Edubabble and other Blither

Hans Fritz’s full name is reputed to be Hans Solo Fritz, but I never actually checked his records for this when he was my student a few years ago. Hans’ name was the least of his, ahem, issues.

Built like an older man with a thick torso, albeit a hard-as-a-rock-sledge-hammer-weilding torso, Hans’ issues included rumors of stalking girls at the local Catholic school. He was asked to leave, we heard. His issues also included a self-inflicted bald spot, the size of a McDonald’s hamburger, on the tippy-top of his head. His work was good, completed with effort and thought. He participated in class enthusiastically, sometimes vociferously.

His mom, no doubt author of some of those issues, worked at a local supermarket deli. One evening she popped up from behind the counter as Tripper shopped for lunchmeat, greeting him with, “How can I make you super-happy tonight at the friendliest grocery store in town?” Braids gave her a Pippi-Longstocking-meets-Pocahontas element, adding to Tripper’s alarm. He scurried away. Once, for a middle school party, she sent gallons of egg salad. It pleased Hans to contribute such an entree, but it went virtually untouched, as I imagine does Hans to this day. Unfortunately, in both instances, odor could be a mitigating factor.



I remember one event in particular, the 8th Grade Snow Ball. Hans attended, no doubt encouraged or coerced by his emotional support teacher. Donning a 1980 beige, wide-collared suit, he did all right initially, mingling at times, talking to a few kids, but mostly shadowing teachers. He approached me purposefully as I manned the pop cart. “Mrs. Snow, this music is bad,” he stated, indignant. “There are curse words.” He looked at me expectantly.

“They’re bleeped out, aren’t they, Hans?” I asked, feverishly selling cans of Mountain Dew to students who had been flirting with mania all week in anticipation of this night.
He walked away, muttering pronouncements about the state of youthful morals in America that would make my missionary aunt proud.

He circled the dance floor/cafeteria for the next several sets, his mouth moving, arms and hands gesticulating, head thrust back facing heavenward, as if he were speaking in tongues. As he met me again, he educated me: “Another censored swear-word.”

“Aw, come on, Hans, just relax and have fun,” I offered gently.

“Now, Mrs. Snow,” he scolded me, “there’s fun, and then there’s intercourse.”

Not if you do it right, I thought as he went off in search of more sin.

I thought it might be time to alert my principal, Stan. He agreed that we should check on Hans, voicing concern about meds. When we found him, he was kneeling at an idle cash register, eyes slammed shut, lips working.

“Hans, buddy, come out here with us,” Stan said. We led Hans, blinking, into the bright light of the lobby.

“What’s going on?” Stan asked.

Hans looked at us.

“Hans, you’re drawing attention to yourself, attention you don’t really want. Why don’t you just calm down and try to have a good time. These are good kids. Look, everyone’s having fun, laughing.”

Hans channeled Jesus, just then. He looked first at Stan, then at me. Peaceful pity emanated from him. Forgive them, he seemed to think, they know not what they do.

“Amazing,” he offered.

“What’s amazing, Hans?” Stan was losing his patience.

“Amazing how one man in a suit coat can destroy all hope.”

Stan called Pippihontas, who collected Hans.



Hans used to have a paper route on my street, and I’d see him lugging the canvas Messenger Post bag over one shoulder. In the other arm he cradled his ferret. In recent years, however, he’s worked as a bag-boy at the friendliest grocery store in town.

This past fall he attended the tech-school semi-formal. He was excited as he gave me the details, grumbling about the cost of corsages. I’ve not heard tales of any mid-dance altar calls.

Every Christmas he leaves presents for each of his 8th grade teachers, pithy little trinkets like “Peas on Earth,” pinecone angels, or cryptic holiday messages that just make us shake our heads and smile.

Just last week he bagged my groceries again. Before I loaded up my buggy, he asked, “Mrs. Snow, do you do anything with the book Night in your class?”

“No, Hans. It’s a great book, but they read it at the high school in 9th grade. Why?”

“Sometimes I just wish I had a monocle.”

“Whatever for, Hans?”

“I’d just like to have a monocle, so I could put it in, grab my stick, and motion certain people to the left and certain ones to the right. You know?”