Pillow Talks and Comforters

Mr. Mead He was a great man of stature and influence, A teacher of English, An appreciator of music, This man of intimidation to me. Tall in height and slow in walk, With back straight and hair of tight curls, My memory is one of cautionary ways, While a student of his class in earlier days. Was it I who created the tension I felt? Was it he who instilled it within me? Whichever it is, whoever the author, My reflections of class are mixed yet clear. A writer I am, a lover of words, As was he, or I so believe. Myself but thirteen and unsure of my way, Soaking his wisdom was a quiet delight. Yet, I also was reluctant to relax and enjoy, Opting instead for ways of observation, Praying to be unnoticed. I remember the day as if it were now, Sitting in row two from the door. The last in the row at the back of the room, I listened and picked up my folder from floor. A lesson assigned, “Please get to work.” In silence, my paper remained empty of words. The phonograph playing a calming tune— “Theme from a Summer Place”—from across the room. Ten minutes passed and then fifteen. Still no words through fingers flowed, As frustration within me grew and grew, I chose to approach the man wearing blue. Timidly stepping, I went to the front, To his desk in the far-right corner. There he sat, with red pen and papers. Beside his chair I stood in silence. It was clear to me he knew I was there, Yet his head he did not raise. Instead, he continued correcting the work, Leaving me standing, confused. Without a mere look he simply said, “Yes?” Finally, the silence was broken. I shared that I knew the assignment given, But was stuck and unable to do it. With the roll of his head to the right where I stood, His eyes met my own without a word. A second or two connected in gaze, He rolled his head back to his work. Again, I am left there, standing. There I stayed with no more said. Then finally he spoke, with head down at work, “Maybe you can’t, but I think you can. Return to your seat and begin.” Today I smile as I recall this moment And the influence it has played on my life. Now, as a woman of sixty-one, I cherish these seconds exchanged. I cherish the gift he gave me that day, this man of intimidation. I did not know in that day of class, Just how those moments would guide me. It is likely he also had no clue, What the power of his simple words would do, For this thirteen-year-old student throughout her life, Through joy and challenge and especially strife. Have you had someone believe in you? Have you questioned yourself about what you could do? When the world says, “You can’t. You haven’t a clue.” How have you flowed on through? For this student of English and lover of word. The teacher of writing has taught her much. For he gave her the tools to believe that she can, When he directed her steps and erased room for doubt, Not allowing her to fail, or to pout. Decisions in life as we pass through the years, Become harder and harder while meeting new fears. The doubts of nay sayers loud and clear, The prodding of this teacher taught how strength can appear. I thank you, Mr. Mead of earlier days. I thank you for your beliefs and unwavering ways. As I replayed your words through years of decisions, My back became straight and my eyes lifted high, Believing I could, and knowing I should, In spite of not always knowing why. The nuggets we gather will guide us on, When we carry them close within our hearts. Our steps can go forth to unknown roads, Discovering blessings and gifts we hold, If we believe in ourselves, and choose to be bold. Mr. Mead - The Back Story Who in your life has offered you a simple wisdom or moment that has directed you in the years beyond? I trust we all have something that we occasionally return to within our heart for one reason or another. That place of clarity, or that person who knew something existed within us when we failed to see it ourselves. Perhaps it even came in a less than happy exchange or memory, yet still sparked us to discover something within. Somehow, I must have known that Mr. Mead’s Ninth Grade English class was a catalyst for me. While not fully recognizing it at the time, I have returned to that youthful moment over and over through many years. I find it interesting that through many years of education, that class is the only one for which I still have the writings created. Tucked away safe within my files they have traveled the miles of my life. Through several relocations, marriage, children and divorce, the writings from Mr. Mead days were kept. I chuckle at the thought, and privately wonder what my younger self was thinking within to know she wanted to keep them. For this author, writing has been my absolute best and unconditional friend. Whether making diary notes of family moments, or writing dreams and wishes for my children over the years, my writing has gotten me through. While others have come and gone through life, my writing has never left me. As I, my writing continued to take root and bloom! As a woman in my 50’s and a thinker of deep, I found myself thinking of Mr. Mead. I wondered if he was alive, and I wanted to say, “Thank You!”