Life in general was very good for Steve and his sister and brother. Wonderful adventures were a weekly event. There could be just as much excitement in hunting for soda bottles to turn in at the store for money as there was in hunting for frogs in the local creek.
So much was happening in the world. Great scientific advancements in Space Exploration were beginning to take shape. There was talk of putting a man in space, maybe as soon as the next decade. Medical discoveries and new surgical procedures were being introduced faster than ever before. Gasoline was ten cents a gallon. The Helms Bakery truck would drive by every morning loaded with fresh pastries and milk was delivered to the doorstep before you got up in the morning. You couldn’t say the word “Hell” on the radio, and the Television was black and white.
Aside from growing a little older, not much had changed where Steve was concerned. Steve was still the class clown, goof-off and all around cut- up. Unlike the old school, this school did not give spankings. Steve still managed to be one of a very few in the school’s history to get them.
Steve even put tacks on the teacher’s seat while the teacher was out on recess. Now Steve always managed to take things one-step further. He not only put tacks on the teacher’s seat, he put tacks on every seat in the room; including his own. This way he figured it would protect him from suspicion. Of-course it didn’t. He was quickly found out, but not before the teacher and some of the other students sat on the tacks; including the fat girl he didn’t like.
Even in Mr. Rasmuson’s class, where Steve paid the most attention, Steve would talk to and disrupt anyone he could. Ricardo LaChuga sat right next to him. Fiercely waving his freshly sharpened pencil; Ricardo threatened to stab Steve if he did not leave him alone. It went in deep. The end of the pencil stayed in Steve’s leg for the rest of his life, a little tattoo like black mark.
No matter what was said or what action was taken, Steve’s teachers just couldn’t control him. Finely it got to the point that the school demanded Steve see the School District Psychologist to determine the extent of Steve’s obvious mental disorder.
Steve would go to a bungalow on the school grounds each Thursday afternoon after school and meet with the Doctor. It was poorly lighted and only had a desk and three chairs, and a large wooden file cabinet where the Doctor kept a large manila folder with Steve’s name printed on the top tab. The Doctor always spends a few minutes reading from the large yellow tablet of paper. He would flip through the pages and then settle back in his big padded chair behind the desk and begin to ask questions about school, family, and stuff that appeared to Steve to have absolutely no reference to life at all. The Doctor seemed to be on a fishing expedition.
The Doctor had compiled a large yellow tablet of notes during the short thirty-minute sessions over a period of about three months. During what turned out to be the last time Steve would visit the bungalow, the Doctor showed Steve some big white cards with inkblots on them and would ask Steve what he saw as he held up each card. Steve looked at each of the different shapes. Steve described each shape with great detail. But would interrupt between each card with questions about what the Doctor was writing on the tablet. Steve described the last card to the Doctor, “A Monarch Butterfly!” Steve’s voice was excited; this was a fun time for Steve. Looking at the cards was kind of like looking at the clouds for shapes.
The Doctor wrote some more notes on his big yellow tablet and then flipped through the pages, reading notes from the sessions before. The Doctor’s face was turning red and irritated. He would read some notes, flip a page or two, and look up from the tablet at Steve, mumble, and then put his head down and read some more.
Steve had seen this kind of body language before. He was in trouble again. “Was it the Butterfly answer?” Steve asked the Doctor, but with a grin on his face. The Doctor was writing some more in the yellow tablet.
Looking up from the yellow tablet, the Doctor’s eyes shot an angry fireball at Steve. The Doctor abruptly stood up and picked up the pile of white ink blotted cards from the desk. Without looking at the cards, the Doctor showed each one to Steve and again asked what Steve saw. With each card, Steve gave his answer, and with each answer the Doctor became more and more irritated. Finally the last card, “A Swallow Tail Butterfly”. Steve’s answer was more of a question.
The Doctor threw the cards onto his desk and started yelling at Steve. “There is nothing wrong with you! What are you doing wasting my time? Why are you here?” The Doctor was very angry. Steve came to the edge of his seat as he looked up at the Doctor. “Was it the Butterfly answer?” Steve couldn’t understand what he had done wrong.
The Doctor threw his ink pen onto the desk and spoke very calmly, soft, with great care taken to find just the right words. He was trying to control his temper. “In twenty years of practice, I have never encountered a subject like you”.
Steve looked the Doctor right in his eyes and asked “Doesn’t it look like a Butterfly to you?” The Doctor blew his stack, pointing to the door, the Doctor yelled at Steve. “Get out! You have no business being here. You are wasting the School District’s money, and my time. You don’t belong here”.
Steve sat at the edge of his chair, frozen, staring at the Doctor.
The Doctor screamed as he started around the corner of his desk as if to chase Steve. “I said get out!”
That was enough for Steve. This guy was hopping mad, and Steve figured he should take the Doctor’s advice and get out, fast. Already at the edge of his chair, Steve’s feet were in motion. As Steve bolted toward the door, the Doctor kept yelling, “Get out of here. There is nothing wrong with you. Get out of my sight”.
The door to the bungalow swung out, so Steve put his right shoulder against the door while keeping an eye on the fast advancing Doctor, he opened the door and jumped down just in time to miss the Doctor’s hand as he was grabbing for Steve’s left arm. Steve missed the top two steps as he broke into a run.
The Doctor was in the doorway by the time Steve reached the bottom step and was putting his body in full escape mode. Steve didn’t look back. He could still hear the Doctor yelling from the doorway as he got to the edge of the school grounds. “And don’t come back. You little creep!”
Feeling secure with the distance between himself and the Doctor, Steve reached the sidewalk and turned to face the Doctor. Steve yelled back, “Looked like a Butterfly to me!” The Doctor raised his arm and shook his fist at Steve. Then turned and went back inside the bungalow, slamming the door.
Steve turned toward the street and waited for the traffic to thin out before crossing. This was all very strange. “Besides”, thought Steve, “If it wasn’t a Butterfly, what was it?” This wouldn’t be the last time Steve was to look at cards with inkblots on them.
Steve couldn’t care less that the School District Psychologist had certified him “normal”. Life went on, and so did the jokes and pranks. Steve was in the sixth grade, un-aware of the events that must follow when a child graduates from Grade School and moves on to Junior High School.
Steve had fallen in Love, hard. There was never a time that Steve couldn’t be found without his very first true love, a box camera. Steve never dreamed of becoming a famous photographer. His pictures were not for anyone to see. Steve’s pictures were actually records of his adventures. Like going to the airport and lying on his stomach in front of an old P-38 Bomber, just the right frame and angle. The idea was to make the plane look like it was flying right at you, with its deadly cargo of bombs. Of course, the plane no longer carried bombs. Now it was used to haul cargo.
Pictures of Kibby, mountains and sunsets, pictures that could have meant nothing to anyone but Steve. Most of his pictures were lost in time. Like most of the things that a child collects, they were thrown out when Mom cleaned the room. Some survived to be shown to his children years later. Even one of Steve’s very first girlfriend, standing together in the Schoolyard; right in front of that Bungalow; her name long forgotten.
Steve’s sixth grade year was loaded with change. Kibby died of old age. That crushed his Mother. To help his mother cope with the loss, Steve’s Father brought home a Pedigree Registered Beagle puppy, Sir Thomas Wyatt II. Tommy was Mom’s dog. But adventures were in store for Steve and Tommy Dog in just a couple short years.