Like my mother, I am an inveterate obituary scanner. While I am not the everyday checker that she was, I do open the obits screen of my hometown newspaper every few weeks and scroll through. From observing Mom over the years, I know that If she caught a name that sounded vaguely familiar, she would say, ‘so and so knew my father…or…my brother…or my sisters…or I worked with him…or I knew her family from church, college, high school…’ or some other connection that she had made in her life. Recollecting those people seemed to comfort her, drawing her to a time she liked to remember. I can totally relate.
A few weeks ago, I happened to scan my hometown newspaper obituaries and noticed that a man, who had the same name as one of most favorite elementary school teachers ever, had died. I scrolled down to see if he had any sisters, and yes, two sisters had survived him. I thought I recognized her first name but I wasn’t positive. They lived in a southwestern state now, a long way from where my school was. I had to do some additional sleuthing to be sure. But I was excited to possibly solve one of those stories that has rattled around in my brain, and heart, for years, hoping that everything was all right with this nice woman.
One of the big things going on in my fourth-grade year of elementary school, 1968-1969, was the Viet Nam War. I watched the CBS Evening News with my parents every night. I was still kind of young, barely ten years old, to take in all that news, but I knew from my parent’s expressions and demeanor that they were very upset and concerned about the events in Viet Nam.
My sisters, ten, nine and seven years older than me, had friends that were serving, or had been drafted, or had low draft numbers, which was always a scary feeling. We would read the names of the boys in our hometown newspaper who had been killed already. A few of my cousins were serving too. My brother was still four years away from the draft age of eighteen, but I knew my parents were already nervous for him, and for all the boys in our broader world.
During fourth grade, my teacher would occasionally talk about her fiancée, a Marine who was serving in Viet Nam. This fact struck me with fear especially after watching the evening news. I was scared for him and for my teacher. Occasionally, she would share little snippets about his overseas service, which my teacher kept on the very positive side. ‘Everything is fine, not to worry.’ We finished the year knowing he was returning home at some point soon, but I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. I hoped she had had a good life as I remembered her kindness to me.
Back in my early elementary school days, I’m not sure I applied myself as much as I could have. One day, my fourth-grade teacher announced there would be a science test on honeybees in two days. I vaguely recall that I didn’t study. It was springtime, and after school, I was always outside playing, riding bikes or goofing around, and would get to my homework later.
Lo and behold I bombed on the bee test with a 67, which promptly caused me to start crying in front of everyone in the class. I knew I had messed up. I was going to have to show this test to my parents, who had been amazing students, and have them sign the paper. I would get in trouble. I felt awful. My teacher could see that I was upset and asked me to stay after school and we’d talk about it all then. She’d call my mother and ask her to come pick me up later. While I was upset about staying after school, I was relieved, too. She would break the news to my mom that I had not done well on a test. And for the first time I in my young life, I cared about how I did on tests.
After dismissal, she came over to my desk. I was embarrassed about my puffy red face and the test.
“I know you can do better than this, Marianne. I’ve seen it in your classroom work and in other assignments. What happened here?”
“I didn’t study at home. We’d talked about it in class and I thought that would be enough,” I replied.
“I think you can do a better job if you just review the material more carefully. You can take the test again tomorrow, and I’ll average the grades, but tonight, I want you to study the textbook, ok,” she asked calmly.
“Yes, I will. Thank you,” I said. By then, my mother had shown up. I can’t remember that car ride home, but I’m sure my mother made it clear to me that there was no playing outside until the “marks” situation had been improved. She always referred to grades as marks.
The next afternoon, I took the test, handed it in and then waited at my desk. After a little while, she stood up.
“Marianne, you got a 94! See, I told you that you could do better. It wasn’t the material; it was the preparation. I’m so proud of you,” she added, hugging me at the same time. I don’t know who was happier, my teacher or me.
Throughout my life, I’ve thought of her kindness to me. She could have ignored my poor grade. Instead, she challenged me.
So, here I was, fifty-four years later, hoping this kind, caring woman had had a good life. I reread the obituary. There were a few photos connected to the family. Yes, that’s her face. I remember now. There she was, next to her late brother, identified with her married name. Yes, that was the soldier’s name! The Marine husband had returned. He was safe. They had married. She had moved away, yes, but she had a family and from what I could see in the photos, she looked great.
These little bits of information filled my heart with joy. I was sorry to read about her brother’s passing but I am awfully glad I found his obituary. Rest in peace, dear sir. And many thanks to your wonderful sister.