A Lesson Learned

A snowball fight in sixth grade got me in trouble

There’s been some good packin’ snow, just right for making a good snowball. It reminded me, as a youngster growing up in Fowlerville, of hearing about the epic snowball fights between the fifth and sixth graders on the Centennial Field during recess.

However, by the time I reached that age, snowball throwing was prohibited, with consequences if you got caught.

That didn’t stop the occasional outbreak, but you had to be watchful of the safety patrol (our fellow classmates, both boys and girls) who might turn you into higher authority. Having such power, they could be merciless.

Well, one noon hour a couple of friends and I got into a territorial dispute with some other lads, a few snowballs were exchanged, and finally they retreated. But then I decided to heave a snowball at one of them, hitting him in the back.

A safety patrolman witnessed that final act and reported me to my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Helen Allen—my classmate Bob’s mom. I explained the situation, figuring I’d escape punishment since the other boys also threw snowballs.

Much to my surprise, she told me I’d have to spend the next few days inside during recess. I asked her ‘why’ since I wasn’t the only guilty party. She replied that I was the one who decided to throw a final, unnecessary snowball and, worst yet, did it when their backs were turned to me, and they were leaving.

I’m sure I felt unfairly treated at first, but Mrs. Allen was a kind and gentle lady and there were worst punishments than spending the noon hour and other recesses with her.

Plus, thinking about it, I realized she was right. Not only had I not let well enough alone, I’d taken a cheap shot. She was letting me know she expected better of me.

Not all of the lessons we learned during our school days were found in books. Some came from our teachers’ caring hearts.

Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist who still throws an occasional snowball, but only at inanimate objects.