Ya, I don't know. Mm-hmm."

I don't know what in particular brought on his saying this, and it may have been that he only used it as a filler. But the older I get, the more I realize how much I don't know and the more wisdom I see in his observation. Ya, I don't know. Mm-hmm.