An old friend stopped me in Walmart last week and said, “Now be honest with me. We’ve been friends a long time. When the first school buses of the year roll by your house, don’t you miss teaching?”
I thought about my response long and hard for about 3 seconds.
Mary Ann Ellis
Be honest, please
“No,” I answered as honestly as possible. “I’m not even aware that those buses are rolling by my house because they roll by before I roll out of bed. I’m fairly sure 6 a.m. still comes around every morning, but I’m never awake to see it.”
However . . . .
Sometimes in my mind I see the long haired country boy in the corner chewing his pencil eraser and then writing frantically to beat the timer. He’d have something amazing written in his journal and he’d boldly share it with the class when the time came, his deep southern drawl capturing every ear and mind in the room. Sometimes he’d contort his lanky body into a virtual pretzel in his desk or even on the floor to make his mind work better. No matter the physical position, he wrote profoundly day after day after day. I confess I miss him. I miss his words and his fervor. I miss his passion for language. I miss him, but I’ll bet that he’s still writing. I’d be disappointed if he’d laid down his pencil.
And then there’s the girl with the dark, curly hair who never ran out of wondrous words. She handled them like a sculptor with clay, creating miraculous forms, bringing forth pure enchantment from a scrappy pencil and a $2.00 composition book. Her efficiency, passion, and talent made class joyous for me every day of the week. I miss her. I know that she still writes. Sometimes when she’s totally unaware, I read her words.
For the complete column pick up your copy of The Baxley News-Banner on newsstands today or CLICK HERE to Subscribe.
However . . . .
Sometimes in my mind I see the long haired country boy in the corner chewing his pencil eraser and then writing frantically to beat the timer. He’d have something amazing written in his journal and he’d boldly share it with the class when the time came, his deep southern drawl capturing every ear and mind in the room. Sometimes he’d contort his lanky body into a virtual pretzel in his desk or even on the floor to make his mind work better. No matter the physical position, he wrote profoundly day after day after day. I confess I miss him. I miss his words and his fervor. I miss his passion for language. I miss him, but I’ll bet that he’s still writing. I’d be disappointed if he’d laid down his pencil.
And then there’s the girl with the dark, curly hair who never ran out of wondrous words. She handled them like a sculptor with clay, creating miraculous forms, bringing forth pure enchantment from a scrappy pencil and a $2.00 composition book. Her efficiency, passion, and talent made class joyous for me every day of the week. I miss her. I know that she still writes. Sometimes when she’s totally unaware, I read her words.
For the complete column pick up your copy of The Baxley News-Banner on newsstands today or CLICK HERE to Subscribe.
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