In the coming weeks, parents from across the county who have kids enrolled in traditional schools, will usher their children out the door and back to school. Some of the first graders' mothers will watch the school bus leave with tear-stained cheeks, while mothers of older children will cupped their hands around their mouths and whisper the word, "Finally."

The first day of school was the worst day of my young life. My parents stood at the front door with somber faces, waving goodbye. My younger sister ran around in circles, shouting, "You've got to go to school!" As I trudged down the sidewalk, I actually wondered if I would ever see them again.

My Mom made a crucial mistake when the bus pulled in front of our house. She leaned her head out the front door and, yelled, "Now, if you get sick be sure to call."

I was sick every day for the next three weeks. I made up illnesses. I got sent home for everything from a headache to a throbbing finger. If it hurt, I was out of there.

I planned for my sickness to strike about an hour before the Flintstones hit the TV airways. Before Fred could say, "Yabba dabba doo," I'd be stretched out in the recliner eating popcorn. Besides, I was sure I could lean a lot more from a half-hour episode of Fred and Barney, than I could listening to some teacher trying to teach me my ABC's.

One morning, as the teacher and I were walking toward the nurse's office, she stopped and knocked on the principal's door. A wave of fear shot through my veins. The principal was a huge man with strapping shoulders, a round face and bulging eyes. When he walked the hallways, the students scattered. It was rumor he actually had holes in his right hand like a paddle, which he kept filled with flesh-colored cork. Before he delivered his wrath upon a student, he would slowly screw the pieces of cork out of his hand. Nobody knew what happened after this because the student who was about to be punished would pass out and not wake up for several days.

The teacher explained to the principal that I was sick, smiled, gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder and left the office. The principal glared at me over his desk. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of the sockets and splatter on the wall behind me. I could feel my knees shaking.

"What seems to be the problem? Mr. Smith," he asked, slowly rubbing his hands back and forth.

"I'm sick," I replied, in a voice that was barely audible and strained with fear.

"Well, you know, Mr. Smith, I have something for sick children," he said, as he pulled open a desk drawer.

Rivers of sweat ran down my face as he fumbled around in the drawer. Suddenly, he slammed the door shut and held up a syringe. My eyes shot opened and my heart leapt into my throat. He leaned over the desk holding the syringe only inches from my face, and asked me if I was sick enough for a shot. I shook my head vigorously.

The principal stormed across the room, yanked the door open and pointed in the direction of my classroom. "I want you to go back to class," he shouted, "and don't come back unless you need this shot. Do you understand me?"

I ran down the hall toward my classroom, knocking down classmates as I went.

If a principal showed a student a syringe these days, he'd probably be sued for harassment. However, I learned a valuable lesson. School was more important than Fred and Barney. If I had continued to play hooky and didn't learn to read and write, what would I do when the cable goes out and the Flintstones disappear behind a snowy screen? Go search for Gilligan's Island? I don't think so.