8th grade. Mr. Wolf’s typing class, the room abuzz with the hum of 30 electric typewriters. His gruff, booming voice & hulking frame intimidated me, but who couldn’t love a man with actual longhorns welded between his headlights, & a closet full of Jolly Ranchers and $100,000 bars?
Our fingers poised over the keys, hidden by a sheet of paper he’d had us tape to the typewriter, waiting for today’s pop contest to win some inferior chocolate.
“Ok, kids, spell Mississippi backwards – GO!”
The winner was the only one who [thought to capitalize] the M.
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