Humor by John Christmann
The Apple Polisher
Shhhh! Listen. Do you hear that sound?
That is the sound of buzzing children, excited children, children re-engaging for the next nine months in all things school.
Today is the day when I throw open the garage and turn the keys to my three revving Maseratis over to more qualified and gifted drivers: their teachers. And I am happy to do it. Really happy.
It is the sound of me smiling.
At the start of the summer, when days were filled with spirited splashes in the swimming pool and nights spent catching fireflies in mason jars, I was actively invigorating my kids’ lives and stimulating their imaginations.
I was Super Dad. OK, who wants ice cream?
The cheering lasted about one week—the time it takes to learn a front flip off the diving board. The time it takes to extinguish a firefly.
Then TV started to dominate their attention and I foolishly decided to be responsible and carve out time each day for educational endeavors. Their teachers had thoughtfully prepared a curriculum of summer reading to help me along. But they didn’t tell me how to be a nurturing educator.
“How are you coming on your summer reading?” I asked one day.
“We finished it.”
“Finished it? OK, why don’t you read this . . .”
“War and Peace? But . . .”
“Yes, I know. It’s in Mandarin. You will need to translate it back into English. Let me know when you are done.”
By the end of the summer, my lesson plan had moved dangerously close to anarchy.
“Dad, we are tired of reading cereal boxes. Can we have lunch?”
“Lunch? Didn’t you just have lunch yesterday?”
By the middle of August my kids were ready for school. More importantly, they were ready for a day without me instructing them what to do.
Just before Labor Day my two younger children received cards in the mail announcing their new homeroom teachers. They pawed through the mail expectantly with the same amount of enthusiasm I exhibit when looking for tax refunds or catalogs from Victoria’s Secret.
Immediately the phone started ringing with excited classmates wanting to size up their fate for the year. Who do you have for homeroom . . . ?
Teachers have reputations.
Having gone to the same school several years earlier my older son is the voice of experience. He shook his head in sympathy and said, “Oh yeah, Mrs. Krueger, I remember her. She once cut off a kid’s head with a chain saw because he was talking in class.”
I warned my son that such exaggeration only served to frighten his brother and sister unnecessarily.
Later he apologized and confirmed that Mrs. Krueger had only perforated the kid’s eyebrows with a three-hole punch.
Teachers have reputations.
Among parents who understand the importance of education and the role teachers play in shaping their children’s young lives, these reputations are better articulated. The Moms: Mrs. Krueger is a strict disciplinarian, but the kids really learn a lot. The Dads: Wow, who is that new French teacher? She is really hot.
I can name all of my teachers from Kindergarten to fifth grade: Mrs. Draper, Mrs. Christiansen, Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Horency, Mrs. Moritz, Miss Curtis. They cascade swiftly from my memory like an accordion billfold display. I can even make out their faces through the milky Mylar film.
Unfortunately I didn’t have male teachers until I was in middle school. I liked the men teachers. They explained things in a way that I could understand. Usually in short sentences with only one verb.
All my grade school teachers had reputations. Some were strict. Some were nice. One had a wart on her chin and rode to school on a broomstick. And although I can’t remember actually learning anything, with the benefit of hindsight progressively accumulated through years of education I now understand that they were all good, dedicated teachers.
But my specific recollection stops halfway through the fifth grade. That was the year I developed a crush on a teacher new to the school, Miss Curtis. I loved how she marked up my homework with open, swirly red lines. I stayed after class just to pick up the scent of her hair and receive the wisdom of her warm, caring smile. Once I even gave her an apple.
Then after Christmas vacation she came back with a new name that started with Mrs. and suddenly the red marks on my homework didn’t look so open and swirly anymore.
My relationship with teachers changed after that; it became more diluted, less personal. And although I remember their influence, I cannot recall many of their names.
That I can so vividly remember the teachers in my grade school years is not really all that surprising. In our early years teachers play a uniquely prominent role in our lives, second only to parents. I can easily name both my parents too.
But here is the thing. I learned. I don’t know how. But I learned. And I loved going back to school in September, starting the school year apple-faced fresh with my books and my friends and my new homeroom teacher.
Teachers have a reputation. And it’s true.
They don’t get paid enough.
© 2009 Dadinthebox.com