ZYMURGY?

I'm sure that I have written about this somewhere before, but a word search does not show it. 

One of the teachers who tried to plant some seeds of knowledge in my hardscrabble brain matter was called Miss Thynge (pronounced "thing"). Nobody knew her first name.   

She was the 7th grade teacher who caught me tossing paper airplanes around her classroom, when she turned back from the blackboard as a pointed aircraft whizzed by her right ear.

For punishment, she made me stay after school to fold and fly 500 paper airplanes. I was then tasked with flying them across the room into a connected supply room.

After two hours, I had lofted only 360 aircraft and my hands were aching. Miss Thynge felt sorry for me and called off the rest of the punishment. Of course, I learned my lesson and paper airplane flights over the Thomas R, Rodman School were aborted. 

I have what I think is an amazing story about that amazing Miss Thynge:

She arranged for the 7th grade class to take a bus ride to Boston for a tour of historical sites.  The hour and a half ride would be an enormous bore to active 12 and 13-year-old kids, so she devised a means to keep them occupied and quiet during that ride.  

Her devise was a crossword puzzle.  She promised a copy of the enormously heavy Webster's Dictionary, something some of us would like to own, while others would probably like to use it to cover the neighborhood sewer drain holes so they wouldn't lose their game balls.  (I don't really mean that.)

Miss Thynge had no idea that I had sat by my grandfather's side for years, helping him sort words for what he was going to call "The World's Greatest Crossword Puzzle Dictionary."

I finished the puzzle in three minutes, and was awarded the coveted dictionary.

Ten minutes later she heard, "I've finished the puzzle!" This was from a chubby beauty named Betsy, an excellent student who actually did her homework.  Betsy and I were the class nerds (if such a word existed then.)

When the outcome was explained to her, Betsy began to cry ... and cry.

Since Miss Thynge could not reason with Betsy and I refused any thought of giving up my prize, a solution worthy of King Soloman was needed.

Miss Thynge borrowed a "jack-knife" from a boy who had it hidden in his Knickers and proceeded to randomly cut the enormous dictionary in half.

Betsy got AARDVARK to POCKET VETO.  I got POCKMARK TO ZYMURGY.  That seemed to satisfy us both, to the relief of Miss Thynge.

Sixty-five years later as I shopped at the famous Smith College Book Sale in Baltimore, I noticed on a shelf, for sale, two nicely bound volumes of Webster's dictionary.  

Volume one covered AARDVARK to POCKET VETO!    

Volumn two covered POCK MARK to ZYMURGY!

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