By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
As I stepped out of our upstairs, two bedroom apartment on a cold, overcast morning in 1974, I had no inkling I was about to learn an unforgettable lesson about life, death, and forgiveness during a short but eventful walk to my grade school.
I was a seventh grader at St. Joseph’s Catholic Elementary on the West side of Ogden, Utah, an old rough and tumble railroad town. The area around the school was poor, and some might even call it downright sketchy. We lived only a few blocks away.
Depending on the day and wind direction, the neighborhood smelled like either death or life. A nearby animal byproducts rendering plant often unleashed a pungent, rotten odor that seemed to seep into your flesh and corrupt it too. Yet, on many other days, I floated to school carried upon the lilting scent of freshly baked rolls and pastries, courtesy of the local Wonder Bread factory.
On one such aromatic bread day, a screech of wheels, a thud, a whimper, and the sound of a car speeding away jolted me out of my bakery-induced bliss. I looked across the street and saw the victim of a hit and run, a small dog, lying in the gutter. I rushed over, just in time to be the last living thing the dying animal saw. The dog shuddered, and grew progressively stiff as a visible wave of rigor mortis swept relentlessly over it, from tail to snout.
I was stunned and sad and…fascinated. I had guessed death would be a more momentous occasion, but it arrived unceremoniously, without heralding trumpets, in a stealthy and businesslike manner. And then it was gone again, like any other fleeting moment of the day.
A woman, apparently the dog’s owner, rushed out of her ground level tenement and looked over the scene. Silently, she went back inside and got a blanket. I helped her wrap up the dead dog and carry it back to her doorstep. I went on to school, now several minutes late, and in the doorway encountered the looming figure of our principal, Mr. Frank Roe. He asked why I was late and I told him the story. He frowned, scribbled something on a pad of paper, and handed me a note to give my teacher. The note said, “Excused- act of kindness.”
Mr. Roe was an unusual fellow. He was a very large man who wore tiny black glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He called us “pupils,” gestured wildly when he taught, and pointed using his middle (instead of index) finger. This particular eccentricity made us snicker as he flipped off the chalkboard and then the entire class whenever he turned around.
Once, while a friend and I helped him move some boxes, he told us about his dream to start his own science academy, which would meet outdoors even in the winter. I asked him about the snow and cold. He responded, “Our science classes will control the weather!” My friend looked at me and rolled his eyes.
Mr. Roe held the job of principal for only two or three years. I do not know why he left. Maybe he was released. At about the same time his wife, our music teacher, was quite sick with breast cancer. I never spoke with either of them again. Years later, I heard that Mr. Roe had lovingly and tenderly cared for his wife until she succumbed to the cancer. Immediately, I regretted how we had mocked Mr. Roe’s quirkiness and strange ways.
Knowing what I now know about life, I suspect some of Mr. Roe’s odd ways were due to the stressful onset of Mrs. Roe’s illness. Upon hearing the news about how he nursed his sick wife, I wanted to tell Mr. Roe that his strangeness was ok, that some quirky out-of-the-norm behavior is understandable, and maybe even expected, when you are caring for your dying wife. I wanted to hand him a note that said: “Excused- act of kindness.” But, of course, it was too late.
I have to give the note to someone else instead. We all need to be excused for something sometimes, don’t we?
