Elementary schools are funny places. All day you're with these tiny human beings who hang on your every word, as if they truly believe you know what you're talking about. That alone is scary. Then there are the adults. All women. The few times I subbed at that level, I only met one other man. . . a real "whichever way the wind is blowing" kind of phony who eventually got elected to the school board. And when it came to stances on important issues, this guy had more flip-flops than a beachfront sandal shop. But I digress.

Anyway, I want to share my first elementary subbing experience. Why was I subbing there? Believe me, it wasn't my first choice. I was flat broke and it was toward the end of the school year when assignments start getting scarce. By then, teachers generally have used up all their sick time, or don't want to be out just before finals. So, as a sub, you take what you can get. Sort of like last call at a singles bar. If you haven't already paired up with someone, you grab what you can and worry about it later.

The first thing I noticed when I walked up to the school was that most of the mothers dropping off their little ones were about my age. I remember thinking, Hmm, might be a lot of single mommies around here. Suddenly, elementary school didn't seem like such a bad place after all. But then I started meeting the faculty. I didn't know if it was just that place or what, but I swear, those women were the Stepford Teachers. They were completely devoid of any personality, whatsoever. Whatever happened to teachers like Miss Sally from Romper Room? I wondered.

At eight-fifteen, when I took the class to the library, another teacher and her class were already there. I held out hope that she might be different from the others. She was young and kind of cute . . . in a bookworm sort of way. And to my surprise, she immediately started "checking out my goodies!" Or so I thought. Turns out, she was just trying to subtly let me know my that my hangar door was ajar. After I zipped up, she addressed me.

"You must be Mrs. Matthews sub," she said. I extended my hand and smiled.

"Yes, I am. I'm Lenny." She seemed to sneer at me.

"Well now," she started, "I have a first name, too, but here at school we don't go by our first names. I'm Miss Pendleton." Then she put out her hand.

Oh, this is gonna be a fun day, I thought.

When we got back to the classroom, I found that Mrs. Matthews had left instructions for me to give a spelling test. I say the word, the kids write it down. Now, this was second grade. Most of those tykes had never heard a New York accent before. If you've ever noticed, New Yorkers pronounce, among other sounds, "aw" very differently from Californians. Californians pronounce "aw" (to a New Yorker, at least) more like a short "o" sound. Thus, a Californian says the word "dawn" like "don." Mrs. Matthews is a Californian. We got to the eighth word. I said, "Okay, number eight: dawn." Nothing. No writing. So I repeated it. "Number eight: dawn." Still nothing. The kids started looking around the room at each other. "What's the matter?" I asked. "It's one of your spelling words."

A little girl in the front replied, "I don't think so."

Now I'm annoyed. I started thinking they're trying to play around a little. It never dawned on me (no pun intended) that they were having trouble with my accent. Another kid asked, "Could you use it in a sentence?"

"Okay, fair enough," I agreed. But all of a sudden my mind went blank. The only thing I could think of was the Frankie Valli song "Dawn" (Go Away I'm No Good for You). So I started laughing. The kids, seeing that, thought I was goofing around, and also started laughing. It took me about ten minutes to settle them down. Finally I said, "Every morning I get up at dawn." They still look confused.

After a moment, a little boy excitedly blurted out, "Oh, he means 'don'!" (dawn)

"Oh!" they all responded in unison. They put down their heads and wrote the word. Then they wanted to know why I talked funny. It took nearly twenty minutes to explain about accents, and how people from different parts of the country spoke differently. Finally, we got back to the test.

"Number nine: lawn." Now they're wild. They were all laughing and trying to mimic my accent. Lunch was in four minutes and we still had eleven words left. Once again I got them to calm down. I looked at the next word and thought, Oh, crap! "Okay, number ten, write this down: F-A-W-N. Good, number eleven . . ."

Teaching elementary school is one of the toughest jobs around; I always felt exhausted by the end of the workday. I know several people who've taught at that level, and have seen the preparation and dedication it takes. How folks do it full-time, day after day, year after year, escapes me. I walked away from those assignments with a whole new respect for grade school teachers.

One last thing. Remember that phony on the school board who wouldn't take decisive stands on issues, the guy who flip-flopped more than a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat? He was recently asked by a local paper to give his assessment on Bush's NCLB (No Child Left Behind). He responded, "NCLB works great. . . except in instances where it doesn't." I guess some things never change!

I recently spoke with a friend's son who was about to graduate from high school. He was upset because mom and dad told him he'd have to pay his own way if he wanted to continue his education. . . meaning a part-time job while attending community college, then continued employment and student loans when he eventually transferred to a state school. This embarrassed him because he hung out with a crowd whose parents were wealthier than his. So I told him this story.

When I was eighteen, I informed my folks that I wanted to go to college. "Great," my dad said. "Figure out how you're going to pay for it." So I did. I went to a community college while living at home (Long Island) and worked thirty hours a week. In three years I earned an A.A., then headed for California to attend a state school where tuition was less expensive. I took out a small student loan (repaid it four years after graduation) and worked thirty-five hours weekly while pursuing my B.A., which took another three years. After that, I worked as a substitute teacher for several years while attending Cal State L.A. for my teaching credential.

I eventually got hired at a small school where the rest of the faculty, courtesy of their parents, had attended expensive universities. We were all sitting in the lounge on the last day of classes when the topic of summer school came up. Each of my colleagues started complaining of huge debt due to bad spending habits, and stated, therefore, they'd be teaching during vacation. Our science teacher mentioned a possible university position, and the topic quickly changed to colleges. Everyone boasted about how good/expensive their school was. When it came around to me, I told them how I earned my degree. Somebody made a wisecrack about community colleges, then another person fired a quip about state colleges. One by one, each of them made a sarcastic remark about the schools I'd attended. I didn't join in their laughter. I wasn't offended, just puzzled by how pompous and arrogant they seemed. Someone finally said, "Oh, come on, Len, we're just joking. Where's your sense of humor?"

"Oh believe me," I replied, "I do see the humor in this. Your parents shelled out big bucks for your fancy educations, while I paid next-to-nothing for mine. Yet here we all are, doing the same job and earning the same exact salary. Now that's funny."

A hush fell over the room before I added, "Oh, by the way, I don't owe a dime to anybody. See you guys in September." And with that, got up and left. None of them ever made another crack about my education.

My friend's son smiled and thanked me.

Groucho Marx once quipped, "I don’t care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members." What made me think of this? I recently received an invitation in the mail to join a local organization. Because I’d never sought membership in this (or any) club, I was somewhat surprised. But I was really taken aback when I read on the invitation, We’d like to know more about you. If you were going to write your autobiography, what would you say in the first paragraph? Please supply on a separate sheet of paper.

I found this ridiculous, especially because they were seeking me out, and not vice versa. So here’s how I responded.

Imagine my surprise when I received a notice back stating I’d been accepted for membership. Naturally, I declined.

I think Groucho would’ve been proud of me.

As many of you know, I had a book signing yesterday. Few people wandered into the bookstore, and even fewer bought my book. And as I sat there brooding, a woman happened by my table. Her name is Mary Wilson. Mary was born without arms.

We struck up a conversation, and I found her to be a fascinating person. She drives, knits beautifully (her husband, Dennis, showed me pictures of her handiwork), and has a delightful sense of humor. But what I found most intriguing is that she's the subject of a book entitled A Toehold on Life. . . which, from what I was told by the store manager, Mary helped write.

When the couple left, I felt ashamed for sulking over the poor turnout because I truly got the sense that Mary rarely sulked over anything in life. And Lord knows, if anyone has a right to sulk. . .

Anyway, forget about 1225 Mistletoe Lane for Christmas this year. Instead, ask Santa to bring you a copy of A Toehold on Life. I know I am.

Lenny