The Seventies brought back a memory of a special student that I had my first few years of teaching. I was rather fortunate finding a teaching position. I did my student teaching at Metropolis, and my supervising teacher was retiring that year. Upon her recommendation, I was hired for her position. I taught Junior and Senior English and an advanced writing course for seniors.

I wasn’t much older than my students and weighed about 102 lbs soaking wet. Since English is a required subject and four credits of English required for seniors to graduate, I had all of the upper level English students in the Junior and Senior classes. My students and I had a great time those years that I spent at Metropolis, for they were a different type, much different than the students today. And, I had a sense of humor at that time. I hadn’t become jaded with the educational system; I had enthusiasm and spirit.

There was this one special guy, Bonner Leonard, in my class. He always had a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He was a tall, lanky youth with the most beautiful dark brown hair and eyes. Kind eyes—the eyes of a fawn or colt just beginning its life journey. Just a funny young man, Bonner played practical jokes on all of us. And, we in turn would think of ways to get him back.

Bonner would always bring me little gifts, a bottle of perfume, a figurine, costume jewelry—I always thought that he might be raiding this mom’s or sister’s stash of finery to bring to me. I didn’t have the heart to decline his offer of such wonderful little gifts, for I couldn’t have stood the disappointment in his face. One day, Bonner brought me a beautiful little plant that he had place tenderly in a small pot. I thought that that was the sweetest thing that anyone had ever done. I brought the plant home and placed it in my kitchen window and nurture it carefully.  It grew so well and was so very healthy, and I was so very proud of that plant.

One evening, one of my school buddies stopped by the house for a visit. As we were talking, she looked in my kitchen window and saw my beautiful plant. She said, “Angie, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why are you growing marijuana in your kitchen window?” she asked.

Well, you can understand how I felt. That Bonner had done it again. I bet he laughed himself silly as I lovingly carried that marijuana plant out to my car.

What if I had been stopped by the police? What if DEA had stormed my house and found my plant growing so well in my kitchen window? I could have kissed by teaching career goodbye!

I never told Bonner that I had found out his ruse. He probably laughed for several years over my naiveté. After Bonner graduated, he began working as a prison guard. Late one night on his way home, he fell asleep at the wheel of his car, ran into a tree and was killed instantly. He was only 25 years old.