| PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE I am fascinated by high school students who have 4.5 GPAs. For me, I was generally able to get the “.5” part of that number, but the “4” always eluded me. Math was never my thing; in fact, the only arithmetic I was ever proficient in was the kind required to calculate the fewest number of classes I would need to graduate. And, the only thing that stood in the path between me and my diploma during my senior year was Home Economics 2, which was known as “the cooking class.” It was sometime in May of that year when my parents received a one-line letter that ominously read in all-caps as if it were a telegram from 1929 crying out the news of the stock market crash: “THOMAS DEAN FRANCISKOVICH HAS 53 UNEXCUSED ABSENCES THIS SEMESTER.” Along with my unsanctioned sabbatical, I was also lugging around a D- average, which meant that I was at serious risk of not graduating. Despite Mom and Dad’s crystal-clear instructions to fly straight and finish strong, I decided instead to double down on the fun—when it came to that subject, I had an A+. Besides, I had the formula worked out. I just had to do well on the final exam in Home Ec. No problem. Except it was a problem because I thought it would be a great idea to start a food fight in the student kitchen during the last week of school. When the hostilities ended, the teacher immediately— and rightly —identified me as the instigator and I was hauled off to the principal’s office. With my head bowed and my dusty baseball cap in my tomato stained hands, I was stunned by the verdict: I was being suspended for the last week of school, which meant I would not be allowed to take the final exam in Home Ec. The principal said the words that had been nipping at my heels all year: “I’m really sorry, Tom, but you are not going to graduate.” All five stages of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ grief model pounded me at once: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I decided that bargaining was my best bet, so I gave it everything I had. Begging and pleading, I made my case: “There has to be another way. What about extra credit? I’ll do whatever it takes—anything!” As she sat there watching me grovel, the principal decided to call in my Home Ec. teacher. The two of them talked behind closed doors for far too long, then I was called back in. With both women burning holes in my forehead with their laser-beam focus of disgust and contempt, I was informed there was a glimmer of hope. Yes, I was still suspended, but if I could ace an extra credit exam, it would give me just enough points to pass the class and to graduate. The exam, I was told, was simple: I would be required to cook a perfect omelet. During the week of my suspension, I did nothing but make omelets. I talked to everyone and anyone who had any experience in the kitchen. Omelets were what I ate for breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. And, I realized very quickly that the key to making a perfect omelet is executing a flawless flip—timing is everything. Over and over again, I would position myself with the classic athletic stance, knees bent and shoulders loose, as I waited for the precise moment to slide the spatula underneath. Channeling every ounce of my intuition, I studied the bubbling butter and the second it began caramelizing the eggs floating atop—wham!—I flipped it. The last day of school arrived and I stepped into the kitchen where I found my Home Ec. teacher waiting with folded arms. I cracked three eggs and the now-familiar hiss of the pan lured me into a state of flow. I drew a long breath and briefly closed my eyes to steady my nerves, as I waited for my opportunity. In one, fluid motion, I swept under, lifted, and turned. Perfection! I slammed down the spatula and thrust my arms into the air as if I were an Olympic gymnast who stuck the landing after an error-free routine on the parallel bars. Shouting out, “Woohoo!,” I reflexively turned to high-five my teacher, who instead nudged her reading glasses over the bridge of her nose before scratching a worn-down Dixon Ticonderoga #2 on her clipboard as she added up the column under my name. She savored her power held in that moment before declaring, “Congratulations, Tom, you passed—let’s see how far that omelet takes you in the real world.” Not far at all, as it turns out. Three months later, I found myself loafing through Sociology 101 at the local community college when a re-entry student wearing Red Wing work boots wedged into the desk next to me. He had three kids at home and just punched out from his night shift at the local creamery a few short hours ago. With no sleep other than a catnap in his GMC between classes and with a family to support, his grade was nearly twice as good as mine. “What’s your excuse?” he asked. I gulped hard, before offering a meek: “Uh, well, I guess I don’t have one.” What he said next lit a fire in me that has been raging since: “Take it from me, kid. Whatever you do today determines what will happen tomorrow.” I would like to take this opportunity to say “thank you” to everyone who has had a hand in producing this issue of <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> <strong>Magazine</strong> and, most of all, to our advertisers and subscribers—we couldn’t do it without you. Live the <strong>SLO</strong> Life! The Omelet Tom Franciskovich tom@slolifemagazine.com Get the story within the story by going to GrowWithTom.com and subscribing to Tom’s Bombs to receive the next installment. 14 | <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> MAGAZINE | JUN/JUL <strong>2019</strong>
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