High Noon -Diana Simpson

1
High Noon

"RIINNNNNNNGGGGG!!!!" It’s the beginning of Friday, lunch recess. Next week is

Christmas break. Lots of teachers have taken an early Christmas break by phoning
in sick. Their substitutes are nowhere in sight. Suddenly, feeling like the
Marlboro man, alone on the hostile range, I saddle up in my mind, and face the
turf I am sheriff of. “We can do this”, I offer up to my imaginary steed, “let’s
ride.”
“I’m the king of the castle!” Seven, six-foot high, balls of snow spot the
one acre school yard. Many smaller snowmen cram the play area. Keeping 850 kids
from throwing snow on the first day after a blizzard makes me uneasy in the
saddle.
“Mrs. Simpson Brandon took my hat!”
“Tell him to come here....”
“Mrs. Simpson Brittany tripped me!”
“Tell her I want to talk to her...”
“Mrs. Simpson, Ethan is swinging on that tree branch.”
Get down! Now!” My glasses have steamed over during my trot over .
“Or what?”
“You know ‘or what’ and you know I’ll do it!” I can hardly see the perpetrator
from behind my fogged spectacles.
“For climbing a tree?”

High Noon -Diana Simpson

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The tree killer stares into my steely blue eyes, as we size
each other up. Recess time consuming moments pass. Thinking I look too much
like a raging bull to tangle with, he decides to bounce down and away. Relieved
that I only had to fire a warning shot, I blow the smoke from my six shooter and
ride on.
Over in snowman central, the little kids’ snowmen are being pushed over by
older kids. Glancing down at my imaginary shiny Sheriff badge, I notice more heads
are toppling than during the reign of Louis 17th. The littler kids are
complaining to me about it and I suggest they make a fort in the primary area
instead. I reign my pony away from the grade sevens with a sour, warning look on
my authoritative face. A look that says, ‘stay out of primary town.’
“ But Forts aren’t fun unless there’s a snowball war!” Looking down at
citizen Jeremy and feeling in charge, I pronounce, “that is true son, you just
live over there, come over tomorrow”. Steam from the wintry cold, carrys my every
syllable.
“You’re nice Mrs. ‘S’.”
“I like you too Jeremy.”
My mount and I sense a faint holler over the bitter wind, “Jake- is -in -a
-snowball.”
But I must be galloping to my spot at the head of the class line-ups so I
shout through another icy current of air, “Tell Jake I said to get out of the
snow; the line-up bell just rang.”
At final bell, I catch sight of that the last of the primary students
prairie dogging into line. All of the junior classes have saddled up and gone.
Scanning the range, I see a few grade eight girls looking at me askance, more
giddy than usual. Everyone seems more the
High Noon -Diana Simpson
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than ready to head back to the corral.
I canter partially inside. droving the remaining kids inside. Scanning one
more time before finally closing the door, muted blubbering’s tug at my frozen
right ear. The flinging of hats and boots and snow pants has occupied my left
ear.
I want to let out one big, “SHHHHHHHHHH,” but I understand how lame that
would seem. The law does not like to appear lame and seldom attempt acts of
obvious futility, but just under the pandemonium I have the sense of hearing,
“yaba...baba....daba....yaba”.... within earshot. I place my frosty mental ear
to an imaginary ground to perceive the direction of the raucous.
I nudge Caroline, the teacher from the room across from mine and yell over
the din, “Signal the office: tell them room 108 is back out!” I know this means
vice Principal Johnson will be watching my class and vice principal Stevens will
be following me.
“daba....baba...yaba...yaba...” okay, it’s out here, whatever it is,
“baba...yaba...daba...yaba..” over here...no.... over there.....finally!
Dangling 3 feet from the ground, propped up in a oversize snowball, little
grade two Jake, sits with a leg on each side of a giant snowman midriff. Above
him sets a colossal snowman head. A human cranium is not visible. Rolled and
packed and stacked, Jake has gone along with the grade eight kids placing him and
turning him into their own, end of first term snow memorial.
Almost as cool and strong as Matt Dillon, I punch the snowman down. Abdominal,
is no match for my swift and on-target draw. Boots take to the air, mittens blow
off , a scarf

High Noon -Diana Simpson

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flies, coat and hat tumble like weeds from the scene. As I find the face matching
the description on the wanted poster, I holler, “Is he breathing?” Dropping, I
attempt CPR on the frigid and blue seven year old.
Mrs. Stevens stands immobile beside me. It appears that her own career is
passing before her face. White around the gills, and trembling, I glare at her
cell phone and cry, “drop it!” Grabbing the frozen cell and dialling 911 in
between compressions, this cowboy sees the pink flush of life in Jake’s cheek.
Headline: Pickering Observer December 21st, 2001.
“School Principal at Yard duty Saves Child”
and lower down,
“Principal Stevens now states that Jake Rousseau, who was semi-conscious at the
time of the rescue, will make a full recovery.”
Really now? Hmmmmm…!
Jake Rousseau sits up, recovering in his bed and says to his mother, “who was
that masked man who unburied me anyways?” Mom passes her son hot cocoa and apple
pie and sighs toward the bedroom window, toward the school yard, “I don’t know
son, but I’d really like to thank him.”
Pausing at the pass, Trigger and I look back, at the address we call our
territory, and ride off into the sunset.