Hemingford, Alliance Public, and Immanuel Lutheran Schools began a new year of school last week.
The Saint Aggies return to the classroom today.
Anyone who knows me has heard me express my disappointment in how short the summer is getting for our kids by forcing them back to the classroom before Labor Day.
It seems as if it gets even shorter for the teachers.
It’s the world’s worst kept secret that teachers – especially the good ones – are members of the most underpaid profession in the United States.
World’s worst kept secret number two: They ain’t in it for the money.
Both of my daughters are grade-school teachers.
My wife is a former middle school and high school band and vocal music instructor as well as a country school vocal music teacher.
She left education in 1994 and joined the health care industry for over twenty years.
Now she is back working with little ones as the children’s librarian for the city of Alliance.
She’s come full circle.
However, her current job offers more sanity insurance than what was imparted 30 years ago.
When I attended my brother’s high school graduation ceremony in 1979, the class valedictorian offered these encouraging words to teachers.
“You may not see the results of your efforts today or next year. It may take ten, twenty, or even thirty years before your influence on your students sprout roots.”
I graduated high school 45 years ago.
I hope the influence of my teachers has not only sprouted roots but have helped me grow into a tree that offers comforting shade and a little purer oxygen for my fellow man, woman, and child.
Allow me to share the names of a few educators who helped me along the way.
Mrs. Hoffman. Kindergarten at Malcolm Public.
My dad moved our family from Lincoln to an acreage near Malcolm in January 1965. Classes were held in the basement of the Malcolm Methodist Church.
No running water or bathrooms. We had to use the outhouse a few feet from the church’s back door.
I cried a lot as I missed my Lincoln school and classmates.
I also missed running water.
For two days, Mrs. Hoffman held me while I cried and tried to comfort me.
By day three, she had had enough.
“Get over it,” she scolded. “You are not going back to Lincoln and that’s that.”
I got over it. I had no choice. This lady – the wife of a Missouri Synod Pastor – taught me at a very young age to get tough when you must toughen up.
Mrs. Fern Westfall. First and second grades at Malcolm Public.
I was a well-behaved boy in first grade.
Not so much in second grade.
On March 1, 1967, she had grown tired of my antics.
Mrs. Westfall told the entire second-grade class that she could no longer trust me.
Her words were a dagger that sliced my heart.
On March 2, 1967, I chose to straighten up and fly right.
Mrs. Jennie Tucker. Third grade at Valparaiso Elementary.
My third school in five years and my seventh teacher during that period.
Most of my fellow third graders know how to write in cursive. I just knew how to curse.
And print my name, address, telephone number, and Batman. Oh, the Joker, too.
In April 1968, Mrs. Tucker sent a note to my parents informing them that if I did not learn to write in cursive by the end of the school term, I would be taking the third grade over.
No son of Clair Horn was going to take the third grade over. So, my father made sure I learned how to write in cursive as he demanded I practice every night for 30 minutes.
My May 24, 1968 report card stated: “Advanced to the fourth grade.”
There are several more who have helped me along the way.
I’ll share their experiences in dealing with me next week.