There is a pang of nostalgia as I watch the yellow buses roll around picking up children, dressed in bright autumn colors carrying backpacks and lunch pails. Their faces shine with anticipation and wonder. Their laughter and excitement fill the air. They have one question burning in their minds, “What will my teacher be like?” I was there at the bus stop in my long-ago past. I was the teacher who waited in the classroom for those bouncy energetic children.
My first school experience was in Heber, Arizona, in a small country school. Brown and Ella Capps were the teachers. They served the community for 27 years. Mrs. Capps taught the primary grades and Mr. Capps taught the secondary grades. Mrs. Capps taught eight years after Mr. Capps passed away. Their service touched thousands over the years.
Mr. Capps, with his 6-foot-6-inch frame, was a giant of a man both in body and spirit. He towered over his students in character and kindness. He played the saxophone and coached sports. Four-foot-tall Mrs. Capps was tiny only in body. Though she only came up to Mr. Capps’ belt, and looked eye level with her elementary students, she was a fiery, enormous-hearted lady, who led her students to academic excellence. She played the piano and taught piano lessons.
Every Christmas and spring, the Capps would put on a musical to celebrate the season. Every student in school performed either as a voice in the chorus or as an actor. I remember taking part in plays like Little Blue Angel at Christmas and Sleeping Beauty at the close of school. Mrs. Capps didn’t skimp on costumes or sets. She made many costumes herself or asked for help from the community. In my home, there are photos of little girl butterflies with glittering wings and flowers with pink petals around shining faces. There are kings and queens in purple robes and golden crowns. Everything in those plays sparkled and glittered with excellence. Broadway would have been envious of the Cappses’ productions. The productions were wonderful, but the academics were always most important. As teachers, they left a legacy that will never be forgotten.
I taught first grade for several years, and it was a magical time where everything was new and exciting for the children. I knew the most important gift I could give them in those formative years was to teach them to read. Well, not so much teach them to read, but teach them that they can read. There is a difference. If a child thinks he can read, it opens a whole new world to him in knowing he can do math and science. If he thinks he cannot read, it’s as if a thousand doors slam. Year after year he struggles, remembering how quickly the other kids learned and he didn’t.
I was one of those students. I am so grateful for a teacher who took the extra time to teach me. Back then, they didn’t put children in special classes or give them easier work. The teacher believed I could learn; she communicated with my mother and enlisted her help. Both taught me I could do it. It didn’t matter if I fumbled with the words when I read out loud. They didn’t accept my excuses, which taught me not to make excuses for myself. I could do it, and it didn’t matter how hard it was or if I took longer than the other students.
I wrote a poem for teachers. I will always bless the teachers who expected me to succeed.
The teacher
The teacher wrote meaningless marks on the blackboard.
She handed me a big red pencil.
It was too big for my hand.
She said, “Write.”
I didn’t know what “write” meant, but I tried to copy her pictures.
My pencil made scribble marks where I didn’t want them.
She smiled and took my hand in hers.
Together we made circles and lines.
“Read,” she said.
The pictures we made were chicken scratches and squiggly lines.
They could have been stars or moons or broken limbs of trees.
They were pictures with no meaning.
Tears came to my eyes.
“Here, I will help you,” she smiled.
She gave each mark a name.
“These are letters that make up all the words.
This one is A and this one is B. This one is C.
I thought of the ocean bright and blue in the morning sun.
She said, “This is not the sea where boats go.”
"This is the name of a very important letter. It starts names like 'cat' and 'ceilings.'"
I knew about cats.
Cats scratch when you bit their tails,
and ceilings keep out the rain.
I wondered how many ceilings there were in the school,
and how much rain we would have before it started to snow.
And if I would make a snowman…
The teacher tapped with the pointer on the desk.
“We put all the letters together, and we can read.
"Look,” she smiled, “I will write your name.”
She made lines and circles.
“This is your name,” she said.
I looked at the letters and squinted my eyes and wrinkled up my nose.
My name looked like crows’ feet and baseball caps.
“Write your name,” she said as if she wanted me to write it on the mountain tops
and across the sunlit sky.
I looked at my teacher. She was perfect and beautiful, and she smiled when I did my best.
I wanted to please my teacher, so I began.
I licked my lips and held my pencil tight.
I wrote each letter. They were crooked and bent like walking sticks, and the circles looked like broken wings, but
she smiled and said, “Well done.”
I smiled back and the sunshine smiled in my heart.
Each day she gave me words to write and let me read each one.
She gave me spelling tests and made my mind grow bigger and bigger and bigger.
Then one day she said, “I have a surprise.”
There was love in her eyes.
She handed me a book. Brand new words with pictures on the pages.
She opened up a magic door of Sally, Dick and Jane.
We read about Dick and Jane and Spot and Sally, and friends and more friends
with pictures of each one.
Then one day, she took the pictures away.
She gave me words and words with no pictures.
When I cried for the pictures,
She said, “I have a secret.”
My eyes grew wide with wonder.
She put finger paint on my desk and let me write colors in my names. In every swirl of the paint there was a picture.
“You can see it in your mind,” she smiled. “Close your eyes and see the pictures. They are wonderful to behold.”
I looked and I saw.
As time went by, she read books to me. The words were bigger than the sky.
I saw the pictures in my mind, and I knew my teacher had given me a gift.
She said, “Reading is a frigate that takes you lands away.”
I learned that “frigate” is a boat
And “lands away” means adventures in a world I’ve never seen.
“Read,” she said.
And I read.
I read Beowulf, and Chaucer and Shakespeare and The Gettysburg Address.
I read the songs the soldiers sing,
And signs and movie ads.
I read health books and science books and things to make and do.
I read contracts and newspapers and poems. I read recipe books and
I read books that made me weep and books that made me laugh.
I read books that comforted me in sorrow and lifted me to heights unknown.
I read letters of love and certificates of wedding vows.
I read the words of the Ancients and felt the hand of God touch my mind with wisdom.
I read and read and read and blessed the teacher who taught me how to read.
She ignited a flame of desire and filled my soul with hunger.
Day by day and year by year, I read.
Searching, seeking and pondering the universe as
I read the books that let me see God moving in his wonders.
Now I give children a big red pencil and say,
“Write.”
I smile when they squint over the words and wrinkle up their noses.
For I know the journey has begun.
I’m not teaching children to read.
I am teaching a child to touch the face of God.
