When the voice on the other end said, “This is Diane Edmonson Rose,” my mind raced. Rose? Edmonson? Ah … Diane Edmonson, a classmate from first through 12th grade. A Rose by any other name is still an Edmonson.

Diane was calling from Pennsylvania about the 40th reunion of our class of ’72 in September, which I just might attend. I mean, I’ve never been to a class reunion, and seven months gives me plenty of time to make up stories about my life and have the Trib print some fake-dated articles lauding my success and heroics over the years. I’m thinking, “Blough’s Writing Wins Yet Another Award,” and “Blough says, ‘I regret I can only donate ONE kidney to this perfect stranger.’”

My good friend Lester Stephenson and I agreed recently that our school had the biggest, toughest, hardest-hitting teachers this side of an NFL defensive line. Had there been a teacher gang-fight, competing schools would have needed a lot of body bags. And those behemoths weren’t bound by any feel-good, psychobabble code-of-conduct either. One was wise to watch one’s mouth at CTHS back in the ‘70s, my friends.

I was once hoisted by my Beatle haircut completely off the ground by one such monster educator, Mr. Fuller. As students ran outside between adjoining wings just after lunch period and Danny Hostetler dropped his books, I meant no disrespect. But always the opportunist, when they landed right in front of me, I never even broke stride before leaping high and landing on the scattered pile.

An audible “gulp” replaced my laughter when I heard, “Blough! Back here, now!” Like a condemned man to the gallows, I walked slowly back to Mr. Fuller, who appeared to be snorting some sort of brimstone from his nostrils. After he shook me by my hair sufficiently and dropped me back to earth, I picked up, dusted off, and handed the books back to Danny while apologizing, as ordered.

Later in Fuller’s classroom, he entered and said apologetically, “Douglas, I was told you didn’t mean to jump on those books. Is that true?” I answered sheepishly, “No sir. I did it on purpose.” He thundered, “Yeah, you’re darn right you did, and you are lucky you said that!” I had dodged a second Fuller bullet.

It was always traumatic personally, yet a joy to see someone else, particularly a good buddy, get whacked around. Mr. Paxton, a white-haired, Clint Eastwood clone, offered up a treat one day when my best friend, Jerry Salley, was getting the attention he craved by opening his mouth wide while tapping a No. 2 pencil off his throat, producing a loud, hollow sound. It was a standard, hilarious gag in those days, and ol’ Jerry worked it to perfection.

The humor went right over Paxton’s head though when he strode briskly to Jerry’s desk and landed a blow to his coconut that sounded even hollower than his throat had. Sitting right next to Jerry, I trembled a bit, but when the dust cleared, I whispered, “Hey Jer, do it again. I dare ya.”

But the one I’d really have loved to see was when Donnie Eash was a recipient of a legendary swat from the barrel-chested, Ernest Borgnine-looking, Mr. O’Connor. Although still great friends to this day, I didn’t know Eash and Lester well yet in seventh grade, since we went to different grade schools. I was in 7-A while they were in 7-C, but the Eash smack-down story circulated quickly.

Les recounts how Eash ambled cockily up to O’Connor’s desk and asked where to put his completed test. Eash had, and still has, a tendency to mumble, and O’Connor was immersed in grading papers. Eash quietly asked a second time, again with no reaction, but enunciated much more clearly on his third try: “Hey man, where do you want this jazz?”

The 250-pound O’Connor launched from his chair, positioned his huge ring around to the fat part of his open hand, and smacked Eash so hard across the skull that it bounced off the blackboard before he crumpled to the floor like Beetle Bailey. Slightly remorseful, O’Connor said, “I’m sorry Don, but nobody talks to me like that; not even my own kids!”

I’m sure if they ever did the research, it would be found that the CTHS class of ’72 has a disproportionate amount of permanent brain damage.