Category: Students

The Heart of Civilization

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

challenges_for_first_year_teachers-e1440768693502When I was a child I kept my toys in cardboard boxes from the grocery store. I had one that held my dolls along with “furniture” made from an assortment of smaller containers. Another stored a hodgepodge of items like a jump rope and roller skates. Then there was my school box, a collection of books, paper and pencils that I used to pretend that I was a teacher. I kept it at the ready for any occasion in which I was able to entice my friends or relatives to participate in my favorite make believe game of being an educator. I suppose that I was always destined for working inside a classroom. Being a teacher was more than just a job. It was a vocation, something that I dreamed of doing for as long as I am able to remember.

When I was still a student my teachers were highly respected. The women’s liberation movement was in its infancy and few females worked outside of their homes. When they did, they chose traditional professions. Chief among them was teaching. The best and the brightest from the feminine half of the population were often drawn to education where they shared their knowledge and skills. I studied under the tutelage of women who might have run companies in today’s world. They were brilliant and inspiring. I knew early in life that I wanted to accomplish something significant when I worked and I believed that teaching the next generation was mankind’s most noble and important occupation. I did not choose to be a teacher so that I might pay my college bills or because I was not intelligent enough to master other fields of study. I wanted to be a teacher because I desired to do meaningful work. I had been inspired by brilliant women who had made learning exciting and I thought it would be quite wonderful to follow in their footsteps.

Over the course of my career I witnessed the decline of respect for teachers. As women overcame barriers to succeed in traditionally male occupations education became for many a less and less desirable career path. The old joke that “those who can’t, teach” became a standby for questioning the credibility of those who entered schools of education. We began to revere the women who studied business, engineering, medicine and ridicule those who “settled” for learning how to teach. It became more and more popular for schools to hire cadres of candidates from the ranks of Teach for America where individuals came from ivy league universities with impressive resumes. They donated their exceptional talents to some of our worst schools sometimes even staying beyond the two years required to eliminate much of their college debt. They became the public heroes of education while those who had purposely chosen to major in education were often viewed as inferior.

There came a time when even members of my extended family would consider what might have been had I chosen a more exciting and profitable career. They would note that I would have been an outstanding doctor or an incredible lawyer as though in being a teacher I had somehow missed the opportunity to fully express my talents and my destiny. Strangers who inquired about my life upon first meeting me would suddenly and noticeably lose interest when I revealed that I was a teacher. Often they would launch into an indictment of what they saw as a broken system for educating our youth and wonder that I would actually choose to be part of something so hopelessly inferior.

I had to learn to ignore the naysayers and to bear the wounds from the slings and arrows that are invariably aimed at educators. Still, I so loved what I did as a teacher that I could think of nothing more wonderful than meeting a new group of students each August and enhancing their knowledge of mathematics during the course of the following ten months. I understood what really happened inside classrooms. I retained the magic and the joy even in the most challenging situations. I watched the transformation of my pupils and felt the power of learning motivate them to follow their own dreams. There was no amount of money or prestige that would have given me as much satisfaction as I felt watching my charges grow and become more confident because of my efforts.

I feel a sense of pride in watching my former students become accomplished adults. They are part of a new generation that will carry out the work that drives the world forward. I know in my heart that my time with them played a part in their evolution. Seeing them succeed is the grandest form of payback for my efforts.

Whenever I learn that one of my “kids” has chosen to become a teacher or play a supporting role in education I am especially elated. Over the years I have seen many of my most outstanding students opt to become exceptional educators. I celebrate not just for them but for the world because I know just how truly amazing they are. It is as though I have been able to pass the torch of learning that has always burned so brightly in my heart. I know firsthand the joys and the accomplishments that lie ahead for them. I realize how difficult their pathways will be and how the rewards that they receive will most often be intangible. If they truly love their jobs the way I always have they will not require approval to realize the magnitude of the impact that they will have on all of society.

This year I know of several young people who will stand at the front of classrooms for the very first time. Instead of gazing up at me for guidance they will have youngsters looking to them for knowledge. It has become their time to lead. I have little doubt that each of them will be a resounding success. I know them to be of exceptional mind and spirit and they will ultimately become rock stars in their professions.

If I were to give them one bit of advice it would be to hold their heads high no matter what kind of chatter they may hear. Teachers are the foundation of all that mankind accomplishes. We show our children how to read and to think. We help them to reach out to the universe. Without teachers there would be no doctors or lawyers or engineers. Giants stand on our shoulders and we are happy to help them to reach the heights. The naysayers may criticize us and even attempt to demean us but we know better. Our profession forms the bedrock upon which all of society depends. Education is the heart of civilization. “Those who can” are the chosen ones who teach. 

One Size Rarely Fits All

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

teacher_block_scheduleMorning time is still quiet in my neighborhood. The big yellow school bus that stops just outside of my living room window won’t be picking up children until next week. Nonetheless today virtually every school teacher in the state and a significant number of students are officially back on duty for the new school year. Thus begins the annual effort to educate our youth accompanied by the criticisms of our educational system that are certain to come from parents and pundits, professors and proletariat. Everyone has an opinion when it comes to how best to teach our children and for as long as I have been associated with that profession most of the critiques have leaned toward the negative. In spite of all of our discussions it sometimes seems as though we never quite escape from the sense that somehow we have failed our teachers and our kids.

Bashing our schools and the hard working individuals who man the classrooms inside them is a perennially favorite topic of office seekers who lay claim to having the magical answers that will instantly solve all of the problems that plague our educational system. Of course the truth is that they and many of those who vote for them oversimplify both the perceived difficulties as well as the solutions. Only those who have spent enough time inside a classroom doing the heavy lifting have a true concept of what happens from day to day and few of them are ever consulted for ideas.

It has been suggested by those who analyze such things that it is only after at least five years of experience that a teacher is truly battle tested. While there are naturals and rock stars within the teaching profession just as in sporting events, their true greatness usually doesn’t exhibit itself until they have garnered a thousand days of dealing with a variety of students. The laws of probability make it likely that the more tested educators will have encountered both rewarding and challenging situations. These experiences will either have enhanced their abilities or encouraged them to choose a different profession. Teaching is so difficult from day to day that few who lack the necessary determination and skills are willing to stay for more than two or three years. Sadly there is a tendency in today’s world to promote sorely unprepared individuals to leadership positions based only on a couple of good years in the trenches along with credentials from top rated universities. In far too many schools the leaders know far less than their battle tested underlings. Their experiments often lead to both a loss of talented teachers and dire consequences for students.

I have walked thousands of miles in a teacher’s shoes. I’ve worn out my feet and my bladder moving around classrooms and monitoring hallways. I’ve been observed by my superiors just as I have observed other educators. I’ve had good days and bad and seen excellence and failure. I suspect that I know a bit about how best to teach our young but not really enough to tout myself as an expert. Still I have a few ideas that seem to point in the right direction for improvement of our systems. 

Several years ago I worked at South Houston Intermediate. There were times when I had so many students that I struggled to fit the desks inside my classroom. I had already learned that the problems that crop up are increased exponentially with the addition of each student after around twenty five. My finest teaching moments always came when I had a group of around twenty to twenty two kids. I had enough time and energy to provide them with a more individualized experience.

Many students need extra attention in order to learn. Pacing of a lesson to include one on one interventions is crucial, particularly in subjects like mathematics. If a teacher has thirty students for fifty five minutes it is often impossible to provide the necessary time to those who are struggling to understand a concept. Removing only five students from the equation is likely to make the situation more doable. It is a fact that smaller class sizes improve the odds that more individualized instruction will happen and less time will be spent putting out classroom management fires.

A few years back the powers that be decided to make South Houston Intermediate a seventh and eight grade campus and to move the sixth graders to a different building. The difference in the general atmosphere is astounding. Movement in the hallways is more fluid with fewer altercations and misunderstandings occurring without the crowding that existed when I worked there. Students are more likely to be on time for the beginning of each period. There are fewer of them in each area of the building. Class sizes are smaller. The change has created a much happier place for everyone but most importantly it has given each and every student and teacher more opportunity to interact. It is less likely that someone will fall through the cracks than when we were crammed inside the school like sardines.

There are now curriculum specialists on campus to assist teachers in every subject area as well. They are individuals with many years of experience who know the challenges that teachers face. Their goal is to alleviate many of the time devouring activities that distract educators from the heart of their work. When those who teach become paper pushers their students suffer. The facilitators at South Houston work alongside the classroom instructors to ensure that students are getting the best of their teachers’ energy and talent. The educators feel less isolated and alone in dealing with the many challenges that they encounter from day to day. The specialists are available to mentor, guide and help rather than create more work for often beleaguered teachers. The system creates a more dynamic and student centered school.

Reducing the size of schools and providing teachers with dedicated and expert facilitators are simple ideas that help to place the focus on what is most important, the individual student. There really is no one size fits all in instruction. The best teachers are adept at quickly shifting gears as the situation demands. They know the strengths and weaknesses of every child who depends on them. Watching them from one moment to another reveals that they are fluid and expert in creating unique lessons that enhance the experience of everyone. When given the right tools, support and optimal numbers of students the results are often magical. Education is seen at its best. Sadly such supports exist in very few schools.

Those who make decisions regarding our schools spend millions and millions of dollars each year and often miss the mark. They waste precious resources on trends that make promises that are unlikely to be fulfilled. They purchase tools that will quickly be broken and outdated without providing the desired results. They train and retrain teachers in methods that supposedly work for all but which fall far short of classroom realities. Perhaps if they were instead to give teachers the gifts of time and space they might find that everyone is more productive and able to reach desired goals.  

Home

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Adoption-Home-StudyI’ve spent most of the summer away from home. I was a nanny-godmother to my godson and his brother in Boston, provided my granddaughter with a place to crash during her film camp in Austin, took a five thousand mile round trip to San Diego and back, and served as a dog sitter in San Antonio. From May until today I have only slept in my own bed for a little under three of the last nine weeks. My travels have been great fun but I almost feel like a stranger in my own house. It is amazing how many changes have occurred in the neighborhood in my absence. I have grown unaccustomed to the lights and the sounds that must surely have been there all along but which now feel so different. It seems that I will have to reacquaint myself with my surroundings before I wander off again in September. 

My father and his father were filled with wanderlust. They both moved around so much that it was often difficult to keep track of where they were. My grandfather boasted that he had lived and worked in all but a few of the contiguous states. I suspect that this explains why he doesn’t show up in a single census until he is almost fifty years old. My father had taken us on a cross country adventure just before he died. We were slated to settle down for a time but the evidence indicated that our sojourn would in all likelihood have been brief. In the eleven years that he and my mother were married they had lived in nine different houses and had traveled to dozens and dozens of states. They were on the verge of choosing home number ten when he died. Life with my daddy was definitely a moveable feast.

My mother was more settled. Her father built a home and stayed there for the totality of his adult life in this country. She selected a modest place for us after she became a widow and stayed there until we were all grown. She only moved once more when the neighborhood became a venue for rampant crime. After numerous robberies at her home she agreed that it was time to find a safer location in which to reside. She stayed in the next house long enough to pay for it in full just as her father had done with his homestead.

I am a mixture of my mom and dad. Part of me hears the siren call of adventure and the other worries that moving around too much leads to a dangerous instability, even if it is only the temporary movement of a trip. I cling to security but desire excitement. I have the urge to toss caution to the wind and follow the open road but then a sense of responsibility always pulls me back. Mostly though I think of how fortunate I am to have a home base and the means to travel when the urge overtakes me. In my journeys I have seen firsthand so many individuals without a home or a means of conveyance. They are modern day hunter gatherers moving along the streets and highways attempting to find scraps of existence from day to day and place to place. I have taught the children of such people whose situations were so dire that my heart nearly bursts even as I think of them today.

During the early years of teaching I encountered children in disturbing circumstances. One beautiful little girl lived with her family in a car. Her bed at night was the trunk. She was a pleasant child who smiled almost beatifically when expressing her gratitude that she was able to attend school each day and that she was not forced to sleep on the ground. She marveled at her parents’ ingenuity in caring for the family and boasted of the generosity of the owners of a funeral home who allowed them to park behind the business. She brought me lovely bouquets of flowers every single day from the dumpster refuse that she carefully culled. She enjoyed the free breakfast and lunch provided by the school but was still so reed thin that I suspected that her dinners were quite lacking. I often wonder what ultimately became of her. I hope that she is doing well and that she finally has a home to call her own.

Later I taught a little boy who was a handful. His behavior was akin to a wild child who had been raised by wolves. I struggled to keep his attention and wondered what made him so difficult. He eventually revealed that he and his mother were living in the garage of friends. They each had a twin mattress set on the concrete floor in between the lawn mowers and hardware that usually resides in such a place. They used a tiny propane stove to prepare meals and their hosts were kind enough to allow them to enter their home to bathe and relieve themselves. Unlike the optimistic child who had so inspired me with her homeless tale, this young man was angry at the world. At the age of nine he was already cynical and filled with hate. He wanted to find his father and beat him to a pulp for leaving them. He was embarrassed by his mother who seemed incapable of finding a job and earning the money needed to get a real place. He brought his rage into the classroom and once I realized what was fueling it I began to feel his pain. Eventually he and I achieved a separate peace as we spoke of the losses that we had both experienced. We somehow understood and respected one another. I convinced him that education would provide him with a way out of his horror. I hope that he made it and knows how much I cared.

We tend to take our homes for granted whether they be mansions in River Oaks or double wide trailers on Griggs Road, owned or rented. We have roofs over our heads at night and places to cook our food. We don’t often think about the people living under freeway overpasses or crouching behind dumpsters. We barely notice them during the day and they become almost invisible at night. Many of them are alcoholics, drug addicts or mentally ill. Some of them are simply experiencing temporary periods of bad luck.

Here in my hometown of Houston thousands of people have lost their jobs in the oil industry. Many have been searching for work for over a year. Those who have support systems to go along with their unemployment checks have hung on but their feelings of desperation intensify with each passing week. Those who have alternate skills have found part time jobs to make ends meet but just barely. Some have hit a wall and have nowhere to turn. They are one bad experience from being evicted with no place to go and no one on whom to rely. They are terrified of the future. This is how homelessness sometimes begins.

After my father died my mother reminded us every single day of how fortunate we were to have a decent and secure place to live. When the rain pounded on our roof she smiled knowing that we would be dry. Our house was small and often riddled with problems that needed repair. It was hot in the summer because there was no air conditioning but it was ours and there was little chance that we would somehow lose it.

Today I live in a comfortable suburban neighborhood in a house filled with memories of friendship and love. It is where I return again and again. It has been a source of comfort in difficult times and a retreat from the stresses of work. I don’t often appreciate it as much as I should. I sometimes forget that it is one of the great blessings of my good fortune. I must remember to be thankful when the winds are blowing and I am safe and warm. Because of the grace of God I am home.

Just Breathe

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

764562-Kid-1411175258-363-640x480My fourth grade school year was traumatic in more ways than one. My father had died the summer before and our family was in a state of grief and uncertainty. We had returned to a familiar neighborhood after Daddy was killed in the hope that being back among good friends would help us to heal. Our home was a shell of the one that we had inhabited with my father. Without his engineering income we had to downsize considerably but ours was a sound house and the neighbors were warm and welcoming. I reenrolled in Mt. Carmel Elementary School and was looking forward to being united with the classmates that I had known before we moved in my third grade year. It was comforting to be back in a place that had heretofore been quite happy for me. When I learned on the first day of school that I was in Sister B’s class I had little idea that my emotional rollercoaster would become even more torturous.

Sister B was one of those old school Catholic nuns about whom legends and comedy routines abound. She thought of verbal and physical punishments as ways to build lasting character in young boys and girls. Those of us subjected to her classroom management style thought differently. It took no more than a few weeks in her presence for me to become utterly terrified, so much so that I was afraid to even speak of my fears to my mother. That environment was totally the wrong place to be for someone already scarred by the death of a parent. It was so hellish in my mind that I somehow began to believe that I had unconsciously and unknowingly done something terrible for which I was being punished. Why else would I have to endure a year with this tyrant, I wondered? I adapted each day by telling myself to just breathe.

I was actually one of the students that Sister B most cherished. For a very long time I was not the object of her wrath. She loved me so much that she became good friends with my mother. She often gave me letters of encouragement and special religious gifts. I should have returned her affection but I have always been a social justice warrior and I witnessed her unkindnesses to my fellow students more often than not. I don’t know if she just didn’t realize the impact of her humiliations but I did. With no place to turn, I seethed inside each time one of my classmates was harmed. I found solace in escaping to a place in my mind where all I had to do was just breathe.

Sister B once created a bulletin board that featured rockets advancing to the moon. On the side of each rocket she had written the name of a student and the grade that the individual had made on a test. Mine was proudly standing on the lunar surface with a one hundred indicating my success. Down at the very bottom were the spacecraft of less fortunate souls whose names were on display as failures with their rockets lying broken in half. Even as a nine year old I knew that it was utterly wrong to bring such negative attention to those who had not done so well with their academics. I felt embarrassed that I had to sit near the bulletin board filled with so much venom and hurtfulness.

I listened to the verbal taunts of my teacher until even I felt broken. I lived in fear that I might one day invoke her ire and become the focus of her anger. I hardly slept at night and thought myself terrible for thinking badly of a religious person. I was torn between hating her and wanting to forgive her. Since there were no counselors back in those days I suffered in silence often reminding myself to just breathe whenever the atmosphere became unbearable. Eventually things turned dark even for me, one of her pets.

We were in the middle of music class one afternoon when my bladder told me that it needed to be emptied quickly. I hated to interrupt Sister when she was so engrossed in a lesson but I felt that I had no choice. I raised my hand and calmly asked to be excused but my request was instantly denied. I crossed my legs and hoped for the best but as the minutes ticked by the pain that I felt became almost unbearable. I repeated my request several more times, being refused over and over again even as I began to wiggle in my seat to keep from having an accident. I was on the verge of tears and getting dirtier and dirtier looks from the teacher as I realized that I was not going to be able to hold back for much longer. I made one final attempt to be released to take care of the problem only to receive the same negative response. I was doomed and I felt my bladder slowly but surely ease the pressure as a puddle formed on the seat of my desk. At that moment I was in agony. I wanted to disappear so that I would not have to endure the fate that I knew was coming. I sat rigid hoping against all reasonable hope that nobody would notice what I had done. Of course that was not the way things were going to work.

Soon enough Sister was standing over me demanding to know what had happened. She ordered me into the hallway where she berated me for being absurd enough to wet my pants rather than race out of the room to the bathroom like any rational person would have done. I had no answers for her. I had learned long ago that she never accepted the excuses that any of us gave for our unwanted behaviors. I just stood silently wishing that I might run away and never have to face her or my classmates ever again and urging myself to just breathe lest I let my own tirade escape from my lips. She sent me to the office where I waited for my mother to come with clean clothing and a ride home. I was never able to fully explain to my mom why the incident had occurred. Sister B had already muddied the waters with her own defense and since my mother only knew her as a saintly woman I made no effort to disagree.

When I returned to school the following day my classmates pretended not to have noticed what had happened. I suppose that they all felt as I did that we had to weather the storm of our teacher’s angry behaviors together. Somehow we were bound by the realization that the way she was treating us was very wrong but there was little that we might do other than accept our fate and just breathe. I suspect that I first learned how to be a good teacher in that classroom. I remembered what not to do to students from those days. For that I am thankful to Sister B but I would have preferred not ever knowing her at all.

For a very long time I felt terribly guilty for disliking my teacher, especially since she was a nun, that is until I learned that my brother also found her behavior to be abusive and untenable. When he confessed to me it was like having a heavy weight lifted from my mind. I no longer had to just breathe when I thought of that terrible woman.

My mother corresponded with Sister B until she died, convinced that my old teacher had been a master educator and a saint. It was not until I was almost fifty years old that I shocked my mom with revelations that she found to be painful and difficult to believe. I kept my negative comments mostly to myself. I didn’t want to destroy the icon that my mother thought Sister had been.

I suppose that I developed lovely cursive handwriting under Sister B’s watchful and critical eye. I even mastered the lessons of the fourth grade curriculum with her guidance. More importantly, however, I understood the need to treat children with dignity and respect. I didn’t suffer permanent damage from that school year but I don’t believe that any of us needed to endure the shabby treatment that was inflicted on us. We were resilient but it seems that we never forgot what we had seen. Now I can laugh a bit at the memories of those days but I suppose that I always knew that what we endured was wrong. Thank God I survived by being able to just breathe. 

It’s About Time

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Glenda Jones13516264_10209578242793605_5124992074342233422_nBack in the eighties my eldest daughter, Maryellen, was a member of the Janette Dance team at South Houston High School. She had taken ballet and tap lessons from the time that she was five years old, first at a church in Pasadena and later from Patty Owens near our home in southeast Houston. Our family budget often tended to be stressed beyond our means but we somehow managed to find the funds for the classes that she loved so very much. Over time it became apparent that she had a natural talent for dance, most likely inherited from my mother who had her own reputation for being light on her feet and as graceful as a swan. When Maryellen earned a coveted spot on her school’s dance team it seemed to be a reward for all of her hard work and determination. Our family time began to revolve around practices, performances at football games, cotillions, competitions, camps and shows.

I was a fairly young mom, only in my late thirties, when I joined forces with other mothers in providing costumes, decorations, food and other kinds of support for our beautiful young girls. We were all caught up in the joys of our children’s teenage years. We ladies often met to build sets or design programs. We became expert seamstresses who made intricate pieces of clothing. I still recall almost tearing my hair out while sewing the game day suit that Maryellen had to wear on Fridays during football season. It was a complex project but well worth the effort in the end. I recall volunteering to work long hours in those days and at those times I got to know the other moms who were as lovingly devoted to their children as I was to mine. There were dance competitions that demanded whole days of our time and summer camps that required long drives and funds that we might have used otherwise. We sometimes joined in the fun by performing in hilarious dance routines that made us the laughing stock of the audience but also demonstrated just what good sports we were. Those were some of the best times of my entire life and the memories of those days remain precious even today.

Maryellen advanced through the ranks of the team to become one of the military officers, a Lieutenant. She worked hard to meet all of the requirements of the honor, including choreographing original dances and designing costumes and props. Because she so loved the experience, so did I. Those were the wonder years in which her confidence and abilities grew under the watchful eye of her always committed instructor, Glenda Jones Bludworth, a loving woman who taught her dancers how to present themselves with grace in any situation. She was more than just a teacher. She became a friend, mentor and counselor to each of her students. Because we parents witnessed her devotion to our children, we loved her as much as our girls did.

As is usually the case with good times, they flew by all too quickly. Soon Maryellen was attending the University of Texas and focusing on more serious academic goals. She had little time for dancing as she studied constantly to earn the grades that would allow her to be accepted into the McCombs School of Business. The days of visiting Southern Imports in search of fabrics, feathers and sequins were gone. The worn section of carpet in our den where Maryellen had practiced all of her dance routines was the only reminder of those lovely days. I lost track of the women with whom I had spent so many hours. Time raced by and I too turned my attention to new challenges and adventures, forgetting for a moment the joys of being a dance mom.

It has been almost thirty years since Maryellen donned her leotards and dancing shoes. In the interim she earned degrees in Finance and Accounting, worked, married and became mom to four boys who find the stories of her days on the stage to be strangely confusing. Now she is the one who spends almost every free moment supporting her sons’ hobbies and talents. She is the one who now juggles the family budget to find all of the funding for equipment, camps, classes, trips and college so that her boys will be able to enjoy their youth as much as she did hers. Like I once did, she has a circle of friends whose commonality is based on swimming, scouts, theater and school activities. She keeps books for the teams and creates end of season slideshows. Her world is hectic but wonderful. She rarely thinks back to those days when she was an extraordinary dancer who riveted the attention of her many admirers. The memories seem to be both long ago and just like yesterday.

A group of Janette Dancers recently decided to host a kind of reunion of the classes who had been members of the team under the direction of their beloved Glenda Jones Bludworth. The “girls” are now in their forties and some are even knocking on the door of the fifties. Like Maryellen they have children in college, high school and middle school. They have enjoyed marriages and careers and evolved to a time in their lives when they more closely resemble their mothers and me were back in the day. They are beautiful women who learned their teacher’s lessons well and carry themselves with the poise and self respect that she instilled in them.

Happily they did not fail to remember their mothers in planning this event. We were invited to celebrate the life of Glenda Jones Bludworth along with them. I enjoyed sitting at a table with ladies who had been my constant companions so many years before. We bragged on the successes of our daughters and exchanged photos of our grandchildren. We recalled our own sacrifices of money and time and how we would not have changed a thing. We laughed at some of the silly things that we did and grew saddened as we remembered ladies who had been part of our mother brigade who are no longer alive. Mostly we each had remarkable stories of the wonderful influence that Glenda had on our children. We all agreed that she was one of those once in a lifetime educators who goes well beyond the requirements of her job. She reached into the very hearts and souls of her girls and helped them to find the strengths and talents that defined them as unique and outstanding individuals.

It was grand to once again be reminded of a time in life that was so happy for all of us. I found myself amazed that our time together had been so long ago and yet seemed so near and dear. I was particularly happy that all of the delightful young women whom I had watched grow in wisdom and age and grace had remembered and appreciated their amazing teacher. She had so truly earned the attention and praise that they heaped on her. All too often we become so busy with the demands of daily existence that we forget to show our gratitude to the people who did so much to make us who we are. We let the clock tick and tick until it is too late and our hearts are filled with regret that we never took the opportunity to voice the thanks that we always meant to convey. Somehow Glenda’s Girls understood that they needed to stop the passage of time for a few hours so that they might demonstrate how truly important their moment with her had been. It’s about time!