spelling bee at the elementary...

Hissing greetings to their neighbors through smiles that could sharpen knives, the parents filed into the two rows of folding chairs set up against the rear wall of the gymnasium.

The natives of this place, the kids, filed quietly in, seated themselves on the gym floor in front of the parents, and waved to their classroom spelling champs, the twenty-four kids (six from each grade, third through sixth), already seated at the head of the room.

Marian the librarian welcomed all to the school spelling bee. Oh wait, that would be instructional media specialist, but what name rhymes with that?

She read the rules, and we nodded as if listening, while we glanced at our children to check their eyes for understanding. We forgot that we don't pray as we thought Yes, he will have other years, Lord, but please let him get at least through the practice round!

And so it began.

Young brows hardly furrowed over words like often or terrier, but hyphenated Ben, the third-grade classmate, friend and rival, leaving an f in his mouth, muffed miff in the first round. We all groaned, and then applauded as we wagered privately that he could have spelled piff, although we knew full well that wagering on kids can be hit or miff. [I'll stop. Promise. It was just out there.]

O-T-T-E-R slipped easily from Mighty Taylor's lips in the first round, and there was a little skip in his step as he returned to his chair.

In the second round, I was applauding politely for one of his fallen colleagues when his turn came, and afterward neither he nor I remember his word. But it was an easy one for him, his eyes and smile said.

Other mighty spellers continued to fall, Hannah, a sixth-grader, among them, a neighbor who should have, could have won it all, except for a failure of nerves and tongue.

Elementary, Hannah, is your word. "After elementary school, you will attend middle school." Thus spake our Marian, as she licked the diacritical marks from her lips. [Can you say that in here?]

"L," Hannah said.

Then stopped.

Knowing.

Betrayed.

By her racing mind and tongue.

And by the rules, which forbid backspacing or deleting.

Silence from Hannah and a communal inhalation from the parents.

More silence from Hannah. Knowledge can be cruel.

Good form was all that was left to her. And silence can be crueler.

"E-M-E-N-T-A-R-Y," she continued, before she scuttled with hooded eyes to a seat on the floor as the room let out its breath in a collective cheer.

Our mighty third-grader weathered round three by spelling weather. His eyes said This is too easy. And by the end of the round, our mighty peanut was the last of his kind standing. Only a lone fifth grader and a gaggle of sixth graders stood in his way. But whether the mighty goober shall turn out to be the hero of this story, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. [I'm helpless. Really.]

Round four began, and one of the two sixth-grade Zachs decided to grandstand, to gain more air time. Knowing well how to spell stamina, he nonetheless asked for a definition, testing ours.

The proctors consulted Webster's Third International, and Zach (soon to be Zach 2, eventual runner-up to Zach 1, which brings up the matter of names again, specifically the question of why there aren't more kids named Bob, and Jim, and Steve, and eddieandbill like there were, instead of the Zachs and the cheeses, but I digress, as did Zach 2) huffed out S--T--A--M--I--N--A, as if typing with one thumb.

Affection is a something you can't have too much of, but you can make too little of it, and in a sense, our hero did.

"A-F-E-C-T-I-O-N," said my youngest goober, joining his comrade hyfenated Ben in leaving an f for another day. Still the hero of his own story and of mine, he gave a cosmic shrug and skipped to a place on the floor beside hyffenated Ben, unafected by it all. He'll have other years and other joys, affter all.