memories #20   

                                        Mr. Funk

     High school teachers are as varied as fingerprints, no two are alike.  They do, however, fall into various categories.  Some of them were good, some bad, some had been teaching too long, some were burned out and counting days until retirement.   As a retired teacher I think I could be classified in any one of those groups at certain times in my career. 

     As a student at D.H.S. (Durango High School) I had the opportunity to observe teachers that would fit into each of these categories.  Mrs. Hawley and Mrs. Short fit into the first category as good teachers.  Mr. Cobb I would place in both the bad and burned  out category.  Mr. Funk fell into the category of a burned out victim of the system.

     Mr. Funk did not command a picture of a man in total control or even one by his actions alone would mark him as a classroom teacher.  Physically, Mr. Funk stood maybe 5 feet tall.  Middle age had also carved out a statue of a roundish melon.  In many ways he reminded me of the actor,  Peter Lorre.

     Mr. Funk's classroom was on the third floor of the trilevel high school.  He taught Philosopy and had for many years using the same lesson plan year after year.  I'm sure Mr. Funk would have loved the final year of his career without any incidences or problems.  That was not to be.

     I was in Mr. Funk's afternoon class of close to 30 students.  Students may have been a loosely used term to describe this class.  It was full of non-academic lazy students who would try most anything to get out of work.  I am saddened to say I had become part of the atmosphere that was created in that class room.

     There were several boys in that room who were already six-foot tall or taller.  None of them were currently on the honors list for academic standards.  After roughhousing outside the class room's door, their antics would to continue for sometime after they had found their way to their desks.  Although Mr. Funk had seating assignments, most often the students were never in their assigned seat.  Mr. Funk eventually gave up the assigned seat routine.  It seemed to cause less of a disturbance that way.

     When Mr. Funk wanted the class's attention, he had a little bell on his desk he rang to bring the students to order.  Most of the time it would take a minute or two for the class quiet down.  Mr. Funk would then answer any questions from the previous day's assignment.  After that would be a brief explanation of the day's lesson.  Mr. Funk would then return to his desk and busy himself in paper work.  Fighting to stay awake, Mr. Funk's head would drop a few inches, pause at that level for a few moments before suddenly raising his head scanning the class to assure that the students were on task. On task meant they were silent.  Assuming the students were on task, Mr. Funk would repeat the often practiced ritual again.

     Mr. Funk's room wasn't much different from other classrooms in that building.  It was a square shaped room with windows.  One set of windows faced north and overlooked the boys entrance to the swimming pool and a service road to the building.  The other set of windows faced west and held some of Mr. Funk's pride and joy.  

     For years Mr. Funk had passionately grown flowers.  The warm rays of the afternoon sun brought life to a variety of plants under Mr. Funk's care.  They sat in individual pots, each nurtured and 
pampered by Mr. Funk.  He would bring them away from the windows after school to keep them from being bitten by Jack Frost.  In the morning they were placed back on their individual podiums to once again bask in the sun's gentle warmth.

     One afternoon the rowdies of the class came into the room boisterous as usual but everyone could see something different was on their agenda that day.  Mr. Funk rang his bell several times before the class settled down.  After completing his monotonous routine of instruction he busied himself once again in paperwork at his desk. 

     It was at this time the rowdies's plan was put into action.  One at a time each of them went to the back of the room, looked out the windows facing west and returned to their desk. No one could figure out what the boys were doing.  The bell rang and class was dismissed.  There was a lot of chatter and laughter from the rowdies as they went their way to their next class.

    On arriving to school the next day word had spread of the boy's deed. Two of the boys had come from chemistry class to Mr. Funk's class.  They had distributed individual vials of acid to each member and one at a time proceeded to the back of Mr. Funk's room and poured that deadly dose over each of the plants.  By the time Mr. Funk put his plants to bed for the night, some of the plants had already shown distress.  By the beginning of the next day's afternoon class all of his plants had died.   

     There was mixed reaction to what the rowdies had done.  Some supported the boy's deed.  Others thought they had gone too far.  Mr. Funk rang his bell.  The class immediately became quite waiting for the confrontation that might happen.   One of the boys, skinny but quite tall at 6'5, got into a shouting match with Mr. 
Funk.  The tall boy got out of his seat and stormed toward Mr. Funk, who by that time was behind his desk.  Threats were made and Mr. Funk, red-faced, turned and left the classroom.  A few minutes later the laughter became silence when Mr. Stapp, the wrestling coach, walked into the room. Mr Stapp was a physical specimen that demanded attention. Many years later I came to visualize him as the brother of the Russian boxer in theRocky Balboa movies. It remained quiet until bell rang dismissing class.

     I don't know exactly what happened to the boys in that room other then they were split up and sent to other classes.  Mr. Funk was gone for almost two weeks.  He would take many days off with sick leave until the end of school.  

And I would become a teacher after that?  WOW!