Generations

He looked like a stuffed animal or a really old hound dog. Two hairy spiders danced on his forehead and a distracting waddle of skin wagged back and forth under his chin when he talked. His name was Bert and he explained that his name was a shortened version of Albert, which made them all look at each other in confusion. Their names were Braenna and Sierra, Haidyn, Rhiby and Skyanna, and they sat in a semi-circle at Bert's feet while he rambled on and on about being named after some prince, somewhere in England. They took turns doing impersonations of him on the bus ride home and Mrs. Heatherington sighed, knowing that the field trip to the old age home had failed, in some ways, to impress her students. 'Living history', were the words she had used to describe her reasons for wanting to take a classroom full of ten-year-olds to visit their forgotten predecessors. She'd nearly called it a day after Kyler Winde had been found pushing a forlorn and confused woman down the hall in a wheelchair and she shuddered when she considered how he had convinced her to get in the damn thing.

Lisa Heatherington had applied and been accepted to teacher's college after a talk with a friend, who had convinced her that there was no higher calling than the one that infused children with the right ideas and the mettle that would influence future generations. What could be more virtuous than educating our young, more satisfying than watching as they grew into the next generation that could mold and shape the world using the inspiration and determination she could give them. Lisa knew she should have gone to Thailand when she had the chance.

Bert paused, in mid speech, and looked at the children, sitting on the floor around him, and wondered why he had let his grand-daughter talk him into this. These little pukes didn't give a shit what he was talking about. He didn't even give a shit what he was talking about. He was half-way through a story about his tour of duty, a story that had dragged him around the planet twice, and deposited him in France before he caught the fragment of a bullet in his thigh, a bullet he believed had come from an American rifle, although he could never prove it. He looked at these kids and realized they didn't know where France was or cared that he had been decorated twice for valor, or that on every remembrance Day he was asked to join the parade that celebrated the commitment to the cause, the country and her King. "It was there that I caught the crabs from a lovely prostitute named Lilla. Damn near ruined my military career, that woman."

She couldn't decide who was worse. There was no escaping the coming controversy, once the kids got home and told their parents about the trip, no escaping the sanctions, if not outright dismissal, and no way to escape the laughter as the kids re-counted every word of Bert's story all the way back to the school. Bert had leaned back in his chair and waited as his words sank into the pre-occupied minds of the chattering children in front of him and when it did the howling laughter had started and she witnessed an incredible coming together of generations as the kids finally looked at, and saw, the old man with his withered hands in his lap, grinning from ear to ear at her while the room exploded around them.