It’s funny how the changing seasons bring back childhood memories. It’s even funnier that those memories grow more important in each season of life.
I’m not sure why my childhood memories are connected to the season, but they are. This morning was proof of that connection.
As I carried my freshly brewed coffee out to our front porch for my daily quiet time, the falling leaves of Autumn and the briskness of this morning’s Mississippi wind quickly carried me back to the Fall of 1968.
I was a first grader that year, and I absolutely loved going to school each day. It was an adventure to get up early and ride with my dad (a smalltown principal) to help him turn on the lights and open the doors of our school. And when the time came each weekday morning, I probably ran all the way to my classroom door because I adored my teacher, Miss Inez Carson.
Yep, I was one of those students, the ones every teacher recognizes through constant chatter and eagerness to succeed at every single learning task. Looking back now from the lens of a retired teacher, I’m certain that Miss Inez had her hands full that year, because I was not the only one of her students who talked and wiggled way too much. But I was probably the loudest and wiggliest of all.
So, as this memory from the Fall of 1968 came flooding back to me this morning, I had to imagine that my father probably wasn’t too concerned with my uncharacteristic silence on our car ride to school that day. But even now, I can recall how awful I felt.
A couple of cafeteria workers and teachers were waiting for us as we pulled into the school parking lot. I can vividly remember the looks on their faces as I opened the car door, got out, and immediately threw up. Now, parents and educators are familiar with this scene, especially those with younger kids. But their horrified faces silently spoke volumes about that vile, black substance deposited on the ground.
I have few memories after this scene, other than those school employees helping my dad quickly load me back up to carry me to our local hospital. I learned later that our beloved hometown doctor met us there, the man who had cared for me and my sister since birth. He was devastated to inform my parents that testing would eventually give definitive answers, but his initial diagnosis was tuberculosis (TB).
That grim diagnosis is where my yearly memories resume. Miss Inez came immediately after school to the outer waiting room to check on me and offer my parents her life savings to get me the best medical help available. Yes, this devoted teacher offered us her money.
Thankfully, that money was not needed because I had histoplasmosis rather than TB. But I will never forget her generous offer, and I wonder how many times and to how many students Mizz Inez made similar offers through the years.
How amazing it was to look back at that generous offer and look back at my teacher’s life, realizing now that not only was teaching her chosen profession, but it was also Miss Inez’s chosen ministry. She never married; she lived alongside her brother and family; and she dedicated her life to the children of Woodland, Mississippi.
What a precious gift to us!
It was a gift that paid few earthly dividends. But as the years went by, I witnessed the intrinsic value of her sacrificial life.
Though Miss Inez spent her final years in a local nursing home, she was rarely alone. Every single time I visited her there, I found other former students standing lovingly beside her bed. Plus, most of the workers in that facility were formers students or family of students.
What a legacy she left behind!
Thank you, Miss Inez Carson, for offering my family every single dime you had. But more than that, thank you for teaching me how to be a true teacher. It is a lesson I spent my life sharing with others. I hope I made you proud!
