It’s Too Bad There Aren’t Chances for Extra Credit as an Adult

When I was in 8^th Grade, my Literature teacher was Mrs. Hood.  She taught us public speaking, composition and about some of the great works of literature, but that wasn’t enough.  Her real calling was making sure we left St. Thomas as the most well-mannered, etiquette-following group of kids possible.  She wanted people to see us and think “Wow, they sure do put out some well-mannered kids at St. Thomas.”  You would think that after 8 years of Catholic school education we would be in pretty good shape, but apparently not.  They had to bring in Mrs. Hood as “The Closer”, to put on the finishing touches, I guess.

Her approach was simple: If she spotted you doing something good, you got extra credit.  That got my attention.  Extra credit is like crack for a kid obsessed with getting straight A’s.  The only thing better than getting a 100 on a test, was getting a 101 because Mrs. Hood saw you holding the door for some old ladies at church one morning.

That’s right, if she spotted you holding the door for someone, that was worth one point.  Overhearing a “please” or “thank-you” – one point.  Reading the communion antiphon at Mass – 3 points.  Saying hello to her outside of the school – 2 points.  And the list went on and on.  But there wasn’t really a formal list, it was just some mysterious tabulation that only she knew the details of.  It didn’t matter to me.  It was extra credit and I was all over it.

Late that school year, Mrs. Hood came up with an assignment that combined composition with her quest to make us better citizens.  She had us write random letters to residents at the County Convalescent Center.  We told them about ourselves and our school. And, most importantly, we told them we were praying for them during their time of convalescence.  I should note that I had never heard the work “convalescence” before, and I haven’t heard it since.  I imagine it has been replaced by a word from the 20^th century.

So we wrote our letters.  Some of us were lucky enough to receive replies; spawning pen pal relationships that consisted of a series of letters that basically said the same thing every time:  “School is going good.  My teachers are nice.  I’m praying for you during your time of convalescence.”  My pen pal was some guy named Carl Coffin, who, other than the fact that he had bad handwriting and a real cool name, I can remember nothing about him.

Toward the end of the school year, Mrs. Hood announced a mega-extra credit opportunity.  It wasn’t required, but anyone was welcome to pile in her van after school the next day and go with her up to the Convalescent Center to talk to the residents, sing songs, pray, and if we were lucky, meet our penpals.  Are you kidding?  It was an opportunity I would not be passing up.

For all its hype, I can’t remember too much about our actual visit.  I know that Carl Coffin was no longer a resident there and Mrs. Hood quickly changed the subject when I asked her why.  We went from room to room, singing a collection of songs that was apparently chosen from the Greatest Songs of the 19^th Century Songbook.  The fan favorites included:  “What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?” and “Beat the Drum Slowly”.  We finished with a medley of American Negro Spirituals including “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”.  Nothing says “We’re praying for you during your time of convalescence” like a bunch of 13 year old white kids singing “I looked o’er Jordan and what did I see, coming forth to carry me home?”  I’m sure if Carl Coffin had been there, he would have been either applauding or crying.

A couple of years ago, I read that Mrs. Hood had passed away.  As much as I joke about it, she really did play a big role in me leaving grade school as a well-mannered, kind person. I’d like to think some of that carried on to my adult life.  I don’t think she had any formal ceremony after her death.  That’s unfortunate, because I’m sure attending her funeral would have been good for at least 30 extra credit points in life.