Playground pilferage

In teaching, anticipation is everything. It is also my downfall. "We are going on an academic field trip to master the marvelous world of money," I announced to my semi-interested students. "We will be heading out to the playground," I continued. That got their interest. "You will NOT have fun," I said sternly. "Should you need to use the slides during the course of this scavenger hunt, you will NOT giggle with joy or even smile. Do you understand?" One scared, tentative hand slowly rose into the air. "Mrs. Mosiman, what about the parallel bars?" I frowned, confused by his terminology. "If you mean the monkey bars," I corrected, ignoring their baffled looks, "then, yes, you may traverse your way across the playground by means of this accredited gymnastic implement but under no circumstances should you experience any euphoric delight. Understood?" Solemn heads nodded. Serious scholarly minds prepared for this academic adventure. Little did we know of the drama about to swing in our direction.

Earlier in the day, I was busy traipsing across precariously swinging bridges, crawling through claustrophobic tunnels, careening down slides and inching my way across balance beams, hiding plastic eggs filled with pre-determined assortments of coins. To my surprise, Mrs. Mantelli's tribe of first graders came screaming across the lawn toward me and swarmed the playground. I calmly and rationally addressed this troubling issue. "Stop, hoodlums," I screamed, chasing the pint-sized pip-squeaks up a narrow ladder but they cleverly evaded capture as they deftly escaped down a fireman's pole. Mrs. Mantelli apologized for thoughtlessly using my school playground and, while I attempted to be gracious, it took all of my self-control to resist stuffing her into the spinner of insanity. Where does she get off, bringing children to the playground?

When my academic athletes arrived later, I gritted my teeth in frustration as I caught sight of Mrs. Mantelli's students still occupying "my" playground. My scholars immediately began their studied inventory of the setting. "Mrs. Mosiman," one mathlete bellowed, shaking a plastic egg in my direction, "this egg is empty." Another voice drifted down from the tower, "This egg is empty too." Complaints came from all corners of the playground. Had I been robbed? Mugged by munchkins? Apparently Mrs. Mantelli's extended playground stay was precipitated by this dastardly deed as she systematically shook down the usual band of suspects. I tried to act casually unconcerned that several anticipated trips to the Pepsi vending machine may have just gone down the drain. I doubted Mrs. Mantelli's interrogation technique as she earnestly cajoled her criminals to "do the right thing." Where were the hot, blinding lights? The thumb-screws? Why wasn't she threatening to unstuff their teddy bears? But in the end, goodness prevailed. By goodness, I mean me. My money returned, the marauders were unceremoniously marched off for hard labor which resulted in some pretty impressive letters of apology. It was here that the true genius of Mrs. Mantelli was revealed. Technical writing is one thing but these letters were fraught with feeling while infused with a compelling undertone of  conviction as exemplified by the included sample:  I'm sorry about taking your money (bottom disclaimer: but Gavin did it). That is sophisticated writing.