Comments On This Prompt

/ By / In / 1 Comment

I STILL cannot post comments on other people’s stories, so….

Comments on “Favorite Teacher” prompt.

Educator of the Year – Remembering Milton by Dana Susan Lehrman

A very evocative tale for me…my grade school had a Milton of its own, although he was the shop teacher, not custodial staff. Mr. Crawley never got full peer-to-peer respect from the “real” teachers (who forget that little kids have big ears). I think that both disdain for his subject and racism played their parts in that. But he was my favorite teacher in grade school. He taught wood shop and life, with an emphasis on kindness and respect for others.

On Principal by Susan Bennet

You very economically painted a vivid picture of Principal Buckley!

All I remember of my school principles was dreading their presence in the school yard. For some reason they dampened down the fun by 30% just by watching it.

Thank you, Esther Perrin! by Sara Gootblatt

I never re-met any grade or high-school teachers, although there was one in 8th grade whose friendliness toward the older boys would, today, be considered at least worth investigating.

Now, as a University staff member, I work with a bunch of Professors. Whether I am first name basis with them is generally an age thing. With one or two, no one would DARE….

Good Morning, Mrs. Shaffer by Edward Guthmann

Grade school teachers have the opportunity to be such a strong influence on their students, for good or bad. By the time a kid is in jigh school, they are, usually, pretty much formed in terms of personality and outlook. The grade school teachers I remember most are second grade, who loaned me all of her first edition Hardy Boy novels to read, and kindergarten, who was nice enough to start quietly passing me by in the “reading circle” because it was getting me bullied after school.

Refuge in Drama by Marian

Teachers can touch our souls in ways big and small. Mr. G sounds like the sort of teacher we can all be thankful we had, if we did!

Frances Henne by Dana Susan Lehrman

Too many academics give short intellectual schrift to professions other than their own. Being a librarian fascinates me the same way being a person who designs tools fascinates me; you get to contribute to MANY fields of endeavor!

Teacher: Here and Now by jonathancanter

Your teacher selection was interesting, but obscured by how much I now crave some salami! And OMG that view…

Señor G by John Shutkin

John, Señor G reminds me of my high school chemistry teacher. Mr. Russo was also young, and less formal with his students than were the older teachers. He was talking about global warming due to fossil fuels back in 1975!

Elaine Zeve by Betsy Pfau

A touching tribute to someone who changed your life, Betsy! We are what, about eight years old in second grade? At that age we are so vulnerable, so malleable. The right (or wrong) person can make such a huge difference. Coincidentally, I had a second grade teacher who helped widen my reading interests by loaning me all her first edition Hardy Boys novels!

You Have Made A Difference by Suzy

I’m running behind (again) on Retrospect reading and commenting…. I hope Miss G. has contacted you. May you become pen pals!

Ave atque Vale by Susan Bennet

You end this wonderous story on a mysterious note! I too hope Miss Stanhope found happiness both personally and professionally.

Latin always reminds me of my first wife. Val was a classicist who was conversant in (ancient) Greek and Latin, as well as French and Spanish. I recall her teaching herself German one summer, just for fun. She was a linguistic polymath. During our (frequent) arguments, she’d call me nasty things in ancient Greek.. The only one I ever managed to translate was “doulos.” I suspect that that was one of the nicer ones!

For Mr. Hollander, Ms. Vit, and Linda by Laurie Levy

My Miss Cartwright was a music teacher. Her way of inspiring young children to love music was to shriek insults at anyone who sang out of tune, and to slam kids whom she thought were misbehaving against the blackboard, hard. I learned to sing so she couldn’t hear me….

Glad you had Mr. Hollander as a counterpoint!

Mademoiselle Moulin by Jan Fox

A short short story in free verse. Love it!

We don’t give a person’s scent the credit it deserves in how we react to them. The bike ride, the mowing…very evocative.

Repeating Fifth Grade by Anne Burdett Srigley

This is an amazing entry in the It’s a Small World annals! I think reconnecting after many years takes a significant measure of courage. Sometimes our recollections are rosier than the reality was. Sometimes people change for, for lack of a better word, the not-better; many of my old friends from before I left for college are now various flavors of MAGA. I have no idea why.

The Drama Queen of Sears Customer Service

/ By / In / 7 Comments

I learned a lot while working at the Sears Customer Service Counter in El Monte, California, in the early sixties while I was attending (what was then called) Cal State LA. Interacting with complaining customers was actually a kind of acting school because we were told always to be positive and sympathetic. True situation: “Oh, your new refrigerator is actually heating your food! I am sooo sorry to hear that. Let me make some notes so the manager can arrange to correct this situation.” And I took down every detail about the fridge, address, phone number and examined the receipt very carefully. Or if we suspected a shoplifter was trying to “return” items for cash, we were to display no suspicion: “We are happy to take care of this, but because you have no receipt, we have to hold these items for 24 hours before the system can issue a refund.” Often the customer would grab up the items and leave in huff. We also had lists behind the counter of items stolen from other Sears stores to check against the goods supposedly being returned. No matter how angry the customer got, we were to remain pleasant. And I really played the part. But if they were abusive or used profanity, we were to go back into the office and get the manager. Brenda was the other college girl who worked some shifts there, and there were two or three mature women also who were so kind and shared tips and tactics for dealing with the irate customers. They told me that it was important to repeat back to the customer what the problem was so they felt heard before offering a solution. That has been valuable in personal relations ever since. We also did gift wrap and that was a fun break from dealing with the stressed out people. And of course, I got a little discount for anything I purchased in the store. What fun it was to purchase a lovely black slip after I got my first paycheck. Another fun bonus was flirting with the young men who worked there loading large items into peoples’ cars. They passed by our counter from time to time and if I wasn’t busy we would exchange a word or two. One time Mick, who was especially fun to banter with, treated me on my break to a burnt almond fudge ice cream cone at the ice cream counter near our department. I wonder whatever happened to Mick? He said he was planning to become a priest, but I doubt very much if he actually did.

Heart on a Red Sleeve

/ By / In / 18 Comments

My story begins at the end of a harrowing week, the week my 81 year old father died. His kind heart, the one he always wore on his sleeve, finally gave out. He had warned me in so many words: you never have as much time as you think you do. He died on a Sunday morning in April.

I’d just returned home after having coffee with friends. Over my usual café au lait and bagel, I had told them that my father was tired, he was done, he was living a life he no longer loved. Good friends, they had listened and sympathized.

As soon as I got in the door, my teen-age son greeted me with a face I’d seen before–when he was about to complain of a stomach ache on a school day. “What is it?” I asked him, thinking: he has a rehearsal today and he can’t miss it, even with a headache or a stomach ache. In our family, with a long involvement in theater, the show must go on. He swallowed hard and finally said, “It’s…your sister called.” And then: “Papa Sam died this morning.” I burst into tears and held onto my son. And then I reached for the phone and called my mom. My husband came home moments later and found me sobbing into the phone.

Tradition dictated that the burial happen quickly. We settled on date, place and time. We wrote the obituary. We planned for food. All the arrangements got locked into place. Finally, we had to think about what to wear. I would be speaking at the service, and wanted to look nice. And so I ended up driving to the shopping mall with no ideas about what to look for and no real desire to be there.

It was destined to be one of those bad shopping days. Nothing fit, the colors were wrong, everything was too young, too old, too not-right. The racks in all the usual good luck places were out of magic. No marked-down sale items on hangers calling my name as I walked by. I remained unmoved by their fall from retail grace. Maybe I just wasn’t under the usual spell of enchantment, oblivious to the charms of the pianist gliding her fingers over the keyboard as she played  show tunes and standards designed to make shoppers reach eagerly for their credit cards, trance-like, at the counters throughout the cavernous store. Shopping at Nordstrom was usually a happy time, but not that day.

Halfheartedly running my hands along fabrics in spring colors, occasionally taking a hanger off a rack and putting it back — this was worse than I anticipated. What was I doing there anyway? Was shopping the best thing I could think of to do right then? What did that say about me?

I was drawn toward something. It was a red jacket, a blazer. The color was more of a  sedate scarlet than a perky cherry red; it had a quiet dignity that didn’t scream “red” so much as say it:  I’m red. Don’t make a fuss.

As if on a blind date with someone I had doubts about already, I walked back to the dressing room with the jacket, certain to be let down. I tried it on, while trying not to look at myself above the collar. I knew the harsh lighting would highlight the dark circles under my eyes, my washed-out skin and dull hair. As I looked in the three-way mirror, I decided that the jacket would do, but the sleeves were several inches too long. I had spotted the sign on the way into the dressing rooms that designated a day too far in the future for alterations on purchases made that day. It was not to be, this red jacket. Then Esther, the sales person who had brightly offered to help me, peeked into my dressing room and cocked her head.

“We can have those sleeves taken up and have it ready for you in a couple of days.”

“No,” I told her, shaking my head slowly. “I need it for tomorrow.”  I took one more glance in the mirror, and then began to take the jacket off.

She looked at me, thought for a moment, and asked, “Can you find something to do for about an hour? We can have it ready for you then. I’ll be at lunch, but someone else will keep an eye out for you.”

I nodded, mumbled my thanks, and waited for the seamstress to come in, still avoiding my reflection.  How could Esther have known what I wanted the red jacket for? Did she read it in my face? I didn’t think to ask. A short woman with a pincushion on her wrist entered the dressing room moments later, quickly pinned up my sleeves, then gestured for me to go as I shrugged out of the jacket.

I stepped out into the April sunshine and found a pretty card in a nearby stationery shop. I sat down and wrote a note to Esther, telling her that my father had always liked me in red and that I would wear the jacket at his service the next day and how much it meant to me that she was helping me, and as I wrote I could not keep the tears from falling. Shoppers passed me by, enjoying the afternoon, not really noticing the sniffling writer on the bench pouring her heart out to someone she would never see again.

I took out my cell phone and called my sister, letting her know that I had found a nice red jacket and that by some miracle of understanding, through the kindness of a stranger, it would be ready in time for the service the next day. She was glad to hear it. When the hour was up, I left my note for Esther, claimed the red jacket in its zippered bag, and drove home in tears.

I will always be grateful to the saleswoman who saw something urgent and desperate in a grieving daughter’s face. All these years later, every time I see that flash of red in my closet, I think of her—and how much my father would have loved hearing the story about Esther and the red jacket.