Ollie Bentword, age thirteen, is a Dyslexic. He has great talent, but his Learning Disability clouds his mind and self esteem. Betsy Burr, a year older and Ollie's neighborhood friend, understands him better than anyone. She feels he's someone special, and plays a dominent part in keeping Ollie's thoughts and deeds in proper perspective. Betsy and Ollie become amateur sleuths in a neighborhood murder case. Ollie's unique detective work produces a surprise conclusion to the mystery. Through a disciplinary encounter with School Principal Mr. Bombay, Ollie develops a close student/teacher relationship with the School Band Director, Mr. Bachman, who asks Ollie if he would like to become the Band Librarian, and offers to give him free trombone lessons as payment. Ollie's fondest dream is to play the trombone. With his parents permission he accepts. T.O.A.D. is the story of a Dyslexic who proves he is as smart and Socially Acceptable as any of his classmates. While sprinkling a generous amount of humor through the pages, the story reflects the anxiety, frustration, and anger in overcoming the many educational and social obstacles. The book shows that dyslexic people can be uniquely gifted. T.O.A.D. is an easy reading, fun mystery story.

T.O.A.D.

Trombone Ollie And DyslexiaBy John R. Rossbacher

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 John R. Rossbacher
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3942-3

Chapter One

Listening to the weekly jazz session over Radio Station WIZ was an early Saturday morning routine for me. In the privacy of my own bedroom, I could imagine I was playing along with the bands. My friend Betsy used to kid me by calling the program 'Gee Whiz Ollie Time.' That was me, Ollie Bentword. I was thirteen at the time, and was listening to WIZ when the music was interrupted by a very scary announcement. The voice said:

"Your attention, please. We interrupt this program to bring you an important 'on the spot' news report from our correspondent, Bill Micro."

'Ah nuts! It never fails,' I thought. 'Get a 'far out' sound going and someone wants to interrupt it.' I hoped they would hurry.

"Good morning," the deep-toned correspondent said, while wailing sirens were competing to be heard. This is Bill Micro, for station WIZ, reporting to you from the home of a Union Bay resident. The information is sketchy at this time. However, a few hours ago a neighbor became concerned when Mrs. Inez Goodbill, of 3385 West Surinam Street, had not let her dog out for its usual morning exercise."

That's up near Betsy's block, I thought.

Newsman Micro continued.

"The neighbor then phoned Mrs. Goodbill and, when she got no answer ran next door to the residence. Fearful that something was wrong, she entered the house and carefully searched every room, calling out to Mrs. Goodbill at each doorway. She finally found Mrs. Goodbill in her upstairs bedroom, lying face up on her bed. The Police were called. When they arrived they found the neighbor in a state of shock. She was immediately taken by police ambulance to the hospital, and is not available at this time for an interview."

Wow! Right here in Union Bay, I thought. I wondered if Betsy had her radio turned on. A murder, I shuddered. My spine felt like a thermometer but with ice water running up the mercury tube. I remember hoping my parents would soon get home from grocery shopping.

"We are now able to talk with Chief Flanigan of the Union Bay Police Department," Mr. Micro confirmed. "Chief, can you tell our audience just what the situation is? Do you have a suspect at this time?" "Well Mr. Micro," the Chief responded, "it appears that at approximately 5:30 this morning an unknown individual, or individuals, gained entry to The home of Inez X. Goodbill through an upstairs window. Between that time and approximately 7:00 A.M., her assailant savagely slashed her to death. The knife, used as a murder weapon, has not been found. I have nothing further to discuss at this time, but we will provide you with more information as it becomes available." Mr. Micro repeated. "Chief Flanigan, do you have a suspect at this time?" "I'm sorry Mr. Micro," the Chief replied. "I'm too upset. I have nothing more to offer at this time." "Thank you Chief Flanigan," the newsman concluded. "We now return our audience to the Saturday morning broadcast of Rock 'n Jazz."

Ah, back to the good musical stuff , I thought.

It was always more fun for me to listen to music than to try to read anything. When I did try to read, most of the words looked mixed up, and I couldn't understand what they were supposed to say. Some of the words came out backwards and sometimes letters would be missing. For example, when I read "I saw the dog," it came out "I was the do." And when I wrote, it was impossible for the person trying to read my writing to understand it. I even wrote some letters backwards.

In addidion to my reading and writing difficulty, I didn't know left from right, and telling time was impossible. I preferred not to think about my problem, 'cause when I did I didn't like myself very much. It was a downer. I was dyslexic. I knew I'd always have dyslexia, but I would learn to live with it. After all, it's just a crazy mixed up signal in the brain that causes it. That's what my parents told me anyway. My mother said many times, "Oliver, patience is a virtue." I guess that was supposed to make me feel good. She came up with those gems every once in a while.

Once, as I was starting out the door, she asked if I had on clean underwear. She said, "Oliver, it's important to never leave the house without clean underwear. You never know," she said, "when you might be in an accident and have to go to the hospital. You certainly wouldn't want to embarrass yourself or the family, now would you?" How ridiculous! I thought. I could just hear the doctor in the emergency room going, 'Hold everything. Before we administer artificial respiration we'll have to get a clean pair of undershorts on Ollie.' Boy, I tell you ... Parents can be nuts.

It was the last weekend before the start of school and probably another weird year for me. I decided to give Betsy a call and ask if she would like to go over to Walden Park and hang out awhile. Also, I thought she might know more about the murder, since she lived closer than I to the Goodbill house. Betsy answered my call with one word.

"Neato," she said.

I replied, "I'll meet you in front of your house in five minutes."

Betsy Burr was my good friend. We grew up together. She had braces on her teeth, but you didn't notice them because of her cute dimples. Besides, Betsy didn't let anything get in the way of her self esteem. Sometimes I called her 'carrot top,' but only in good fun. She had a wiry build and lots of determination, so even with my stocky build, I was not about to push for a fight. She was a year older, but always treated me as an equal. In fact, she was the only one who did. All the other kids in my school laughed at me in English class, or for that matter, any class that required me to read aloud. When I got excited I tended to stutter, and then the kids called me 'TOAD.' I guess 'cause when frogs and toads speak, their speech rhythms are interrupted just like mine were. I went st-st-stutter and they went Rrrivet, Rrivet, Rivet.

As I walked to Betsy's house I felt the cool fall air whipping across my neck. I zipped up my black leather jacket and pulled my orange cap down further over my long blond hair. The changing colors in the maple trees lining both sides of Windpole Street made it clear that fall had arrived. I figured in a few more weeks our street would take on the look of a three ring multi-colored circus tent. I thought, what a wonderful time of year, except for the start of school.

Betsy was waiting for me on the front porch steps of her parents home. I'd always felt good when walking up the circular drive to their ivory colored two story house. The black window shutters seemed to act as sentinels and warm each window opening. I imagined one would not need a blanket on the bed, even in the dead of winter.

"Hey Bets! Ready to hit the amusement c-circus," I yelled.

"That's circuit, Ollie, not circus," Betsy yelled back to me, as I closed the distance between us. "I swear, if you would just take time between thought and word you would probably do better in school," she said. As patient as Betsy was, she did tend to fly at me on occasion. But then, a lot of the time, I guess I was no box of chocolates either.

"Have you heard the latest?" Betsy asked as her slim, petite body moved gracefully to a standing position.

"No," I responded. "Something of impo ..., impotence?" Somehow I knew the word didn't and wouldn't come out right.

Betsy circled a hand through her shoulder length red hair, grinned...