Mr. Tebo and the Blizzard of '78

 

     February 5, 2023 marks the 45th anniversary of the Blizzard of ‘78, a catastrophic nor'easter that caught New England by surprise, dropping 27 inches onto the 21 inches that previously fell two weeks before, killing nearly 100 people, injuring 4,500, and causing more than $500 billion in damage (Patriot Ledger, February 5, 2022).  The suddenness of the storm, despite the best efforts of meteorologist Harvey Leonard in his first year, stranded many on the Mass Pike and shut things down for three days.  There have most definitely been worse storms since, but this one will always stand out for me, and will forever remind me of three people in my life;  Peter Gosselin, Leo Lussier, and Mark Tebo.

     I was a hyperactive fourth grader at Taft Elementary School in the winter of ‘77-’78, but before that attended the North Uxbridge School (later named Victoria Blanchard school after the respected principal in charge while I was there). My mother likes to remind me of parent-teacher conferences she attended where she was often politely informed of my ridiculous energy levels and the incessant need to talk.  I wasn’t a bad kid by any stretch, but I often found myself sitting in the corner (a popular punishment of that time) or staying in for recess, which seemed counterproductive for a kid who clearly needed it.  The school was loaded with very nice female teachers like Mrs. Kosiba, Mrs. Seymour, Mrs. Adams, and (my personal favorite) Mrs. Remillard.  None seemed to be able to tame the aggressive immaturity I displayed.

     Sometime in second grade, I found myself signed up for some kind of school holiday show (it may have been a Christmas show with the three kings), and all those interested went to the basement for an preliminary rehearsal.  The meeting bored me quickly, and within a short time found myself hanging from the parallel bars sitting off to the side, swinging and most likely yelling. A sudden, explosive male voice took over the room.  Time stopped.  Everyone froze, and it took me a beat to realize it was directed at me.  This was my first interaction with the legendary Mark Tebo, a tall, angry looking man sent over from Taft School to run this circus, and he was not subscribing to my personal monkey show.  One warning.  Knock it off or you're out. I honestly did not want to challenge him.  He scared the hell out of me, but I just couldn’t help myself, and soon started climbing the bars again. Mr. Tebo kept his promise. I had to cry and beg to get back in, and he reluctantly allowed it. I never forgot it.

 

      The next year, there was a change made in how the two elementary schools were structured, and all third and fourth graders attended Taft.  This was a big change for me.  New friends (this is when I met Austin O’Toole, who would be my best friend all the way through high school), new teachers, new possibilities. The school itself was also much different, in that it was one floor with very long hallways, an open invitation for anyone my age to race others as often as possible. Despite being overweight, I was happy to oblige.  One day I found myself in one of the empty hallways, which to my eyes looked more like a runway, and readied for take off.  I taxied, I picked up speed, and just as I was about to lift off, a large shadowy figure stepped out of a doorway and took up my whole world. I came to a screeching stop, and found myself on the ground looking up, once again, at the infamous Mr. Tebo. I found myself trying to scramble away like Sarah Connor trying to escape the Terminator, in slow motion.  I may have peed myself. I don’t know if he recognized me, but he bellowed, and sent me to the office. I was fortunately given a reprieve from the understanding principal, Mr. Wallis Darnley, and went back to class, but Mr. Tebo had become everything I feared in life.

       The summer of 1977 saw Uxbridge celebrating its 250th anniversary with a parade and time capsule, and my parents received a letter informing them who my teachers would be for the upcoming fourth grade year.  The options were either the combination of Mr. Croteau and Mrs. Garvey (which I prayed daily for), or Mrs. Brothers and ……..Mr. Tebo.  When they opened the envelope, I could feel the air leave my lungs as I heard my mom start to say, “Mrs. Brothers and …”  Everything after that is a blur. My fate was sealed for the entire school year.  A year that should have been more about discussions regarding the musical genius of Shaun Cassidy and epic kick soccer battles at recess would be perpetually overshadowed by that man. As a nine year old, it counts as life altering. Little did I know how much that year and that man would actually alter my life.

      The year started about as well as I would have expected.  I was bored, but kept my act together to avoid his wrath.  There was the occasional dust up, like when Kevin Blanchard (who was sitting in front of me) blamed me for a gas blast that he was so clearly guilty of (Rest in peace, Kevin. I forgave you a long time ago).  My nine year old self could not take the embarrassment, and I gave him a pretty good shove in the back, which most likely would have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t started to cry. The percussive baritone from the front of the room immediately informed me that the epic recess kick soccer games would be held without me for the foreseeable future.  Dammit.

     I have to admit, kick soccer at recess may have been the turning point in my relationship with Mr. Tebo.  We played on the cement basketball court right outside his room, with each basketball hoop being a base.  We had a core of boys that never missed a game, including myself, Austin, Scott Hill, Peter Gosselin, and Mike DuBois.  We were friends, competitive, and loved all of it.  Mr. Tebo pitched every game, and made the calls.  I started to understand him more.  He played with us, which means he may not have hated us as much as I thought.  And he was tough with the calls.  But, he was also fair and protective.  I found myself wanting to gain his approval.

      Then the blizzard hit.  I remember a lot of snow.  To a nine year old three feet of snow creates a canyon when plowed, so it was like playing on Ice Planet Hoth (yes, I know the movie came out years later).  I remember being out of school, but honestly couldn’t tell you how long.  And then, I remember my parents telling me one of my classmates was missing.  It was even on the TV news, as they reported Peter Gosselin missing for five days, ten days, fifteen days.  There was video of boy scouts using shovels to check snow drifts along the roads of Uxbridge.  Pete had been home, and apparently went out to shovel when the storm started. Where the hell was he?

 

       My family attended the First Evangelical Congregational Church of Uxbridge, exactly what you would picture a New England Protestant church to look like.

 

It was a small congregation, and the only reason I looked forward to going at all was that I might get to see my good friend, Sue Arakelian.  But there was a nice sense of community about this small group.  Everyone knew each other, and everyone had their favorite place to sit. My dad preferred the left side of the church, about half way back, near the center aisle.  A few rows back sat Leo and Mabel Lussier.  I only know Mr. Lussier to be a little league coach, but it also turned out he was a mail carrier in town.  I later found out he was delivering mail on his route, which included the Gosselin house.  By then, the snow had started to lessen, and apparently he saw a glove in the snow, which he bent down to pick up.  He discovered that the glove was not empty.  Twenty days after he disappeared, the mystery of Peter’s wherabouts came to an end at his front door.  The long held theory is that Pete slipped on his steps, hit his head, and then was covered by the snow that was falling at 3-4 inches an hour.  Tragic and ironic.

     My parents didn’t allow me to go to the funeral, which confused and upset me at first, and for which I held a long resentment, but I do understand it now.  How do you explain to a nine year old that his kick soccer buddy is gone forever under those circumstances.  In the following days at school, I remember the quiet awkwardness, and the lack of enthusiasm.  And, Mr. Tebo crying at his desk.  Later that year, the school created an obstacle course competition for fourth graders to compete in, and the winner would have their name forever etched on the Peter Gosselin award.  I originally didn’t qualify for the race in gym class, but someone had to drop out and I was chosen as an alternate by Mr. Kurowski. The fat kid (as I saw myself back then) came in second that night.  Missed making history by about a blink of an eye.  I really would have liked to have won that.

     There was a win that I didn’t expect.  For Memorial Day, the school had all fourth graders write something about what the day meant to them.  Somehow, I managed to scratch out a poem, and turned it in without much thought.  The next day, Mr. Tebo told me to stay in with him during recess, wondering ,”What the hell did I do this time!?”  As I awaited the next volley of angry words, he sat down, pulled out my poem, and told me he wanted me to read it in front of the students, the faculty, and the veterans at the Flying Squadron ceremony.  He helped me tweak it so it was ready, and after very shakily reading it that day, I turned to the veterans and (as he instructed) saluted them.  It’s still one of my proudest moments, not just because of the applause I was receiving (maybe for the first time in my life), but because I knew Mr. Tebo didn’t just see me as out-of-control  pain-in-the-ass.  

     Even though I didn’t know Peter for very long or very well, he never quite left my life.  There was a memorial page in our senior yearbook.  (God he looked so young). His brother was our football captain during my freshman year of high school, and when I started bagging at Rico’s Supermarket, I found out the woman I was working with was Peter’s mom.  She had the vibe of a woman who was living under a cloud of tragedy her entire life, but was still so nice to me every time we talked, even after realizing I was a classmate of her son.  She died in 2018.

     Mr. Tebo was another story.  My wife and I both came back to teach in Uxbridge, and she was lucky enough to be a colleague of his for a number of years.  He was incredibly nice, and acted as if we were long lost friends whenever we met up. Whenever he saw my son, Brandon, who was still pretty young, he would address him like he was his favorite person. His tough, scary exterior was exactly what I needed when I was young, and his pleasant, accepting side was exactly what I needed when I was older.  Year after year I meant to write him a letter explaining his importance to me.  How he helped mold me.  How he had some influence over my becoming a teacher.  How I model my teaching style after him in many ways.  I never wrote it.  I don’t know why. It will always be one of my biggest regrets.

     Mr. Tebo died November 21, 2014.

     I hope he will still accept this long overdue assignment, and feel free to tweak it in any way he sees fit.