My grandson Rowen is with me this week and it is a joy. He is on loan to me, away from his usual pre-school days and friends. I wonder what he is missing this week and I think of all the teachers around the world, greeting the wee ones as they leave homes and family to begin their entry into the larger world.
And I remember my own kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Story.
For all the Mrs. Storys in the world . . .
Mrs. Story. How I loved her name. My first teacher – it was kindergarten, filled with paste and noise and other children and being lost, the one among so many. How did she manage to see us all? Her figure was neat and trim in a navy blue A-line dress, belted smartly at the waist. Her hair light brown, was styled in tight permed waves. Her smile was sunshine itself. I can’t remember the color of her eyes, but I know they were kind. And her attention made me know I belonged. Her voice wasn’t soft, but somehow it, too, was kind. She made her voice, her presence, small enough for us. How does a person do that? Make themselves small without being small? I wish I could ask her.
From a 56 year old woman, dear, dear, teachers, never doubt you make a difference. I know you have to me.