There lived a teacher
Mr. S., for some reason you popped into my head today. I haven’t seen you in a long time. It was at my younger brother’s high school graduation, that last time we talked. I tried to tell you everything I’d done since I graduated, but you didn’t seem to be interested. I understand, you were distracted, with students and parents flitting around, someone taking a picture at every turn. It had been nine years since we’d talked.
As a teacher you knew a lot of kids, and you probably liked most of them. I imagine we all sort of blended together after so many years, creating the perfect amalgamate student in your mind. I hope my sense of humor was part of that alloy.
Remember the story I wrote, set in Fort Ticonderoga? I cringe to think of it, the silly twist ending and all. If I read it now it would embarrass me, mostly because I just thought it was so brilliant. You showed it to everyone, though. You took it to the teacher’s lounge and shared it, and I knew you did that because you were proud of me. My government teacher went out of his way to tell me he liked it.
Maybe you thought, “Look, I’m making a difference.”
You got along great with my boyfriend, too. He liked to write, but you and I both knew I was the one with writing talent, didn’t we? He was a decent sketch artist. Remember you said we should team up and create a graphic novel together? We never did, but that’s because he wasn’t disciplined enough for it. He just wanted to draw The Joker all the time.
Instead I wrote a stage musical about two spinster sisters who owned a second hand store. You laughed a real, genuine belly laugh when you read it. Now there’s a piece I would enjoy reading again, but who knows where it is now? It was typed on paper using a typewriter. I had a hard time writing at a computer back then. Plus, I had no idea how to use the dot matrix printer and neither did you.
Do you remember when Kurt Vonnegut gave a talk at St. Ambrose and you and your wife got passes for me? He talked about the process of writing and used Snow White as an example and somehow he made it funny. And then he talked about Midwestern weather, being an Indiana boy, he knew what it was like. Then he weaved the weather patterns back in to the Snow White storyline. I never would have read his books or gone to see him without your influence. Slaughterhouse-five, remember?
Many, many years later I visited Dresden, Germany and I thought about you and I thought about him. Funny how you can see a place for the first time, but already have memories of it.
Remember how you used to start a short story then challenge me to finish it? Was it an exercise for me, or for you? Did you only enjoy writing when the ideas were fresh and new, but then get bored and pass them along?
You knew I was a finisher. You used to joke that I made your stories better. I knew you were just kidding, but it gave me confidence. You were always concerned with confidence.
I remember a sad-eyed girl who came to our school halfway through the year, and even though it had nothing to do with English, you had her sing for us. Her voice was beautiful. It broke the ice, and she was immediately absorbed into our class. At the time I was jealous, because I wanted all of your attention. But you cared about people, all of them.
Then there was my own graduation day. You and your wife invited me over to the house for lunch. Your kids were little back then. We sat out back on a picnic table where you set down a tumbler full of something cold. The sides dripped with sweat in the June heat. Your daughter asked you what is was and you told her it was Pepsi. Her eyes lit up. She asked if she could have a sip and much to her astonishment, you said yes. I saw the smile on your face.
She took a sip and spat it out, grimacing, “Eww!” To be honest, I was kind of worried you’d given her whiskey or something, then you said, “It’s water!” She thought it was unsweetened, flat Pepsi. What a trick.
I wish this had been my last memory of you, rather than my brother’s graduation, but it wasn’t and you’re gone.
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