Mr. Shabo and Captain Gilmer

It was my first day at a new school when I met him in the parking lot of Captain Gilmer Elementary in North Carolina. Mr. Shabo was going to be my 7th grade teacher. He was very business like and serious as he introduced himself to my mother. My first impression was that my life for the next nine months would be the exact opposite of fun. But in some ways that school year was perhaps the most formative. Mr. Shabo was a great story teller. Sometimes he would stop in the middle of a lesson and have us write down a reminder in our notes for him to tell us about such and such a story. He was from Seattle and represented the only Seahawks fan in our school. One project he assigned to us was to make miniature cabins out of balsa wood. I also recall the day he taught us how to argue. He showed us how senseless arguing gets us nowhere, but if you organize the advantages and disadvantages of any proposition then you can utilize and address the facts more effectively. He cared about us. It wasn't just math and history. He wanted us to grow up to be good husbands and wives and fathers and mothers. He wanted us to be good citizens and responsible members of our communities. He took us on a field trip in which we brought along trash bags to fill up with trash we found along the side of the road. And he had local politicians come in and talk to us about the pending elections. He split our class in two and had one side bring in signs for the Republican party and the other side for Democrats.

He had us keep our own grade books too. We were on the honor system. It was definitely the trend for the more competitive students to doctor up their grades and I was caught up in this as well... except it weighed on my conscience and one day when I couldn't take it anymore I confessed to Mr. Shabo that I had cheated on my grades. Without making a big deal about it he answered, "I already knew. Don't do it anymore." Which humbled me and inspired me at the same time.

I became friends with four other students that school year. They were all girls. Heidi Possinger was the graceful, delicate, angelic one. She wore these plastic slippers that looked like something Cinderella might have worn. It seems like she didn't belong in our class which was dominated by crude adolescent boys, but I don't remember her ever expressing any contempt for them. She was quiet, but not noticeably judgemental or stuck up. I was in puppy love with her, but she probably never knew. I guess I was already developing some kind of class consciousness inasmuch as her father was a doctor while my mother worked for him as a receptionist. Somehow I felt she could see right through me.

Her best friend was Melissa Johnson, another good girl who seemed out of place. She would grow up to learn sign language and to marry a gentleman who was deaf.

Tammy Coon and Karen Duncan were my other two friends. Twice a week they would leave for a couple hours and attend a class at Fletcher Academy just over the hill where they practiced playing their clarinets. Karen is the one I was probably closest to, but I developed a serious crush on Tammy. My nickname for her was KCE (Kitty Cat Eyes). Tammy had straight black hair and wore very attractive skirts that I would tease her about mercilessly. I remember writing a rather melancholy poem for her. Something about the warfare of love. I figured I must be the next literary genius when I made "sorrow" rhyme with "tomorrow." Unfortunately she was infatuated with some guy at the academy named Kenny.

At recess the five of us would often find ourselves bored with soccer or football or softball and we'd wander off into the nearby mountain trails that bordered our little Seventh Day Adventist school. I was egotistical enough to enjoy the sensation of being the only guy to hang out with four girls at the same time. But I was going through some kind of crisis. Not an easy one to explain either. Walking along those trails I would extend my hands out into the briers and collect scratches with the intention of causing scars. Also at times I wouldn't want to talk to anyone. And classmates were worried about me... which was nice because I've always... always... loved attention. Mr. Shabo was a little concerned too and he persuaded my mother to let me stay with his family for a couple weeks.

I guess I pretty much loathed my own family at the time and it was a real treat to see how a "normal" family did things for a while. I was given a bedroom in the newly renovated downstairs and Mr. Shabo hooked me up with a radio. As though it were yesterday I remember falling asleep to the dulcet tones of Barry Manilow singing "Can't Smile Without You" or Albert Morris singing "Feelings."

Controversy rocked the school before the year was out. Mr. Shabo was accused of harrassing some of the girls in our class and he was informed that he would not be invited back the following year. I was furious. I always believed the charges were fabricated. My mother saw how upset I was and when she came to talk to me about it I read to her from Ellen G. White's religious classic, The Desire of Ages, a graphic description of how Jesus was persecuted. My mother didn't much care for my implication that Mr. Shabo was Jesus, but of course I only meant to compare their innocence and tranquil attitudes in the face of unfair accusations.

Heidi, Karen, and Russell

Summer 1985

No less than 24 years have elapsed since then. Karen lived for one or two of them before she was killed in a drunk driving accident. Heidi died about ten years later of leukemia. It breaks my heart to wonder how their parents survived these tragic events. In my mind they live on forever as 7th graders. Beautiful girls that would go hiking with me at recess and express concern when I was too quiet and morose. Tammy and I exchanged a few letters and phone calls in the early 90's. She became the proud mother of an adorable little girl, but we eventually lost touch. Melissa and I enjoyed a short~lived correspondence as well and she was generous to invite me to her wedding, but I wasn't able to attend.

Recently I was pondering all these characters and discovered with a little research that Mr. Shabo moved back to Seattle. It's possible that he is the principal of a little school about 40 miles north of where I live now also I think maybe his wife teaches in Puyallup maybe ten minutes from here though the information I've found could be outdated. Sometimes I think I should try to get in touch with Mr. Shabo. I'm trying to imagine the surprise it would cause if I just walked into his school unannounced. He hasn't seen me since 1985 when I was 14 years old.