If one in four Americans owns a firearm, one of the Lennon Sisters is packing a rod.

The discussion of shop class last month put me in mind of other "specials" in elementary school. I loved going to the library, art class, and shop. PE was okay if we were outside, but indoor activities, including rope climbing, tumbling, and trampoline, gave me the All Overs. Music was a trial. Before Mountain School had a designated music room, the music teacher, Mrs. Cherry (I'm using a pseudonym here, but you know who I'm talking about), visited each classroom. Have autoharp, will travel.

We all thought she was a little nuts. Our next-door neighbor John H. called her a hick. I asked what a hick was, and he hunched over and began stalking around the lawn, singing and snapping his fingers. He looked like a musical stork. He looked exactly like Mrs. Cherry.

She was dramatic and offensively jolly ("Polly Wolly Doodle" was always a laff riot for her), loved having us sing the descant to any song (and if the song didn't have a descant, she'd make one up), and conducted with all the fervor of Leonard Bernstein on meth.

One day in fourth grade at the end of the music lesson, she favored us with three chords on the autoharp and sang

Good-bye, everybody! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Good-bye, everybody! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed, my darlings!

We were to respond with

Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed!
Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry! Yes, indeed!
Yes, indeed, my darling!

"My darling"?! The rolling of our eyes was almost audible. She had left the room and closed the door by the time we reached the second "Good-bye, Mrs. Cherry, yes indeed!" Thirty fourth graders abruptly and simultaneously stopped singing. No way were we going to sing, "Yes, indeed, my darling!" a line that would have stuck in our little throats and made us the laughingstock of the whole school.

The door reopened with a bang like a rifle shot. It was Mrs. Cherry. Her nostrils were flaring. Her hair was waving softly from the draft. The strings on her autoharp hummed at the same frequency her body was quivering. She fixed us with her gimlet eye. "You will sing the entire song. You will sing it loudly enough that I can hear it from my office!" Her office was halfway down the hall; singing to be heard at that distance would require us to use our leather-lunged outside voices. Everybody in the school, not to mention the surrounding neighborhood, would know that we called Mrs. Cherry "darling." Three chords on the autoharp got us started, and she stalked from the room.

GOOD-BYE, MRS. CHERRY! YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED!
GOOD-BYE, MRS. CHERRY! YES, INDEED!
YES, INDEED, MY DARLING!

In sixth grade, we had music in the new music room. Gone was the autoharp. Mrs. Cherry had a piano now. She introduced the principles of harmony. We didn't get it. She urged us with her face. We sounded terrible. She demonstrated on the piano. We sounded worse. She appealed to something we all did: watched TV. "When you watch The Lawrence Welk Show, you see the Lennon Sisters. They harmonize so beautifully. Sing, boys and girls! Sing like the Lennon Sisters!" Thirty little heads thumped in disgust and dismay to the tabletops.