Category Archives: Middle Grade Stories

“Finicky Food,” By Chad Robert Parker

My family loves food with few exceptions. Lots of kids don’t like vegetables. I noticed that at school or when I babysat. My mom followed special diets when she looked after other’s kids on a regular basis. But no kid was as fussy as one little boy who stayed with us one day. I have never seen anything like it before or since.

He refused to eat anything but mayonnaise sandwiches. I had never even heard of such a thing. Who can live off of bread with a thin layer of mayonnaise spread in between? I was told that he would not eat anything else. I can still remember in my mind’s eye this thin bony-framed eight year old boy with his high pitched raspy voice kindly, politely even, refusing to eat anything but mayonnaise sandwiches. I remember how he rationalize it as the only healthy option for him. He was quite well-spoken and intelligible for his age. I remember him folding his arms, and frowning, before his silent fit turned into a more vocal protest. We all tried to convince him but he just would not eat unless we fed him what his parents confirmed over the phone was the only thing he would eat. I suppose you could say I didn’t give mayonnaise sandwiches a fair chance having never really tried it myself, so how could I expect this boy to eat what I eat, but it’s not like you can’t imagine what bread and mayonnaise alone would be like–severely lacking sustenance.

To this day I wonder if he changed his mind about his diet and has ever tried some real foods. I wonder if I will see him on one of these crazy eating disorder shows. I watched an episode where a lady claims she only eats and lives off of french fries after all. Don’t ask me how that is sustainable. It would sure make deciding what to eat for meal preparation easier though.

 

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“What Did I Learn?” By Chad Robert Parker

I was only sent to the Principal’s office once or twice in my life. I remember a few different punishments through my school days but only once does standing in the actual Principal’s office come to mind. I’ll save the other main instances, a bathroom mess and a lunchroom food frenzy, for another time. The reason I was punished this time was for something significantly less extreme.

Ms. Bush was a rather mean English teacher. I suppose she just wanted to keep order in the classroom but it felt more like her making a power grab for indisputable control of her students. Sometimes I forgot to put in my contacts before running out the door to go to school. It wasn’t as obvious as forgetting your glasses, but I could not see the chalkboard to define the next word as we went around the room. Apparently this was cause for reporting me to the Principal’s office.

I saw the paddle dangling in the office and wondered if my parents had given the Principal permission to use it. He thought the whole thing was silly, perhaps like my dad must have felt when he had to punish his kids for mischief he hadn’t witnessed himself, while he was away at work. The Principal casually chatted with me the rest of that hour about life and my family. I’m sure he figured I learned my lesson. Ms. Bush made sure to still fail me on that assignment, even though I had thoroughly done the homework the previous night and had turned it in on her desk on time before I went to the Principal’s office. The main thing I learned that day was a lesson in life but maybe not exactly what she had in mind.

I learned that Ms. Bush’s punishments don’t match the crime. I feared her rather than revered her. It was hard to learn in that setting. I much preferred being inspired and knowledge expanded freely rather than being threatened and worrying about how well I could retain and recount understanding forced on me.

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“Frozen Flesh” By Chad Robert Parker

It was freezing outside, literally. It was nothing new. We waited for the bus in below zero temperatures before. Well, sometimes we waited in the house and then ran to the heated bus. This day was around 30 degrees below.

It was always freezing in the morning on a wintry day in Minnesota. It’s the wind chill that will kill you. Many days just like this one were reported at 60 degrees below when factoring in the wind. It was not a good day for our bus to drop us off early.

Standing outside waiting for the school doors to be unlocked, I had quit shivering. I had gone numb, all over. It was not a joking matter. My right hand held my baritone mouthpiece. I kept thinking we would be let inside before too much longer. My pockets were too tight to slide it into and I didn’t want to bare my skin to the cold long enough to fiddle with my coat pocket zippers. I tried to sneak my hands farther up in my coat, to no avail.

When I got inside, my skin was stinging around my nose but I couldn’t feel my hands. I tried to let go of my mouthpiece. I couldn’t open my hand. I rose my hand in the air to get the teacher’s attention.

“Yes, Chad, you have a question?”

“Teacher I can’t feel my hand.”

She busied herself with some papers at her desk. “Put your mouthpiece down.”

“I can’t!” Fear turned into a tear or two that froze on my reddened cheek.

“What do you mean.” The teacher hurried over and tried to pry my fingers from the mouthpiece which only teared at my skin. It hurt. A good sign, I guess.

I was sent to the Nurse’s office. I don’t remember how we removed the mouthpiece, short of warming up my hand until it came loose. It wasn’t a good enough reason to go home. Minnesota doesn’t use many snow day excuses.

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“Pressure To Perform OR To Cheat” By Chad Robert Parker

“Chad Parker, may I speak with you?” Mrs. Watt spoke low but harshly. She beckoned me with a finger.

I hesitantly walked to the front of the classroom, unfamiliar with her taking this severe tone. She led me to the classroom door, opened it, and ushered me through. “Outside please!” I couldn’t imagine what this was about. Mrs. Watt was always so amiable, but something had her visibly disturbed.

My family was often misunderstood. We were the only Mormons in town. I had heard that Mrs. Watt had been married to a Mormon once, though he was not a practicing member. From what I was told he was unfaithful and they had divorced. That could make anyone jaded, but I knew Mrs. Watt felt no animosity toward me or my family. In truth, Mrs. Watt probably knew how a Mormon was expected to act, better than anyone else would understand in that little town, and she vocally respected it. What I did not realize, however, is that Mrs. Watt may not have known how fully I espoused the doctrines of my church as being the way of life for me; it was not just an imposition of supposed strict parents like many often postured. Seems strange that I should have to remind someone that I know I am in no way perfect, but I certainly had not done what she was accusing me of either.

“Do you know why I called you out here?”

“I have no idea.” I quickly shook my head, concern spreading across my face.

“Your paper is exceptionally good. Too good!” My expression changed to confusion. Upon seeing this she explained herself. “I don’t think you wrote this paper.” She watched my countenance closely.

I stood aghast. My mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Did you cheat? Did your mom write this? This isn’t your work!”

I told the truth. I stayed up all night rewriting it over and over to get a good grade. She didn’t believe me, but with no proof to say I was lying she gave me the A+ the paper deserved.

___________________________________________________________________________

Editor’s Note: “I feel to provide a disclaimer of sorts. My view is just one perspective that may or may not be shared by others. The portrayal is not intended to be the definitive source of said events, nor is one instance meant to define the characters of anyone portrayed here, as if it were a microcosm of anyone’s life. It is a simple memory, but it also can’t easily be safeguarded by simply changing names, as though those who knew me would not know I attended Covington High School, not know the story referenced or the players involved, and not have formed their own opinions about who each of us were then and even who we have become now. I take full credit for my telling as given above.” -Chad Parker

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“The Bus Stopper,” By Chad Robert Parker

I had a number of run-ins with a scrawny red-headed punk. Our community had sixth graders on up through high school riding on the same school buses together. I wasn’t the typical upperclassmen who sat in the back and made younger kids sit upfront, but for some reason this 6th grade kid had it out for me, a Junior at the time. One day he had his best opportunity to get me in trouble. I surely did deserve more than a reprimand that day, but seeing how the driver of the bus didn’t know who did it, I didn’t see any need to take credit for it. I never got the punishment my nemesis believed I had coming.

We had a substitute bus driver that day. She must have been having a bad day. Before our trip from school home we were all talking loudly, as we always did, until she yelled at us about how she expected a quiet bus ride home. She had a few more uproars to silence the bus every time we got a little too chatty. One of the red-headed kid’s friends dared me to throw a gobstopper at the bus driver. It wasn’t so much animosity as it was wanting to see if I could do it. I was a fairly good aim and was confident, but I was near the back of the bus and the chances of hitting her wasn’t really that good. I chucked it and it thumped off of the back of her head.

Kids near me were shocked. They laughed loudly, including the red-head and his friends, then cupped hands over their mouths and quickly straightened up when the bus screeched to a halt. The driver was out of her seat-belt in an instant. Soon she was standing six rows in front of me. She was looking right at the red-head. I looked out the window and acted uninterested in the discussion. As expected the red-head pointed me out. The driver questioned me, but then I asked, “From here?” She agreed that a throw from there was too absurd.

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“Close Shave, Smooth Transition” By Chad Robert Parker

As a student of BYU I respected the honor code. I agreed with a clean cut look that best represented me, after all. One morning, however, I woke up with a couple days growth and completely forgot to shave before going to our first intramural soccer playoff game.

The referee held me to the standard. I raced home hoping I could make it back by half. My goalie brother was upset. By the time I returned the other team had already scored a lucky goal on a bad bounce from a routine cleared ball he misjudged. We were down 1-0 and the other team had already gone into full defensive mode. We got eliminated, but my brother was sure if their coach and captain had started we would have won.

Fast forward, and I have been working for the BYU Harold B. Lee Library for almost 9 years. The same rules apply. It’s easy enough to keep from having a bad hair day, even in a pinch, as my spiky dew only requires a little water, but my 5 o’clock shadow can’t go more than a day; it looks a little scruffy the next morning. I sat in my office wondering if I could slip away at lunch without anyone noticing my sloppy look.

Of course my snarky boss showed up around 9:30am and didn’t miss the chance to make a wisecrack. It didn’t end there. He came back with a worn out razor. “I want you to shave. You need to present your rush process at our 10am meeting.” I thanked him for the offer and took the blade, but there was no way I was going to use it. I had completely forgotten about the meeting. It was a goal-setting meeting, a key priority meeting for the direction of our organization that next year, and this was the first I was told that I would be the go-to guy to lead out. Nonetheless, I was prepared. Ever since the soccer instance I have a hygiene kit in my car. I came in looking good and pulled off a smooth presentation.

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“Fighting Like Brothers” By Chad Robert Parker

If you thought it was bad trying to find acceptance in the new middle school, have I got a bully story for you. Try being a stray cat. Jazz-man had to fit in with a long established family cat: a cat that acted like sole owner, nay ruler, of the house and occupants the stray had been taken into. Kibbles immediately asserted dominance.

He would hiss and claw at Jazz-man at every opportunity. We often found Jazz-man hiding in the bookshelves wedged where only one animal could fit. He would be shaking and heaving, hadn’t touched his food or drink all day: a complete basket case of nerves. Besides that, Jazz-man was healing, replenishing fur and skin, from some obvious difficulties on the streets. It took a couple weeks but Kibbles threats started to wear off. Jazz-man had gained enough street smarts to sense it.

Jazz-man began testing Kibbles resolve and standing his ground. He was sizing Kibbles up for real. They got in a couple good scrape ups before they suddenly respected each other. I’m not sure we saw the full transformation. For a while we would come home and catch Kibbles letting Jazz-man clean his fur, which he would obviously stop allowing once he was spotted. Then we noticed their skirmishes seemed more like play. If one got hurt the other let up and then they were back at it shortly thereafter sneaking up and pouncing on each other, once again.

I still remember the days of Jazz-man’s eyes flitting in between bookshelves, testing whether it was safe to come out or not. But, I remember more the many years that followed where Jazz-man basically became the playmate in place of the brother that Kibbles had lost as a kitten. They were best friends forever.

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“It’s not Leprosy” By Chad Robert Parker

Her skin was peeling off her body. We kids scurried from her afraid of something more scary than the “cheese touch” as described in “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.” The adults who asked her about it seemed completely satisfied with the explanation of a Florida vacation. I thought it was something akin to the show “Containment” and I wondered why anyone would let this girl be at school at all.

Then I experienced the desert heat of my favorite vacation at Lake Powell in Utah. Now I knew how a sunburn could appear like leprosy. I have never ever had a sunburn so bad, before or since. But let me just say it was worth it. I had layer upon layer of skin peeling off and burning again and yet I could not help but get back in the water and splash around until the day is long. We applied supposed water repellent sun screen lotion over and over our skin but everyone came away so red stained and body pained, nonetheless. Kids then avoided me at school.

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“Stung twice a day” by Chad Robert Parker

When I was little I was stung by one bee and that was only because I stepped on a dead bee on the sidewalk when I was walking around bare foot. I don’t envy beekeepers, but I expect they get used to being stung. As an adult there was a time in my life that I got stung my fair share as well.

You would not believe how many wasps nests are on billboards. When I worked on billboards I learned that during the hot season I would need to get used to being bit (my equivalent to being stung), on average, twice a day. A couple cans of spray can take out 100’s of wasps in a day, but inevitably I didn’t have any spray left by the last board or two. Maybe you have seen me running across the top of a billboard I was working on and swatting at my head. Yes, it is exactly what it looks like.

Whenever we posted a sign that read something like “honk if you like…” we would quickly realize how many people actually do notice us up there working above the roadways. I’m sure several got a good laugh at us running from wasps just as it is depicted in the movies. It wasn’t so funny for me in the moment unless I was seeing my co-worker whacking his own head rather than me, but now that I am far away from that position it is rather hilarious looking back on my own bouts with the bee family.

 

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“Know Your Roots” by Chad Robert Parker

My oldest brother had to climb an extra five feet off a 35 foot extension ladder to splice our rope swing back into itself, over a perfect huge overarching branch. We braided the bottom of the rope adding four or five knots for hand and footholds.

After a while we knew every trick there was: like how to swing around neighboring trees, land on platforms, or fly upside down. We were running out of ways to one up each other. That’s when my brother started practicing pole vault maneuvers. I just had to find a way to outdo him. Big mistake!

I admired my brother’s obstacle. He had tied another rope across two trees at the far end of the runway. Then he hoisted himself upward and over, swinging and vaulting himself out toward the forest. Gravity would take over and he would fall safely into knee-deep mud. Soon he had raised the rope—his bar—to as high as running speed would allow him to go over.

The only way to exceed him was to climb up, wedged between two trees, as high as someone could reach the swinging rope up to me. I measured everything perfectly (well almost): the rope swing, the rope standard adjacent to me in the distance, and where I would have to hold to whip myself over my goal. As I jumped into swinging I remembered the giant root poking out of the ground at the midway point. There was no backing out. I tried to hold myself perpendicular to the ground while holding at the very bottom of the rope swing. Bam! My tailbone smacked directly on that root and I bounced across the ground to an inglorious halt, writhing in pain. It hurt to sit down for the next year.

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