The Small Things.
A/N, warnings etc. Ok, for most people Dah = Father, but I always called my grandfather (whose Irish) Dah. So live with it (",) Also, I know the Americans use Taps at Military funerals, but here in Australia, we have The Last Post. I'm only using The Last Post because I know the story behind it.
Mid 30's (Celsius) = about mid-90's Fahrenheit.
For some reason, I'm into writing all these stories where people die as of late. This is meant to be a bit more light hearted that The Greater Good, but still, it's character death.
I'm planning on posting the next chapter to Enemy at the Gate sometime this week as well, and got a new story in the works. Exams are all over, and I don't go back to work for a week – needless to say, I have a hell of a lot of time on my hands. (",). I haven't written, or planned any more of Lillian, or Lost in my Reflection, yet though, mainly because they weren't good fic's by any standards, and I had used to get into 'SG-1' mode. But I will add to them, eventually, if I can figure out which direction to take them in (",). But now, for another short-death-fic.
~*~
A lot of children have passed through my doors since I began teaching all those years ago, all with different quirks and personalities. Some I remember a little more fondly than others, others, well, the past is best-left right there. In the past.
But of all the children I have ever taught, every few stand out as much as one of my oldest students. I would have only been out of teachers college for a year at the most, when the scruffy little 6-year-old boy first walked through my doors. From the moment I set eyes on him, I knew I would be for an 'interesting' year with him. Interesting, it turned out, would be an understatement.
Jonathon talked a lot, that was the first thing I noticed. For the moment he took his seat, he was chatting away to his friend he had only made a few minutes before. Telling his new companion stories of adventures at his grandfathers cabin, his trials and tribulations in his fishing quests, reciting stories his 'Dah' had passed down, heroic stories for the First World War, I'm sure were censored by his grandfather, and no doubt exaggerated by Jonathon himself. But it didn't matter; young James was captivated by the stories Jonathon told him, waiting eagerly for the conclusion. He had a way with that, holding people's attention with stories of his young exploits, and an imagination that ran wild, making his stories truly unique. I had to wonder, though, just how much his imagination did play in his tales.
While I enjoyed his yarns, his incisive need to continually talk did usually end him in trouble. He couldn't help himself, and I often found myself reprimanding him. He wasn't a disciplined child like others I'd seen over the years. He was loved and cared for, of that, there was no doubt. But he lacked self-discipline, that I put down to his famous Dah, who I later learnt, shared the same carefree sprit as his grandson. Neither cared for the classroom, or academics. No, their passion always remained to nature, the wilderness. Unfortunately, Jonathon had not yet learnt the distinction between the two. He hadn't realised that certain situations called for certain behaviour. To him, the world was one big forest, with very little rules.
Unfortunately for me, reprimanding him was usually difficult. He always wore a huge mischievous smile plastered across his face; his happiness was always contagious. I remember one day, towards the middle of the year, Jonathon just kept talking. He'd spent the previous weekend in Minnesota with his Dah, and was anxious to tell anyone that would listen about the big adventure, no matter how many times I asked him to be quite.
'Jonathon O'Neill, if you keep this up, I'll tape your mouth closed' I'd said at one point, Jonathon's refusal to be quite grating my nerves a little.
Jonathon's big brown eyes jumped up at me, a little cautious, but mainly curious. Would I carry out my threat? I could see the internal battle through his eyes, but it quelled. Be genuinely tried, 'I'm sorry, Sister. Thank you' He spoke with sincerity, before returning to his work.
Less than 5 minutes had passed before a voice piped up, 'Sister, Jonathon is talking again' Spinning round, I saw a very guilty look fall over Jonathon's face. Although I had no real intention to carry out my previous threat, most children simply stopped talking following it. But I had warned him. I reached into the top desk draw, and proceeded to his desk, with the tape. Placing a cross over his lips, I turned to walk back to the front of the room. When I faced him again, his eyes reflected the huge smile he was wearing. He thought it was hilarious. Rasing one eyebrow, he looked at me, and I couldn't help but laugh. The tape came off straight away, followed by another almost sincere 'I'm sorry, Sister. Thank you'
I'd always had a soft spot of young Jonathon, regardless of his antics, and his inability know when to keep quite, he always had a quality the drew people in, made you want to be around the extortionary boy. Maybe it was his sense of adventure. His imagination. He's innocence and faith that so many of his peers had lost as the years wore on. Maybe it was just his captivating tales he's tell of his Dah's cabin, always told with his big brown eyes, that widened even further when he reached the climax of his chronicle.
I didn't see him much after he'd finished Year 1, but occasionally caught up with him. As he grew, he didn't loose his innocence, or his amazing tales. It wasn't until Year 9 when I saw him again. Being a small community school, teachers were sparse, and so, the Principal requested I take on junior secondary classes. It wasn't difficult, just a few maths classes here and there until they found a replacement. Jonathon once again ended up in my class.
He had matured, grown into a stable teenager, but his sense of adventure was still there, his faith, much to my surprise, had remained intact. He hadn't followed the typical teenager act, of 'to hell with the world'. It was great to see that, even after all these years, he was still Jonathon O'Neill.
There was one afternoon, and although summer had only just begun, the heat was reaching the mid-30's, and coupled with a difficult maths problem, the entire class was growing agitated. Taking their frustrations out on their classmates, I decided to end the maths class early. Pulling out 13 sheets on blank paper, I handed out one sheet to each student, telling them to write their names at the top of each page. Then to pass it round the room, and for each of them to write something nice about the person on the sheet. I saw looks exchanged between Jonathon and James, but neither spoke up, and complied with my wishes.
They were all distributed back to their original owners, and the class filed out as the bell rang moments later. Jonathon and James shuffled past my desk, as Jonathon wore his infamous mischievous grin, saying 'I'm sorry Sister. Thank you' as he left. Unlike a great deal of other students who had spoken similar words to be, there was no malice behind it. Simply good humour, and a touch of sincerity.
I didn't see Jonathon again after that day. Holidays came and went, and I found myself transferred out of the small Catholic community school. I had heard, through friends, that Jonathon's Dah had died during Year 11, and he had not taken it well. While some said he eventually bounced back, others said he had withdrawn completely. One had told me she believed he had left school completely towards the end of Year 11. But it was never confirmed. I lost contact with many of my old friends from my 'home school'. I never found out exactly what had happened to Jonathon. Rumours filtered through from the few friends I kept, some said he'd gotten his act together, other's he'd become a recluse and returned to his fathers cabin in Minnesota. Others said he was married now, 3 kids, a dog and a white picket fence. One told me he'd died in a car accident. I realised, at some point, worrying was futile. I would probably never find out his true fate.