My pal Peter Crowley, former ADE editor, had a midlife career change and became a teacher — an English teacher, no less.

What compelled him to do it?

I’ve no idea.

Certainly, it wasn’t due to incessant prodding on my behalf — or any prodding of mine, for that matter. The boy wants to storm the machine gun bunkers of academe, let him. Just as long as he realizes beforehand that public schools don’t award Purple Hearts or Congressional Medals (though they sure should).

Anyhow, one day in the summer he told me his maiden voyage was about to launch. Of course I told him Mazel Tov!, keep a stiff upper lip and give ’em heck. After all, it is a public school, where an uttered “hell” can consign you to the principal’s version of a literal one.

We went our separate ways, but this being a small world — and an even smaller town — we ran into each other several more times. And at one of those times he mentioned I might like to be a guest teacher in a couple of his classes.

The idea intrigued me. Then again, so does the idea of skydiving. But while the idea is one thing, the reality is something else. With skydiving, the issue is moot since I’m scared of heights. Or more precisely, I’m not afraid of heights … unless I’m on one. It started in my high chair and has only gotten worse.

Teaching is another matter. I did it full-time for a long time, so it’s not like I didn’t know my way around a classroom. In addition to teaching writing, I’ve done a passel of it, having written my column for 27 years (but who’s counting?). That’s in the plus column.

On the minus side is the fact that all my teaching was on a college level. There’s no such thing in teaching as One Size Fits All. Different teaching levels and environments require very different skills. For example, the only thing teaching college freshman has in common with teaching high school freshman is the label. Similarly, a fine high school teacher might not cut it (or enjoy) teaching grade school. And a good grade school teacher might be out of their element teaching kindergarten.

Beyond all that, I’ve been retired nine glorious years and the closest I’ve come to a classroom is when I walk my dogs by the Petrova school.

Still, the challenge nagged at me in the form of the question I think we all ask ourselves, namely: Do I still have my stuff? And since there’s only one way to find out, I decided to do it.

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Rising … but not shining

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The first obstacle I had to overcome was dealing with the first class’s starting time, which was 0930. Of and by itself, that would be fine, but since St. Regis Falls is 45 minutes away, it meant I had to leave by 0800. To almost everyone this else is just Bizness as Usual, but to me is a challenge on par with swimming the Hellespont. You see, I have one big problem with mornings: I can’t stand them. Or more exactly, I can’t stand waking up in them, probably because I love to stay up till the wee hours. And since I retired, reveille is around 0900, while taps is around 0130.

But I can rise to the occasion — it just takes me longer. So if I have to leave home at 0800 and want to not be brain-dead when I do, I have to get up at least two hours beforehand. Which I did last Friday and which put me in the St. Regis school at the crack of nine.

Peter met me at the door, got me signed in (I assumed on the Visiting Dignitaries Roster) and as we headed toward his arena, I adjusted my figurative montera, made sure my sword was in place in my capote, and invoked the name of St. Jean-Baptiste de La Salle. Maybe I’m not religious, but sometimes I need all the help I can get.

The first class of 10th graders filtered in — all six of them. (Normally, there are 10, but four were on a band trip.) People who don’t teach think small classes are better than big ones, but I’ve found I can’t generalize. I’ve had some great small classes … and some not very great ones. I’ve always preferred classes of 20 or more because there’s less pressure on each student (even if they can’t hide in there, they have the illusion they can). Plus the larger the class, the more varied the students and their input. But it didn’t matter what I preferred — the class had six kids and that was that.

Peter had given all the classes some of my columns to read, plus he’d collected index cards with any questions they had on writing and had given them to me a few days in advance. So I went in there with discussion points already established.

Peter introduced me, I started my shtick by asking them what they thought a writer’s most important quality was. No response. Nothing. Nada. Niente. Bubkes.

“OK,” I said, feeling my old chops coming back. “I asked you a question, which means I’m expecting you to answer it. Since this class is 40 minutes long, you have about 36 minutes to come up with your answers.”

Then I waited. And sure enough, they started answering. But don’t think they chatted like magpies, because they didn’t. They were a reserved lot, and I accepted that. But they weren’t hostile or disengaged — just quiet. So that’s how the period proceeded, and when it ended I figured we all did as well as we could have, which is all anyone can expect out of a one-time visit.

Peter’s second class was Journalism, which was at the end of the day and had only one student. So it was less a class than a tete-a-tete, which turned out fine. The kid was bright, polite and interested in writing. He was a bit shy, but an engaged and solid student.

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Rockin’ the room

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Then there was the day’s highlight, which came between the other classes. It wasn’t Peter’s class, but an eighth-grade class taught by Holly Scott.

In polite terms, eighth grade has the reputation of being a challenge. In plain English, its rep is being a pain in the prat. The kids are wired on hormones, distractions, and mood swings and are hard, if not impossible, to keep on track — at least according to conventional wisdom.

My experience, however, was the exact opposite. They were an absolute delight. Not only were they prepared and engaged, they were just a whole lot of fun. They answered the questions, they offered their input (which was well-considered), they laughed at my jokes. What more could I ask?

After about 30 minutes of talking about writing, we started rapping about all sorts of stuff. I figured they’d worked for a half-hour; now we could spend the last ten minutes just having fun, which we did.

I’d said I was in the Navy, someone asked me what my job was, and I said a Morse code operator. Morse code? If I’d said my job was tending the sails on Old Ironsides, it probably would have been just as plausible to them.

There was a pause, and a girl asked, “Can you say something in Morse code?”

A boy next to her said, “Why? You wouldn’t understand it?’

Good point, but what the hey. I did indeed dot and dash out a short sentence for them, much to my delight, if not theirs, since I actually remembered the code.

After that, a kid asked me who my favorite football team was, and I told him I don’t have a TV. The room fell silent.

Finally, someone said, “You don’t have a TV?”

“Nope,” I said. “Haven’t had one since 1967.”

You couldn’t have heard a pin drop.

I gave my standard rap about how, since it’s been so long, I not only don’t miss it, but I usually find it a distraction. I realized that to them it was probably the same as if I’d said I found breathing a distraction, but since most adults can’t envision a life sans TV either, there’s no reason I’d have expected the kids to.

Then, before we had more time to discuss me as a cultural anomaly, the buzzer sounded, and class was over. They left, and I was sorry to see them go.

So to answer the question that nagged me at the start of my adventure: Yep, I still had my stuff.

But I don’t delude myself about teaching — it’s not a solo endeavor. If the teachers and students aren’t working together, some serious ego-stroking may take place, but no education will.

So while I still had my stuff at St. Regis Falls, it was only because Pete, Holly Scott and the students had their stuff as well.