A Mountain of Love

By Dr. Jo Ann Pierce

When Jo Ann Pierce began her career in education, immersion in the classroom experience seemed like enough of a challenge-balancing the demands of family life as a wife and mother with the steep learning curve of mentoring and nurturing students was as much as she thought she could handle. But as she learned to trust her goat-like sense of balance on uneven terrain, she realized she could see a summit above her, and that it was within reach. Could she trust that God had a special plan to help her discover her gifts of leadership? Bit by bit, her vision emerged; this powerful memoir shares her upward climb as a "wannabe" principal, with successes and failures, personal notes and memories. Deeply personal yet universal not only to teachers and principals, but all leaders, this book illuminates the heart of Dr. Pierce's quest to find her best self, for the service and benefit of others. Let her inspire you to recognize the mountain of love in your own life-and take courage from her journey to climb upward to your pinnacle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781478796862

Dr. Jo Ann Pierce

Dr. Jo Ann Pierce describes herself as an educational mountain climber. She was a finalist for Oklahoma's Teacher of the Year in 1990, one of three Distinguished Principals in Oklahoma in 2006, and a faculty consultant for the HOPE Foundation in Bloomington, IN. In 2009, she opened ASPIRE HIGHER Educational and Leadership Consulting, LLC, contracting with businesses and school districts. Whether in an administrative leadership role or helping districts across the country, Dr. Pierce is committed to interactive learning that motivates students, teachers, administrators, and leaders of all organizations to be their best.

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A Mountain of Love

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2018 Dr. Jo Ann Pierce

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The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-4787-9686-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903362

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Dedication

To God . . . My gifts and talents are for your glory. I am because of your endless blessings and the sacrifice of your Son, Jesus. Thank you.

To my husband, Joe Nathan Theodore Pierce . . . You are an amazing Christian man, husband and father, friend and lover, supporter and provider. I could not have had a better fan club president than you these past 42 years. I love you.

To my daughter, Amy Nicole Wolff, and her husband, Jeff, and to my son, Kelsey Theodore Pierce, and his wife, Lauren . . . You are God’s special gifts of love, and I am so proud of each of you and your many gifts that you share with others. Thank you for being my fan club and legal backup. Thank you for the special writings about your mother as a teacher. (Thanks to Lauren for editing each chapter with details and suggestions for improvement.)

To my mother, Helen Bronniman White . . . Your constant love and self-sacrifice enabled me to aspire higher. Your beautifully stitched creations that fit my body perfectly were always complimented by friends and colleagues. I love you and miss you so much that it makes me cry. I look more like you and act like you more and more every day. I still can’t sew a stitch, but I love to cook your favorite recipes. I know your dream was to be an attorney . . . It came true times four. Nikki got her law degree, then she married Jeff, an attorney, then Kelsey got a law degree, and he married Lauren, also an attorney. I know that puts a smile on your angel face.

To my sister, Patsy McIlvain . . . You are my best teacher friend. Thank you for listening to my many ideas and putting many of them into action. I am proud of you and your many accomplishments as a master teacher. I still like to play Pick, and I always will.

To my mother-in-law, Jo Ann Pierce . . . Thank you for sharing my name, your son, and your nurturing spirit with Nikki so that I could teach.

And finally, to my daddy, Robert Lee Bronniman . . . You never made it to the zenith you dreamed of, but the dreams you shared and the time we had together gave me the courage to be whatever I wanted to be. God is good!

Acknowledgments

I put her on a pedestal. She was my mentor. I was her protégé. During the 1989–1990 school year, I was named as one of our state’s top five teachers. She was by my side nurturing, applauding, and promoting my accomplishments. I was humbled and a little shy when the television station from our capital city landed their helicopter on the school playground to interview me, but she smiled and enjoyed the hoopla. I was overwhelmed. My mentor had been named as one of the state’s best teachers in earlier years. She knew the drill and understood the statewide appeal of being an Oklahoma Teacher of the Year (TOTY) Finalist. Not only was she an accomplished teacher, a respected and admired administrator, she was my principal and my hero. For that, I will always be grateful.

Soon after, I left the stage with a handshake and hug to the state TOTY winner, my principal encouraged me to become a principal. She recognized my leadership capabilities and persuaded me to enroll in Principal Certification classes at the University of Oklahoma. My natural Capricorn spirit told me to climb the mountain (onward and upward!). My principal seemed to have a practical strategy for reaching the top. She inspired me. Preparing to be an elementary principal seemed doable.

Most principal opportunities require at least 3–5 years of classroom experience, but I had a 20-year solid foundation as a classroom teacher that preceded my principal days. I understood innovation, best practices, and the need to lead. Slowly and steadily, I kept my goatlike sense of balance and stability through some tricky terrain, family trials, and tribulations. Those days in the classroom, that mountain of love, are where my heart was first touched and my eyes were first opened to the idea of leading a school. It was through the powerful sequence of time and witness that I began to value me, to honor that I am, and to use my God-given creativity to teach and lead. My story is His glory.

My story involves treating others as I anticipate being treated. I love people, and I need their gifts, talents, and strengths. I think some people need my gifts, talents, and strengths too. I may have left someone out along the way unintentionally as I write my story. I may have included someone that would have preferred not to be, but you touched my life and helped me grow. I have changed many names and location because it seemed like the right thing to do in certain instances, especially those whom I was not able to contact for one reason or another. My intent is to tell my story with the deepest respect for everyone who is climbing his or her own personal mountain. I wish you continual success at your zenith of choice.

Thank you to those who gave me permission to share pictures. Laura Bush’s Spoken From the Heart (which I loved) left me wanting more pictures, so I’m including pictures. I don’t compare her prominence to mine, but she did start out as a teacher and end up on the mountaintop. I’m an advocate for people who genuinely radiate goodness as they conquer their peaks. She did.

My story of wife, mother, teacher, and wannabe principal is a collection of notes on small pieces of paper that I saved in case I ever wrote a book (never dreamed I really would). It includes pictures, scrapbook pages, grade book notes, lesson plans, evaluations, teaching units that I facilitated, memories withheld, memories shared, confusion, clarity, and a lifetime of personal and school relationships that melded. Laugh with me (it helps), criticize me (you can’t be worse than I am on myself), cry for me, but most of all, know that it took some courage to share openly. I hope that in sharing my story with vulnerability and authenticity, you are inclined to share yours.

A big thank-you to Jackie Jacobi for being a cheerleader and coach, Lauren, my daughter-in-law, for editing my mistakes first round, and LaVonna Funkhouser for editing and suggesting changes during the second editing. I found out that teachers are not wonderful at correcting their own work. We need all the help we can get. Melinda Douglas, my sister-in-law, read every word and was the first to encourage me. With a smile, Martha Burger provided the opening photograph of my coat. I had an excellent relationship with Outskirts Press.

Finally, if you are feeling like you could be the principal, you can stay right where you are or you can start learning, looking, and acting like one. Go get the degree, rise above the status quo, and your comfort zone. Look up at your mountain and don’t be frightened to climb—listen to your heart and claim your pinnacle. Mine was A Mountain of Love.

Table of Contents

1. Love Story

2. Reality

3. Wild Things

4. Believing in My Magic

5. Surprise

6. Celebrate

7. Somebody’s Baby

8. Caesar’s Palace

9. Thriller

10. Serenity Prayer

11. Bigger and Better Days

12. Don’t Worry, Be Happy

13. Dreams Come True

14. Heaven Is a Place on Earth

15. When We Went to India

16. Teacher of the Year

17. Stop and Smell the Roses

18. Gifts and Talents

19. Schoolwide Themes

20. Claiming My Pinnacle

Chapter 1

Love Story

Listen to (Where Do I Begin) Love Story recorded by Andy Williams.

I loved the movie Love Story, but it was nothing compared to my own story of love and romance on the college campus of Southwestern Oklahoma State University in the 1970s. We were smitten from the beginning and spent our out-of-class times together much like Ali MacGraw (Jennifer) and Ryan O’Neal (Oliver) from the movie. Our first date was in September of 1973, and we married Saturday, August 17, 1974, in my hometown, Woodward, Oklahoma. We honeymooned in Miami, Florida, until Thursday, August 22, arriving at our one-bedroom apartment around 10:00 p.m. I was exhausted and felt panicked. I had 3 days to set up our new home in Duncan before I reported to Mark Twain Elementary School to do my student teaching.

On Saturday, we bought a secondhand car, a dark turquoise 1965 Chevy Bel Air in dire need of a paint job. It was ugly, but it would get Joe to work and back and be fine around town. It cost $500, all of our wedding gift money. I would drive Joe’s 5-year-old Malibu. Our shrinking budget allowed for a few groceries for the week, rent, utility bills, gas, and the first payment on my student loans.

On Sunday evening, I humbly convinced Joe that I would never be able to find the school. Eighty-one Highway with four lanes bustling with Halliburton traffic seemed more like a booming metropolis freeway for an apprehensive country girl used to single dirt roads. I needed blue skies and green lights for the first day of school, so Joe said he would drive in front of me to Mark Twain Elementary School. I finally fell asleep, dog-tired, still trying to discipline the butterflies in my stomach.

On Monday morning, the Mark Twain principal, Mr. Dukane, greeted me. He wore a chestnut-colored suit and brown tie. He was incredibly kind with a pleasing smile and a humble stance. He was shorter, but he had the same pleasant, professional appearance as Ward Cleaver on Leave It to Beaver. His fatherly approach was charming as he introduced me to my cooperating teacher. She was the teacher who would team with one of my college professors to facilitate my student teaching. Mrs. Kingston was short, round, gray haired, and quick witted as she conversed with the principal. She dressed modestly in black double-knit pants with a white, short-sleeved blouse. The authentic turquoise squash blossom necklace that framed her face convinced me that she had an accomplished, plenty-of-money status. As a naïve 21-year-old with stereotypical vision, I merely saw an old, gray-haired, fat woman with laced-up comfortable shoes, glasses that slid down on her nose, and a mean look that set me back a few feet.

Jo Ann and Joe Pierce, August 17, 1974

As I looked across Mrs. Kingston’s deserted first-grade classroom—my daytime dwelling for the next 8 weeks—my first impression was disappointment. My surveillance revealed a traditional, straight-laced classroom with little room for frills. I saw empty bulletin boards, blank green chalkboards, one teacher desk, and rows of student desks and shimmering blue tile floors. A first-grader deserved more color and creativity, I decided.

Moments later, a taller, coal-black-haired, beautifully tan-skinned teacher entered our classroom. This second teacher was immaculately dressed in a black double-knit suit, black nylon hose with straight seams, black three-quarter-inch pointed heels and fancy black cat-frame glasses. The aroma of her Youth Dew Estée Lauder cologne mesmerized my sense of smell, as much as her stature of pure confidence and style captivated my sight.

Wow, I thought to myself with the arrogance of an almost college graduate, why didn’t I get her for my cooperating teacher?

Is this your new student teacher? the well-groomed lady asked Mrs. Kingston, as if everyone knew about my arrival at the school.

She looked me over from head to toe. I was already tense, but her attractive smile helped. She complimented me on how nice I looked in my bold red gabardine pants with matching waist-length jacket and two-tone beige sandals.

This is Jo Ann Pierce, my cooperating teacher said with surprising satisfaction in her voice. Mrs. Pierce, this is our remedial reading teacher, Mrs. Ida Foster (my hero). She used to be a first-grade teacher too, but now, she is busy helping our struggling readers. Her room is the first door up the steps on the left.

Where were you Friday? Mrs. Foster asked as her dark brown eyes penetrated right through me. We had an in-service, and I think you were supposed to be here, she stated with a hint of a scolding tone that paralleled my own mother’s scorn when I didn’t measure up to her expectations.

I’m sorry, I just got back from my honeymoon, I struggled. Mrs. Foster, the letter I received from the director of student teaching from the university said to report this morning at 7:45 a.m. to Mark Twain Elementary School. Here I am! I added with bride-tired enthusiasm.

They giggled about the fact that I was fresh off of my honeymoon and became a little warmer to me. I told them that Mama had made all of my wedding clothes, including my bridal gown and all of the bridesmaids’ dresses. She is an amazing mom and a wonderful seamstress. She made this suit for my going-away outfit, I said pointing to my clothes as I sought to win their approval.

Humor was my next tactic. My mom sure embarrassed me as we drove down Meridian Avenue on our way to the airport last Sunday morning, I grinned. "I completely forgot that she put the zipper in the back of these slacks that I have on. Something kept tugging at my backside and rubbing me wrong . . . until I realized that I had put these slacks on with the zipper in front. You should have seen the look on my new husband’s face as I took these slacks off and turned them around as we sped down the road to the airport.

He looked over at me with an ornery smile. ‘Not now, honey, we’ve got a plane to catch!’

The two teachers roared with laughter so I continued to humor them. I told them that the flight to Miami, Florida, was my first plane ride and how nervous I was on the flight. Again, they giggled like I was the cutest thing they had ever seen, but I felt a need to check with them for school protocol during the rest of my stay. They took me under their wing, and I surmised that they would keep me conversant. Again, as a naïve 21-year-old, I needed the discipline and experience that my cooperating teacher would provide. I sought the confidence that the remedial reading teacher would model. I felt blessed.

I was born to drink coffee.

I followed my new colleagues to the teachers’ lounge and from that point onward, they treated me as an equal. They introduced me to the other teachers and the coffeepot. It was empty, so I made coffee for them. They acted like my simple act of coffee making was truly appreciated. Coffee became one of my specialties in college with lots of late-night studying, I told them.

The part I didn’t share is I had been drinking coffee since I was in the second grade. I told my grandma who lived about a quarter of a mile down the road from our house, that Mama let me drink coffee all the time. Grandma Bronniman, my daddy’s mother, would let me get two Chips Ahoy cookies out of her black, floral cookie jar, and then put a tablespoon of Folgers Instant Coffee into each of our favorite cups. Grandma knew (they always do) I was fibbing about being a coffee drinker, but she poured the boiling hot water from the teakettle, grabbed herself a couple of cookies, and pretended not to smile. As we sipped carefully from the too hot to drink cups, we nibbled on the cookies. Grandma oohed and awed about the joy of cookies out of a package and coffee in an instant. She taught me how to sit down, share a moment, kick back, and be thankful for the littlest things each day. Each swallow of coffee from turquoise Fiesta cups was followed by thoughtful reflection, shared wisdom, and occasional tidbits about Days of Our Lives, our favorite television soap opera. The daytime drama, about doctors, attorneys, and other professionals in the mythical city of Salem, shared the numerous marriages and divorces of the Horton family. It gave us ol’ farm girls plenty to talk about, as if the drama was next door.

Like sands through the hourglass so are the days of our lives, rang through my head as the days of my life were changing quickly. I was doing things I’d never done before. It was my first time to be in a teachers’ lounge. In fact, I felt naughty as I walked right past the no students allowed sign near the door. It smelled like stale cigarettes, just like my house did growing up. Two teachers were smoking cigarettes from long black holders, and the principal had lit his pipe. The mismatched chairs and couch fabrics were wearing thin; the maple wood trim appeared dated, but durable. The empty classroom conversion to a teacher’s lounge looked junky, yet disinfectant hovered. It didn’t seem like a place where I wanted to be, but that’s where I spied the mimeograph duplicator, so I had no choice in the matter.

Duplicating copies was essential, but it wasn’t a job teachers loved. I was sure my cooperating teacher would make me run all of the copies because it usually meant the stench of duplicator fluid and purple-colored fingers. I had learned from jobs on campus that it did not matter how hard you tried if you touched the duplicator cylinder or the papers as they ejected . . . purple ink always appeared in a surprise place or two on your clothes or body.

I love coffee; I hate smoking.

The teachers’ lounge was not going to be an easy place for me to be. I didn’t want to gather with smokers. I had given up the habit the day I was married. It hadn’t been easy, but I had promised my husband that I would quit smoking, and I wanted to keep that promise. Smoking seemed appropriate at fraternity parties at our small college. It seemed appropriate in the early-morning hours in my dorm room cramming for a test. It seemed appropriate to my sorority sisters who told me to smoke cigarettes because I couldn’t drink beer or hard liquor without getting sick. Some of my sorority sisters were trying marijuana, but that was illegal. Being a chic girl at college in the early seventies took a lot of self-discipline and smart choices. While smoking seemed to be the smarter choice for me in college, it was not a choice that I was proud of, so I didn’t want to associate with it anymore.

I kept telling myself that smoking was awful. I had assured my fiancé that I would stop smoking, and it stayed on my mind. As a pharmacy graduate, Joe Nathan Theodore Pierce was reliant on the surgeon general’s report on the harmful effects of smoking. More than once, I had spilled ashes on his double knit slacks, melting holes in them. I was a health and fire hazard.

Dr. C. Everett Koop, the eventual United States Surgeon General, constantly warned in 1974 that smoking was the number-one public health problem in the country. He also suggested that people went into smoking consciously, it was preventable, and that the habit could be reversed. I knew smoking was not for me. Dr. Koop posed the scenario, which rolled around in my head and filled me with guilt, For your own good and the good of those around you, would you change your behavior?

Thus far, I had not been tempted to smoke, but it had only been 1 week and 2 days since my mother held my last cigarette as I prepared to walk down the aisle to say, I do to Joe. Mama, a smoker herself, made sure that I didn’t get any ashes on the beautiful wedding gown that she had put the last stitches in minutes before.

Mama looked at me one last moment and said, Honey, don’t ever start smoking again. Let this be your last one. I smoked when Daddy and I got married, but I quit for 15 years. I had all four of you kids, and then one day, I just started smoking again. Now, I don’t want to quit, and I don’t think I could if I tried. You’ve chosen a great man, and he has chosen you. Don’t ever let Joe down.

I held back the tears when she said that, but she quickly added, Don’t. Your mascara will run . . . brush your teeth . . . the photographer is here!

as

The bell rang at 8:00 a.m., and I was glad to meet our new first-graders. I was right about no frills. My cooperating teacher, Mrs. Kingston, was by the book: strict. By 10:00 a.m., we had formed three reading groups, graded hand-copied penmanship lessons of lower case and capital A’s, and spot-checked three color sheets on the number one, letter A, and the color red with happy-faced stamps. The classroom was silent. If the children said anything, Mrs. Kingston would raise her eyes and eyebrows, causing her glasses to slide down her nose and give a look that scared even me. Her don’t smile until Christmas performance that most of my college professors had recommended for effective teaching, was nerve-racking. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to use the look. That approach to learning would not work for me; besides I didn’t think intimidating 6-year-olds was necessary.

My first frill would be a 10:00 a.m. cup of coffee when our first-graders went to morning PE/recess for 20 minutes. I was excited because I had packed half a dozen Chips Ahoy cookies in my lunch. When I got to the teachers’ lounge, the pot of coffee that I had made earlier was gone, but no one had bothered to generate another pot.

The smoke smell in the lounge had been replaced by the addictive scent of unadulterated duplicator fluid. I picked up the coffeepot, ready to start a new pot, when the remedial reading teacher, Mrs. Foster, walked through the lounge door with a stack of soft-backed reading primers.

I’ll find you a cup of coffee, she said as she entered the room. I’m going to let you in on my secret. It was the first revelation of many to come.

The antiestablishment coffeepot was in her classroom. It turns out that no one will make coffee in the lounge, so she makes her own coffee and keeps it out of sight in her classroom closet. I also discovered that she loved anything chocolate, so I shared my beloved Chip Ahoy cookies with her. I was enthusiastic toward this remarkably savvy woman after we bonded over coffee and cookies. Mrs. Foster was a beautiful Native American woman, quite resourceful too.

It didn’t take me long to figure out the Mark Twain protocol. The principal, Mr. Jeff Dukane, was a bundle of energy: scattered, caring, and compassionate. Even though his title was principal, the teachers were in charge. The only time he ever said much was when Central Office made a demand or two that he couldn’t accomplish without the teachers’ help. Otherwise, he stayed in his territory, and the teachers stayed in theirs. Each classroom was an island with the teacher serving as governess. They entered their classrooms and taught in solitary confinement from other teachers. They saw each other when they took care of discipline out in the hall with a colleague as witness, in the teachers’ lounge duplicating papers, or eating lunch together in the teachers’ lounge on their off-duty days.

The weeks flew by. I brought my wedding pictures to share with all of my new colleagues in October. Our red, white, and beige wedding was beautiful they claimed. Their comments and compliments had become very important to me. I watched the Mark Twain teachers with awe and envy. Each one had unique gifts and talents. They weren’t perfect, but they were great, hardworking, children-loving educators. From kindergarten to sixth grade, I liked everything about the school, the principal, the teachers, and even the teachers’ lounge. I became a devotee to the smell of half-dried purple papers shooting out of the mimeograph machine as I cranked with precision and promise, just like my mentors.

I had developed a wealth of respect for my cooperating teacher. I shouldn’t have judged her by her appearance. More than once, Mama had told me not to judge a book by its cover, but young, inexperienced teachers do as I did and tend to see only the exterior of books and people. Mrs. Kingston was in her thirty-first year of teaching and was well respected by parents and her peers. The empty bulletin boards, which she didn’t like to decorate, were for me to fill and change as often as I felt the need. My colorful and creative side had not known such luxury since eighth-grade art class. The green chalkboard was never blank from day one, the first hour of school. It was my job to clean the white dust-producing monster. Straight neat desks meant nothing to first-graders, and less to their first-grade teacher. Mrs. Kingston developed loving relationships with all of her children and taught me to do the same. We shared books, read in circles, played games, taught penmanship, added and subtracted, drew and colored, laughed at their jokes, and cried together the day each child learned to read. My first classroom on-the-job experience with 6 year olds was a comfortable, growing work in progress that amazed me.

I learned more during those 8 weeks of student teaching than in all 3 years and two summers of my college preparation. Most importantly, I knew that I had made the right career decision. I was born to be a teacher. When it was time for my student teaching to conclude, I selfishly longed for something to happen to Mrs. Kingston so that I could stay and take her place. I loved her students and her empty bulletin boards that I had decorated so cleverly and creatively. She had put me in charge of her class all day every day from about the third week on. I loved Mrs. Kingston because she allowed me to flourish as a student teacher.

Mrs. Kingston was ill on Friday of the seventh week and had to go to the doctor. The principal came down to our classroom on Monday morning to share the results of her Friday doctor’s appointment with the substitute and me. I was embarrassed at my secret thoughts and wishes. The principal politely announced that Mrs. Kingston had cancer in her female organs and would not be returning to school until after Christmas. The principal asked me to stay for the next 10 weeks as the substitute teacher. I was elated as I reflected on Mark Twain’s quote hanging in the teachers’ lounge:

A thing long expected takes the form of the unexpected when at last it comes

—Mark Twain

My guilt for claiming and wishing for what was not truly mine subsided about 9:00 a.m. the next day when one of our first-graders burst into one of her crying spells. Katy was a tiny, pale, blue-eyed blonde with little buoyancy. She hated school and wanted her mama many days. Mrs. Kingston and I usually settled her down and had her occupied with her seatwork by midmorning. I thought the problem was that this little girl didn’t like Mrs. Kingston and her mean teacher look.

I was wrong. Katy didn’t like me either. The little blue-eyed blonde saw through my inexperience and immaturity and plotted her great escape. Through tears she asked me if she could go to the bathroom (I can’t tell a child no to that one). When she hit the hall, I saw her make a right for the exit instead of a left toward the restroom. I pushed the intercom button for the office to get help from the principal.

Katy ran for the street in front of the school. Help me catch her! I yelled into the intercom. I completely forgot about all of the other students and ran for the street intent on catching my runaway. Mr. Dukane’s quick thinking and high-speed intent helped me catch Katy in the middle of Twenty-second Street, running as fast as she could toward home.

Our runaway kicked Mr. Dukane, tried to bite me, and screamed, LET GO OF ME. I WANT MY MAMA!

I wanted my mama too; maybe we had something in common. Mr. Dukane appeared calm. He carried Katy back to the classroom, screaming and kicking the entire way. I felt clueless as I sat her on my lap at Mrs. Kingston’s desk and held her for most of the morning. The other students, who had not moved during my exit, continued their seatwork, coming to the teacher’s desk to let me grade their papers and stamp a smiley face in the corner. Some students would gently pat my new lap buddy, and others would completely ignore her. I really didn’t know what to do, so I just sat as she clung to me. Every few minutes, I would gently say, It’s going to be just fine, trying to convince myself as much, or more than, her.

Katy sat on my lap through all three reading groups, and then without any notice, she went to her seat, sat down, and did all of her work. I smiled each time she looked my way for the rest of the morning. Every once in a while, I would walk by Katy’s desk, say nothing, but gently pat her arm and compliment her work.

My fugitive was big news in the teachers’ lounge at lunch. The teachers on outside recess duty were on patrol for fear she would dart off the playground. In the sanctuary of the lounge, I ate my lunch while reflecting on my morning venture. I was worried that Mr. Dukane wished that he had hired someone besides me to substitute and thought, What goes around comes around.

Mrs. Foster, now a supporter and trusted colleague, sat down beside me at the lounge table as I shared the details of my morning with her. Pretty as always in her navy double-knit suit with red stacked heels, I asked with all the maturity I could muster, Do you think a person’s actions, whether good or bad, will often have consequences for that person on down the road?

Along with my embarrassment over insufficient classroom management, I felt that I had come full circle in handling Katy. I told Mrs. Foster about the tears that I had personally shed in my first-grade classroom. I had cried every day because I too wanted my mama.

I put my first-grade teacher through all kinds of misery, I confessed. I was just so scared. I understand what Katy is going through, I continued.

In 1959, my daddy drove the school bus to help enhance our family income. It seemed every farm around our little community was failing. I was 6 years old, the middle child in my family. I never went to kindergarten; school overwhelmed me. Each morning after the hour and 15-minute bus ride to school, my tears began. I refused to get off the bus to go into the building. I threw a fit. I cried. I screamed. I threw up. I grabbed on tight to the bus’s stair step railing and locked my legs around its pole. Each day, Daddy peeled me off that safety rail and carried me into my first-grade classroom inside Darwood Elementary. He set me in my cold pink chair, and my teacher put her warm, soft, flabby arm around me as I watched Daddy leave in the bus through the long row of open windows. My first-grade teacher, whose name was pronounced like mine but spelled differently, J-o-a-n Wall, was always gentle, patient, and reassuring.

I envisioned Mama, pregnant for the fourth time, at home with my 4-year-old sister watching The Texan on our first ever television, sharing homemade french fries for lunch. I knew that they played games and had fun all day without me. I missed my mama and my sister more than anyone understood. I lacked the assurance that I needed to combat my shyness and the daily discomfort of being around all of the children in my class. They seemed to know everything and each other. They kept asking me why I didn’t go to kindergarten, and I told them that my mama taught me kindergarten and that she was very smart. In only 2 months of school, I had discovered the haves and the have-nots. No doubt, I was a have-not, but my wisdom, well ahead of my years, would help me persevere my separation anxiety.

I will never forget the day in November 1959, when I finally stopped crying every day. My family talked about it for years after it happened. It was such a reprieve for all of them.

There was a knock on the door of our first-grade classroom. Mrs. Wall answered it. She listened to the messenger, and then proceeded to my desk, handed me her heavy spiraled teacher’s manual, and asked me if I would call our reading group to the circle. She told me to follow along in the teacher’s manual and let each child read a page. She left the room to take a telephone call and my mind-set changed. I got to sit in her chair. I got to be her. My confidence soared as I asked each student to read. I finished our group, the Bluebirds, and sent them back to their seats. I had just completed the Redbirds’ lesson when my new best friend, Mrs. Joan Wall, appeared at my side with tears in her eyes. I gave her the spiraled book as she scooted into her chair. I didn’t say anything but put my arm around her and returned the gentleness, patience, and reassurance that she had modeled for me since my first day of school.

I never knew what Mrs. Wall was crying about, but her genuine love for me was the teacher seed that sprouted in my heart and carried me to subsequent steps. It was a life-changing aha! moment, and the idea of being a teacher took root.

My trusted colleague, tears in her eyes, just listened. I told her that I was getting everything I dished out. What goes around comes around.

Do you think it will be November before Katy settles in and enjoys school? I asked.

She didn’t judge, but she smiled and said, This will help you grow as a teacher; this too shall pass.

The next weeks passed quickly. At Thanksgiving, Katy’s mother, who owned a cake decorating business, baked me Bubble Bread for being so patient with her daughter. My 1-day lap buddy and I had developed a great rapport. All but one of the children in the class had learned to read, and I remained completely and hopelessly smitten with first grade.

Mama scored another of many points I marked in her favor; as I got older she got smarter. She was right about my new husband. He was so proud of me. I had my own personal fan club president who listened to all of my school stories with a smile. When he got his October paycheck from the drugstore, he took me to Oklahoma City to go shopping. We went to buy me something new to wear to school. I didn’t have a coat that was appropriate for Oklahoma’s changing weather, and he knew I needed a warm coat, as the weather got chilly. Outside playground duty could be long, lonely, and freezing.

When I tried on the three-quarter-length coat of green, beige, and rust plaid that my husband suggested, all I could do was admire myself in the mirror. The hood was trimmed in faux fox fur; the front was double-breasted with gold buttons with a belt around the waist. I had not had a coat that I was really proud of since the blue vinyl parka I wore in second, third, and fourth grade. The price tag was high for a J.C. Penney trench coat, but my husband insisted that it was the best one for me. He also talked me into a rust-colored pair of shoes and a rust-colored sweater dress. The dress was the first store-bought dress I had ever had. Mama had made all of my dresses, skirts, pants, nightgowns, underwear, and more until a few short months before.

Somehow, that Oklahoma City shopping trip cancelled another attachment to home and reassured me that I was going to be well cared for. Joe knew that I was driven by ambition. He proved to me that he was going to help me get ahead in my career. Even if outside duties were long and frosty and classroom experiences difficult and unpredictable, I would look pretty and professional as a teacher. His generous doses of chivalry, courtesy, care, and warmth were constant. I fully understood why Mama said not to let him down.

Not letting Joe down was not going to be easy as I discovered on that second Saturday of September. I had gathered all of our dirty clothes together, left our upstairs apartment, and headed to a building in the back of the complex to do our laundry. The man inside had two washers going, and I would have completely ignored him, but in the pocket of his T-shirt was a pack of Tareyton 100’s. That was my brand of cigarettes (Elvis’s favorite too), the ones worth fighting for, and it was the first time I had seen them since my wedding-day last cigarette. I filled three washers, tried to stay calm, and then before I knew it, I asked the gentleman to borrow a cigarette. He gave me a cigarette and offered me a light.

I said, "No, I might