August twenty-three years ago, I entered a classroom that no longer exists literally: a wood shop that has since been demolished, but was rebuilt in a fabulous manner. My new teacher scared me with his bellowing voice and strict rules. He made it clear that safety was vitally important. He told us he expected the best from us. I learned this large man had a large heart as well. He expected us all to succeed because he believed in us. One friend recently remarked that he recognized the craftsperson in all of us. On that day so long ago, I couldn't have imagined that today I'd be attending his memorial.
September ten years ago, my husband was up early to prepare for a trip to Washington, D.C. He was about to leave for the airport. But instead he shook me awake as the events of 9/11 unfolded. The rest of the day was spent in shock as we watched our infant son play while we located friends. It was surreal as I heard their stories. The fear, confusion, and disbelief lasted a long while. On that day so long ago, I couldn't have imagined that today I'd hear that Osama Bin Laden is dead.
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I was already nostalgic as I got out of the train this afternoon to attend my former teacher's memorial. As I walked the familiar path towards my high school, I nearly burst into tears. It has been so long, and yet it seems like yesterday. I remember the hopes and expectations I had when I was that age mixed with the incredible amount of stress and purpose we all felt.
The photo montage in the auditorium got me crying again. The music was sad, the photos touching. And then I thought I saw myself. Could it be? I cried even harder, and yet tried to dab at my eyes delicately. I tried to be composed.
I tried.
The next time the photo cycled through, I was pretty sure it was me in the picture. My dear teacher had his hand on my back, carefully assisting me. (But did I really once own a crazy striped shirt like that?)
The memorial was well done: touching, funny, and fitting.
Two weeks ago, I was in New Orleans. I sat in Preservation Hall and learned a bit of the history of jazz. The celebratory "When the Saints Go Marching In" is the quintessential end to a jazz funeral. I remembered thinking how appropriate that would be.
At that time, I didn't know I would soon hear it myself at a memorial.
The tears flowed anew, especially as I saw the passage of time right in front of me. Teachers who were young back in my day now sport silver hair. How could it be?
When I went back to my parents' house to get my sons, I learned they had made May Baskets for our neighbors. Again, the nostalgia kicked in. I remember doing little crafts like that, and the joy of the recipients.
And then tonight, my sons listened to the news of Bin Laden's death. What will they remember?
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The wood pen pictured above right was presented to me when my term as a trustee of my high school alma mater ended. I am grateful that I am one of the people who has one of these beautiful pens, crafted by my former teacher. Meanwhile, my parents still use the cutting board I created that semester, and on my bookshelf sits a rather jolly balsa wood whale that was my very first project. Many of my classmates have things like actual furniture or guitars that took form under this wise and wonderful man's tutelage.
Comments (1)
What a day!!
Posted by Summer | May 2, 2011 12:01 AM
Posted on May 2, 2011 00:01