I taught elementary school in the 1960s, what happened, will haunt me forever, written

by, re-hay a hymn.

I've reached that age when your grandkids come and visit to interview you for a family

history project.

My eldest grandson David came earlier this week with a camcorder, but when I saw the

bottle of Johnny Walker, tucked in his shoulder.

I knew he wasn't here to talk about how his great-great-grandpappy immigrated from Scotland.

He wanted to talk about the incident.

The only person I had the guts to tell this story to was my wife Linda, who passed away

a decade ago.

And my children tried to coax it out of me, but soon learned not to pry, after my patients

would wear thin, and I would explode with rage.

And they would tell their own children not to ask pop-pop about his scars.

But hell, I'm getting too old for secrets.

David is admittedly my favorite grandchild, but after telling him my story and finishing

half the bottle of Johnny, he encouraged me to tell it here, said you guys were pretty

empathetic and could maybe provide some new perspectives.

And to be honest, I think I'd like some inner peace.

So here it all goes, and I apologize in advance if I go on too long.

Here was 1965, and President Lyndon B. Johnson came to my alma mater and gave a rousing

speech about the importance of education and equity.

And from that moment on, I wanted to become a teacher.

...