In my late-thirties, I paused long enough to remember the people who had helped me on my journey, and then I sat down and wrote each of them a heartfelt thank you. Unfortunately, I waited too long to express my thanks to Agnes Brown, my teacher during four of my eight years at Shady Cove Grade School. By the time I realized how much Agnes had influenced and helped me, she had died. To my regret, I will never be sure she knew how much I admired and loved her.<\/p>\n
Agnes was my protector, disciplinarian, and inspiration all rolled into one. All of five feet tall, Agnes was a stern task master. Once when I had gotten the top score on a test, Agnes gave me a grade of 2. When I asked her why a 2 when my score was the highest, she told me I wasn’t working up to my potential and until I did I wouldn’t be getting any 1’s. I understood from that point on I wasn’t in competition with my classmates as much as I was in competition with myself.<\/p>\n
I’m not sure why she fell in love with our class, although I’m sure we were lovable rascals. But I’m sure she did fall in love with us. She maneuvered her way enough to be our teacher in the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth grades. But she wasn’t easy on us. Once in the second grade, she paddled my butt when I walked in a mud puddle in my new shoes. I can still hear her saying, “Your parents worked hard for those shoes. You make them last.” (We were still living in a one-room shack next to the school yard while Mom and Dad worked their way out of the monster recession which followed the end of World War II.)<\/p>\n
Once, in the eighth grade, I must have misbehaved because she told me to hold our my hand and then she swatted it with a rule…aka, a “ruler.” (She was very precise in her use of language, and always called that twelve inch stick a “rule.”) I turned my back to the class and worked hard to keep from laughing. She just wasn’t big enough to hurt her big eighth grade boys any more.<\/p>\n
The last time I saw Agnes was at Benny Nork’s funeral. Our class members had just reached the prime age of 37 when Benny was killed in a logging accident. I made sure I was late for the funeral so I could sit in back. (I don’t do well at funerals. I cry and I’m not much good at helping the walking wounded. I am the walking wounded. I can hold the tears as long as the other people don’t cry. If I see a tear, mine start to flow.) But Benny’s wife held up the service until I got there, so I had to be strong.<\/p>\n
And there was Agnes to say goodbye to one of “her boys.” I got a hug, but Agnes didn’t say a word, and I’m glad. I can do the hard things, but sympathy does me in.<\/p>\n
I didn’t get word of her passing in time to make it to her funeral, but I was truly sad when she died. And I’ve always regretted my failure to write and tell her how much she had helped me…and how much she meant.<\/p>\n
Some wise man…maybe Mark Twain…wrote it isn’t what we have done that brings regret. It’s what we didn’t do.<\/p>\n
So, belatedly, “Thank you, Agnes Brown.”<\/p>\n
Rod<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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