The Great Sugar Daddy Caper

By the time I reached Blacow Elementary each morning, I had already put in a day’s first shift.

The Argus newspaper route came first.

Five o’clock.

Fresh newsprint.

Two heavy canvas bags biting into my shoulders.

Every paper folded by hand.

Every throw landing within two feet of the front door.

Rain meant hanging the paper from the doorknob.

That was my standard.

Home came next.

Cold water from the kitchen faucet.

A wink of sleep.

A sip from Mama’s second cup of coffee.

Cream of Wheat with milk, brown sugar, and raisins.

Then my bike pointed toward school.

Some mornings I arrived with ink beneath my fingernails and paper dust clinging to my hands. I carried the pride of earning my own money and enough restless fire to keep several adults fully occupied.

Blacow knew what to do with boys carrying too much fire.

Mr. John Melendez carried authority through the building.

His voice could cross the cafeteria, find one boy inside a sea of kids, and stop foolishness before it became a full production.

He had a word for kids who got sideways.

“Honyock!”

The word hit hard.

The selected kid corrected course immediately.

At lunch, the Honyock Table sat apart from the others.

A place of shame, reflection, and the occasional hardened offender who had spoken out of turn while holding a carton of milk.

Mr. Melendez could send a kid there with one booming command.

“You! Honyock Table!”

Every head turned.

Further explanation became unnecessary.

Mr. Bob Berridge brought the United States Marine Corps into the school with him.

He carried himself with discipline.

His expectations stood straight.

His patience had limits, and boys discovered those limits through practical field research.

I knew where I stood around Mr. Berridge.

Usually straighter than I had been standing three seconds earlier.

Drift sideways in his classroom and recess became laps around the blacktop.

Lag behind and the walk returned next recess.

Let your grammar wander into a double negative and fifty sentences followed.

A second offense doubled the number.

Persistent foolishness could carry the total to five hundred.

Mama trusted him completely.

She loved having a Marine help guide me.

I am fairly certain she believed the Almighty had arranged it personally.

She trusted Mr. Melendez too.

One day I brought home a permission slip authorizing corporal punishment.

I presented it to Mama carrying the faint hope that reflection might save me.

She reached the line asking whether the school had permission to paddle her son.

Blue ink hit the page.

Permission granted.

That was unfortunate for me and entirely understandable to anyone acquainted with my operating history.

I got sideways with impressive consistency.

Just like that, I needed fire insurance on my backside.

Mrs. Norma Richey carried a different strength.

She was intelligent, observant, and deeply invested in the kids around her.

She noticed effort.

She noticed change.

She knew when a child needed encouragement and when he needed challenge.

She delivered both with a beautiful, welcoming smile.

She epitomized what a great teacher could be.

Then came sixth grade.

Mrs. Flores.

I had a serious crush on her.

That belongs in the record.

She was intelligent, Hollywood gorgeous, genuine, warm, kind, and disciplined.

She knew her classroom.

Every desk.

Every student.

Every kind of energy a kid carried through the door.

My energy required brilliance, charm, discipline, and the occasional reinforcement of Mr. Melendez.

She stayed three steps ahead of every scheme a room full of sixth grade boys could invent.

Notes passed between desks rarely completed their journey.

Whispers disappeared before gathering momentum.

Trouble stood up and discovered Mrs. Flores already standing beside it.

She corrected quickly.

Firmly.

Then she moved forward.

She expected more because she believed more lived inside us.

I wanted to impress her.

A right answer felt bigger when she heard it.

A completed assignment carried more weight when she stopped beside my desk, smiled, and told me I had done good work.

One encouraging word from Mrs. Flores could keep a sixth grade boy walking taller for the rest of the week.

Teachers rarely know how far their words travel.

I carried plenty into her classroom.

Curiosity.

Mischief.

Ambition.

Anger.

Opinions about nearly everything.

Facts sometimes arrived later.

Mrs. Flores understood something important.

A good kid can carry more fire than he knows how to use.

She taught me how to aim mine.

Then there was Campy.

Officially, he was the janitor.

At Blacow, Campy was Campy.

He kept the school running.

He swept floors.

Fixed broken things.

Moved chairs.

Emptied trash.

If your basketball lost air before recess, Campy stopped whatever he was doing.

He checked the valve.

Worked the pump.

Handed the ball back with a smile.

Twenty minutes of playground glory restored.

He understood something many adults miss.

What matters to a child matters.

All day long, Campy worked.

All day long, he whistled.

All day long, he sang the same line.

“Ever day’s a holiday ... ever day’s a holiday ...”

I heard it so often that the words settled inside me before I understood I was learning them.

Then one afternoon, everything changed.

A gang jumped me.

My lip was split.

Blood covered my hands.

I stood at a sink trying to wash away more than blood.

My father was gone.

The grief had been sitting inside me.

That afternoon, it found a crack.

I wanted privacy.

Campy saw me anyway.

He walked over quietly.

He slipped a candy bar into my hand.

Then he placed his hand gently between my shoulders.

“Good things are coming,” he said.

That was it.

A candy bar.

A hand on my back.

Four words.

Kindness.

Hope.

Just enough.

Then Campy returned to work.

Sweeping.

Repairing.

Helping another kid.

Whistling.

Singing.

“Ever day’s a holiday ... ever day’s a holiday ...”

More than forty years have passed.

I still sing it.

Our sons sing it.

Through good years.

Hard years.

Years filled with celebration.

Years that demanded faith.

Years that required sobriety one ordinary day at a time.

The song stayed.

So did the man.

I still see Campy walking those halls with a smile already waiting for the next kid who needed him.

I still feel his hand on my back.

I can still taste that candy bar.

Funny what stays with a boy.

A principal’s command.

A Marine’s discipline.

A teacher’s belief.

A janitor’s song.

Those people thought they were helping us through another school day.

They were building the men we would become.

Campy kept showing up.

He kept serving.

He kept singing.

“Ever day’s a holiday.”

I have carried those words into businesses, studios, family rooms, hospital rooms, quiet mornings, and long nights when life demanded every ounce of courage I could gather.

Sometimes hope arrives wrapped in a candy bar.

Sometimes it arrives through a hand resting gently on your back.

Sometimes it whistles down the hallway of an elementary school until one hurting boy carries the tune for the rest of his life.

Proverbs says:

“A merry heart does good, like medicine.”

I take that medicine ever day.

©2026 Bryan-David Scott. All rights reserved.

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