The principal giving a speech over the scratchy intercom. The little wooden box over the chalkboard at the front of the class that almost never squawks at us, other than the morning National Anthem and announcements. Teachers crying in the stairwell. Everyone walking around muted. Traffic moving slower, less aggressively.
Home to the TV, small, black and white, snowy, old men with suits and heavy glasses talking seriously. No cartoons allowed. No Soupy Sales. No Sandy Becker today.
Dad comes home from work and just looks at mom. Tells the kids to go wash up for dinner.
Our high school had one principal, a vice principal, one guidance counsellor and a secretary.
Grief had to be dealt with on our own time.
Disputes were settled with fists on a country corner about a half mile away from school. We had rifles or shotguns in our vehicles, but nobody ever thought about using them over a teenage disagreement.