In Memory of Sam A. Collier and Gene Childs
On my Christmas card list are a couple of very special teachers, from back in high school days.
I got a card back from one of them, DH, this past month, sharing news and catching up. I've long treasured DH's counsel and advice; and admired his values.
DH mentioned that another teacher from that school, Mr. C., to whom I owe so much, passed away in November, at the age of 72. Once an Air Force colonel, Mr. C. was director of a military band; whatever brought him to cross paths with me in the tiniest high school in Tennessee, I'll never know, but I'll be always grateful. I truly doubt I'd be where I am today if it weren't for him... I still recall the day he walked into class, dropped a folder of papers on my desk and told me "you're taking this test." So the next week, I travelled over two mountains to sit in a roomful of strangers, alone and frightened to death and not quite sure what I was doing there. The test was the PSAT-NMSQT. And because of that test, a kid in extreme poverty was able to go to college for free... the rest, as they say, is history. And though I owe him much for that, I owe him more for the music in my life.
During the summer of '80, the school board had resolved to close down the high school, and daily bus the 40 or so students up and over the mountains. The road was steep and narrow; to call it winding would be a gross understatement. Total travel time would approach 3 hours daily. Parents protested the decision, and the board relented, on the condition that the school operate on a token budget. Somehow, four teachers were found willing to accept the challenges this impoverished (~100% free lunch) remote school bore. DH, Mr C, and GC were three of those four.
Mr. C. would teach economics, civics, typing, and music, and would run the library. DH would teach science (he quickly discarded the textbooks that prophesied "Someday, man will go to the moon") and math. GC would teach English (I remember being saddened, as our class tried to create a home-spun cookbook, to realize that some of my classmates could neither read nor write). The fourth teacher would handle P.E. Each teacher was assigned as advisor to one of the grades - Mr. C. was assigned the sophomores. My class.
He sat down with us that first week, to get a feel for what he had to work with. He went around the table, asking us what musical talents we might have. Most everyone had sung some in church. I admitted I played the piano, a little. His eyes lit up, his pencil went down, and he went and found the old school piano. Show me. It was the start of a great collaboration over the next two years, as he took my meager skills and taught me to improvise and compose... and accompany the new school choir.
Thus, in many ways, a great deal of who I am today can be traced to Mr. C. As DH said in his letter, he was a good man.
I just found out tonight that GC passed away last month, too.
DH is still at that school, but teaching second grade for the last decade and a half ... he's given his entire life to the children of that valley.
So here's to good people, good teachers, who give their all, dare to dream, see the future and make it happen.
I got a card back from one of them, DH, this past month, sharing news and catching up. I've long treasured DH's counsel and advice; and admired his values.
DH mentioned that another teacher from that school, Mr. C., to whom I owe so much, passed away in November, at the age of 72. Once an Air Force colonel, Mr. C. was director of a military band; whatever brought him to cross paths with me in the tiniest high school in Tennessee, I'll never know, but I'll be always grateful. I truly doubt I'd be where I am today if it weren't for him... I still recall the day he walked into class, dropped a folder of papers on my desk and told me "you're taking this test." So the next week, I travelled over two mountains to sit in a roomful of strangers, alone and frightened to death and not quite sure what I was doing there. The test was the PSAT-NMSQT. And because of that test, a kid in extreme poverty was able to go to college for free... the rest, as they say, is history. And though I owe him much for that, I owe him more for the music in my life.
During the summer of '80, the school board had resolved to close down the high school, and daily bus the 40 or so students up and over the mountains. The road was steep and narrow; to call it winding would be a gross understatement. Total travel time would approach 3 hours daily. Parents protested the decision, and the board relented, on the condition that the school operate on a token budget. Somehow, four teachers were found willing to accept the challenges this impoverished (~100% free lunch) remote school bore. DH, Mr C, and GC were three of those four.
Mr. C. would teach economics, civics, typing, and music, and would run the library. DH would teach science (he quickly discarded the textbooks that prophesied "Someday, man will go to the moon") and math. GC would teach English (I remember being saddened, as our class tried to create a home-spun cookbook, to realize that some of my classmates could neither read nor write). The fourth teacher would handle P.E. Each teacher was assigned as advisor to one of the grades - Mr. C. was assigned the sophomores. My class.
He sat down with us that first week, to get a feel for what he had to work with. He went around the table, asking us what musical talents we might have. Most everyone had sung some in church. I admitted I played the piano, a little. His eyes lit up, his pencil went down, and he went and found the old school piano. Show me. It was the start of a great collaboration over the next two years, as he took my meager skills and taught me to improvise and compose... and accompany the new school choir.
Thus, in many ways, a great deal of who I am today can be traced to Mr. C. As DH said in his letter, he was a good man.
I just found out tonight that GC passed away last month, too.
DH is still at that school, but teaching second grade for the last decade and a half ... he's given his entire life to the children of that valley.
So here's to good people, good teachers, who give their all, dare to dream, see the future and make it happen.
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