JUST MUSING BASELINES
Little Freddy- November 2, 2025
Little Freddy Fontaine fought sleep the way sailors fight storms—losing every noon. The class laughed; the teacher laughed harder. She’d pass the boy up the ladder as the other teachers passed him to her. In the teacher’s lounge, they all talked about the ‘Freddie’s’ – all of them. They spoke of the ‘Freddie’s’ as batons—grip, sprint, hand-off, exhale. Moreover, Freddy was an odd looking boy. Narrow freckled face, two front teeth like fence posts with a straw-sized gap. Goofy, yes—but not dumb. So yeah, Freddy was a goofy looking boy… not particularly bright, but not dumb – not impeded from learning by any known disability. What it was about Freddy and the others like him – nobody exactly knew – they didn’t have time to know. The school counselor had her opinion:
“Freddy’s fodder,” the counselor said, sipping burnt coffee.
“Fodder?” the new teacher echoed.
“Yes, among the fodder… those expected to be ghosted in our over-populated schoolrooms where we must pay attention to the demands of those who stay awake and seem eager to learn. The fodder can sleep.”
“Call that fodder again and I’ll wake you up,” the new teacher bristled.
The other teachers were visibly shaken by the new teacher’s indignation.
“Yes, but Freddie isn’t in your classroom, is he? You’re new.” Freddie’s 4th grade teacher spoke out in defense, but yes, she revealed a touch of hidden guilt trailing in her protest. She stirred her yogurt until it grayed.
“It’s easy to find fault when he’s not in your classroom. But you’ll have them.” Freddie’s 5th grade teacher flatly stated.
“He’s in my class,” he answered.
“Which?” the teachers asked in unison.
“Sunday school. Eyes like saucers, hand always up. And to think this is a Christian school.”
