Dear Mrs. Spangler

I think there are two distinct camps when it comes to interacting with others of our species. The so-called gregarious types who actually draw energy from being in a crowd. Additional terms for these social butterflies include amiable, cordial, folksy, neighborly, and extrovert. Then there’s the opposite camp, which includes me. Those who tend to lose energy over time when around other people. Other terms for my tribe include misanthrope, aloof, cold, detached, distant, frosty, remote, reserved, standoffish, reticent, taciturn, antisocial, introverted, reclusive, and unsociable. Curious how there are more terms for us vs. the Up With People-people. But despite the questionable labels, hopefully our upbringing will enable us to at least appear interested in others when out in public. But we’re still the opposite of gregarious. Does that make us nefarious?

I’m not sure if one’s proclivity for wanting to be around other humans vs. wanting to hide from them is nature, nurture, or fracture. To that point, in the past, after a day of teaching, I was usually drained and more often than not wanted to hide in my hotel room. The same still goes for when I have to be “on” when hosting a dinner or tasting for a crowd of consumers, which has happened infrequently since the pandemic.  

I think it may all go back to an incident in kindergarten. My teacher was the tall, slim, and stylish Kay Spangler (see above photo). She was a ringer for Lauren Bacall with her cocktail dresses, heels, pearls, and sultry voice due to at least a pack of cigarettes a day. I had a first mad crush on Mrs. Spangler. But then she terrified me at the Christmas pageant. And it may have left a mark.

The St. Anthony’s Kindergarten Christmas pageant that year was a simple affair. We sat in several rows of chairs placed in a semi-circle in front of an audience of friends and families. The program consisted of short holiday readings by Mrs. Spangler and my classmates alternating with everyone joining in to sing Christmas carols. It all sounded so simple, seasonal, and pure. And it would have been except for one thing. Mrs. Spangler made me sit in the front row—right in the middle. I asked her if I could move to the back row at least twice. She refused, saying I was fine where I was. I pleaded, but to no avail. Maybe she had a hidden sadistic streak in her. Or maybe she just wanted to see me squirm like a skinny pale piece of bait on a sharp hook. Whatever the case, I had to face the music front and center.

I remember the night of the pageant as if it were yesterday. Bright lights in the front of the room glaring on us students. The families in ominous semi-darkness. From the get go, I could barely face looking at the sea of unfamiliar faces. My parents and siblings were in the back, having arrived customarily late. But the way my Dad tells it, I spent the entire program turned around looking behind me. It was as if I couldn’t stand being on display in front of a crowd. Fortunately, the show eventually ended. Then Mom and Dad gave me the business the entire way home, which wasn’t a big deal as we lived literally across the street from the school.

Still the incident stuck with me. Over time, I developed an alter ego who was a complete smart ass in order to combat the urge to flee whenever in an unfamiliar crowd. No doubt it was also a survival skill developed at home living in a sizeable herd of brothers and sisters. I hear that wildebeests in the veldt do likewise.

I still think about Mrs. Spangler from time to time. I often ponder what it would be like to have a cocktail or two with her. No doubt she’d drink whiskey, probably Bourbon over ice with a water back. After all, her time was the 50s and 60s. Decent Scotch was at least a decade away from making its way into popular drinking consciousness. I know that because ads of the time featured “light” Scotches that were crisp and dry, whatever that means. But that wouldn’t matter to the lovely Mrs. Spangler. I’d order a good Bourbon over ice twice for us (Martin, my dad, would be proud). Then we’d make ourselves comfy in a Naugahyde booth. She’d light up in short order and we’d sit back and reminisce, at least what precious little I can remember about kindergarten. As for the tragedy of the Christmas pageant, I’d wait until we’d finished the first round. Then I’d ask her why she’d subjected me to so much embarrassment and humiliation by making me sit in the front row. Our conversation might go something like this.

Mrs. Spangler: This is good Bourbon. What is it?

Timmy: Buffalo Trace 10 Year.

Mrs. Spangler: Never heard of it, but it’s really good. I can only afford Jim Beam. Those nuns at St. Anthony’s are tighter than a clam with lock jaw. So why’d you bring me back other than for a good stiff drink? Did you miss me?

Timmy: Of course I missed you. I adored you. But I also wanted to talk to you about the Christmas pageant. Do you remember?

Mrs. Spangler: How could I forget it. You made a spectacle of yourself. Your parents were mortified.

Timmy: They were mortified? I was about ready to soil myself.

Mrs. Spangler: For heaven’s sake, I did it for your own good. You were a complete baby about the whole thing. The other kids didn’t have a problem with sitting in the front row (puts out her cigarette).

Timmy: That may be true, but it’s always bothered me. I can still feel the effects of it even now.

Mrs. Spangler: Dear god, you’re in your 60s now. Get over it already. Look, you turned out to be a good egg in spite of yourself. Now I need another drink. Would you be a dear and go get us another round. I’m beginning to like this buffalo stuff (lights up another cigarette). In fact, make mine a double.

Timmy (sighs): Yes, ma’am. Right away.