TEACHERS (An Abbreviated Memoir, Part 1)

Our house on Main Street in Medford was getting painted when I was probably around 9 or 10. I only remember the first name of the man who was doing the painting—Sam. He looked to me to be an old man, but that’s from the perspective of a kid’s eye-view. He was probably in his fifties. He wore a white painter’s cap and white painter’s bib overalls.

            It was in the summer, and so I was off from school. Every day I would go out and watch him do his job. I was fascinated by the whole process, and I would ask him questions about why he did this or why he did that, and he never seemed to get impatient with me. I remember loving how the paint smelled and the careful way he went about the business of brushing it on each and every board. As far as I was concerned, he was an artist.

            When it was time for him to eat his lunch, he would sit on the front porch steps. I asked my mother if she would make me my lunch, which she did, and I took it outside and sat beside him. I don’t remember what we talked about but I remember we talked. He never asked me to leave him alone so he could get a break from a little boy’s ongoing chatter. And I felt as though I was sitting next to a very important person.

            Sam was one of the teachers of my life. Oh, he didn’t teach me how to paint. As a matter of fact, I don’t really like painting. I’ve done it, but only out of necessity. But Sam taught me something else that was very important: He taught me that the people who do things in this world and who do them with care and love, are important people.

            Then one day I was 12. Old enough to be confirmed, so under some parental duress, I joined Rev. Paul Meyer’s Confirmation Class. I don’t think I was a very good student, but I guess I did enough to make it through to the end. One of the requirements that I managed to meet, though, was to begin attending church regularly. But at 12, church seemed to be primarily for adults.

            The sermons were meaningless to me—just something you had to put up with, and they seem to have nothing to do with my life, as far as I was concerned. Nothing against the preachers, per se, you understand. I was a kid who would much rather be in the woods exploring, pretending to be Davy Crockett or some other hero of the wilderness.

            But here’s the thing: there was an elderly man named At Wells, who was, I guess, a head usher and greeter. I put it that way because to be honest, I don’t remember if he had an official title. However, he was there every Sunday in the vestibule getting things organized and ready. When I started showing up for church, At said to me, “How would you like a job?” I told him that I would like that, so he assigned me the task of folding the bulletins, which I took to immediately. I was very careful to make sure every bulletin was neatly creased so that the people who got them would be somehow impressed by my skill and precision. Of course, the truth is, I don’t know that it made a difference to anyone, but I was 12 years old—so what did I know?

            At first I was a bit sloppy, not because I was careless, but because I’ve never been adept at doing things of that sort with my hands. So At told me that what I was doing was important and that I needed to have a system. So he set me up with a lectern in the vestibule that had a frame around it that I could use to align the edges. Suddenly I was an expert and I faithfully showed up early on Sunday mornings because I had an important job to do.

            At Wells was one of my teachers. Even the smaller tasks in life are important. And the people who do them may not get any recognition. But even if they don’t, what they do behind the scenes, if done with love and care, makes a difference in how life feels to us. Further, the efforts we personally make with things however seemingly small they may be, contribute to the good and the joy of life experiences.

            I’ve had a lot of teachers in my life, inside and outside of the classroom. In my freshman year in high school, my homeroom teacher confronted me when I walked into my homeroom one morning. He had a stern look on his face as he backed me up against the wall (never laying a finger on me, by the way), and he told me that he had been talking to my English teacher, and he found out that I had not handed in the writing assignment that was due a few days ago.  In no uncertain terms, he told me that I was an intelligent young man, and that I needed to get on the ball and hand in that homework before I got a failing grade.

            I don’t remember his name—it was so long ago. As I recall, he looked a lot like BoNewhart, and I often think of him when I see Bob Newhart on TV.  But, you know, that’s the first time anyone called me “an intelligent young man.” It’s just a phrase really, but it did something to me: first, that he should care what I do and what I don’t do and second, that I could actually be thought of as intelligent. I say that because, unashamedly, I was in a special reading group when I was in the third grade because I was considered a slow reader. Since that time, I had always thought of myself in that context.

            Whenever Fred Rogers had an occasion to give a speech, he would ask the audience to take a few seconds and think and give thanks in their hearts to the people who have made them what they are. It always effected the people deeply who were listening to him, even to the extent that there were tears in their eyes, even among the supposedly toughest in the crowd. (On You Tube you can hear the commencement address he gave at Darmouth in 2002 or upon receiving a lifetime achievement award at the Emmy’s in 1997,  both of which illustrate that).

            By the way, all of us are teachers to somebody, maybe a lot of somebodies. I wonder what we’re teaching and to whom? I’m going to think about that for myself.