Lou took his instructing seriously. He suffered no fools when holding court, and anytime there was the slightest disturbance during class, Mr. Skizas would bring everything to a halt and stare (usually his head side to side) and, after a brief pause, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed, he would launch into a bitter scolding that usually began with something like, "You know, there's been a lot of childish behavior going on... "
There was something about a perturbed Lou Skizas that, I'm sorry, was kind of funny. I mean, it wasn't good that we'd pissed him off, but there can be a kind of amusement procured from a situation where you're supposed to be serious and not laugh. Sometimes, the pressure not to do so turns into a desire to laugh. I can't explain it. Human nature? Being a high schooler? All of the above?
Speaking of high school... I'll never forget the time when we had a Health paper due. It was going to count for a significant part of our grade. We were given something like 2 - 3 weeks to work on it and, of course, I'd left it to the last minute to complete. Like, I hadn't worked on it one iota until the night before it was due. The subject was Legionnaire's disease. So, there I went to the Champaign Public Library, found a book that talked about the illness, and sat at a table trying to soak it all in. Then I put pencil to paper and started scribbling-down something that resembled a coherent string of thoughts (careful not to plagiarize the material from the book).
The next day we all turned-in our papers to Mr. Skizas. I remember thinking it wasn't very good. I walked down to where he sat, releasing the paper to him from my cold, clammy hand, feeling like he was going to see through my b.s. like Superman with X-ray vision. It was a day or two later that Mr. Skizas began pontificating in class about the papers we'd submitted. He quickly ran through some of the highs and lows -- mostly the lows -- and then, as if time stood still, he called me out by name. "Mr. Gladney's paper... " I heard him say, and immediately slouched down in my seat, silently uttering a "fuck" to myself, sure in the knowledge that the jig was up. "... was quite good," he continued. I perked up. He went on to remark how it was obvious I'd spent a lot of time studying the subject and took care in writing it. Reader, I don't know what all happened, but apparently fate decided to smile upon me that day.
Aside from being an educator, Mr. Skizas had previously been a professional baseball player. That was a fact which we as teenagers found to be absolutely fascinating. He would downplay it whenever the subject came up. It one was one of the few times when he would be low key. Fellow students would ask him -- during class -- to share stories about his time playing for the Yankees, or the White Sox, but he would always look down at the floor, shake his head slightly, and say he didn't want to talk about. He was there to teach, and we were there to learn, not talk about baseball. That didn't stop one of my classmates from bringing in an old baseball cards of his that they'd managed to find somewhere, asking him to autograph it. He demurred.
I mentioned earlier that our paths had crossed post-high school, and that was true. It's what can happen when you live in your hometown. Mr. Skizas had retired, and seemed to be in good health (he died aged 92, so those are some good innings). I'd see him out and about, often at restaurants, and he moved quickly, often with purpose, and almost always with a newspaper in-hand.
One day, while working at my office on campus, who should walk through the door but Mr. Skizas. It had been twenty years or so since I'd sat in his high school Health class and, though I'd occasionally seen him around town, clapping eyes on him in this environment was a bit of a shock. He was there to advocate for a student. I don't remember how they knew each other, but Mr. Skizas stood there in front of me, gesticulating, talking animatedly about the situation. He probably could have conveyed what he needed to in 4 - 5 sentences, but instead was fairly verbose in his communication. At one point, he paused, held up a finger pointedly in front of my face and said, "But the plot thickens!"
Reader, I couldn't help it. The dramatic nature of Mr. Skizas's manner, coupled with halting to say that the plot was thickening, was just too much. I cracked a smile. I shouldn't have, but there we were. My former teacher caught the grin and immediately I knew I'd made a mistake. He frowned and his eyes stared daggers at me. It was the same look he gave during class, whenever students had been committing "childish behavior." I quickly wiped the smile from my face and, satisfied, he carried on with his story.
There are many people who knew Lou Skizas far better than I. That is the nature of life, isn't it? We are different things to different people. To me, Mr. Skizas was a teacher. He was also -- and I mean this as lovingly as possible - a character. There wasn't anyone else like him, and I will miss seeing him around town every so often.