For back to school, he takes roll of his K-6 teachers, one by one

My parents would take a photo of me on our doorstep on the first day of school. It was always an exciting day, full of promise. Who would my teacher be? Who would my classmates be?

I wonder what rituals children and their parents will have for the start of a very strange school year that will begin at home and end who knows where. Crucially, though, there will still be teachers and classmates, even virtually.

A journalist friend, Gustavo Arellano, recently paid tribute to his elementary school teachers, recalling whatever he could about each of them. Favorite bit, about his first-grade teacher: “Mrs. Radulavich (sp?). Told us to call her Mrs. R. Once kissed my cheek, which made me blush.” Adorable.

Wrote Arellano: “They’re usually the most-forgotten teachers when adults look back at their K-12 years, because memories of them are so foggy and random.”

I cast my mind back to my own teachers at Silver Street School in Olney, Illinois. I remember them all, at least a little, while forgetting some of the teachers who followed. Must be something about the immersive experience of elementary school. But my memories are foggy and random too.

I asked Gustavo if he’d mind my stealing his idea, the writer’s equivalent of asking to see his answers on a test, and he replied: “You should!”

And so, here are some of the heroes of my childhood: my teachers.

Kindergarten: Mrs. Fletcher. Also children’s librarian at the public library, she had white hair, red lipstick and cat-eye glasses. The most memorable moment all year came on the first day, when Larry Martin got up from the floor and said he didn’t want to be there. She grabbed his arms, sat him down firmly and held him there, like a wrestler, while we watched in awe. What a first day of school.

Nap time on mats, handing scissors to classmates handle-first, that’s most of what I remember. Also, Mrs. Fletcher read us a novel over the course of the spring semester, a few pages a day. Something about a family who was stationed in Africa, built a treehouse and befriended elephants. I later remembered the title as “The Elephant Family,” but I’m sure that’s wrong. In second grade I tried writing my own story under that title, with drawings. It was my first attempt at writing.

First grade: Mrs. Pixley. Younger, gentler. We had desks and learned to print. Palmer Method cards, one for each letter to illustrate how capital and lowercase versions should look, were lined up around the room near the ceiling for reference. Got my first Pink Pearl eraser and as directed wrote “David A” on the back. Pride of ownership.

Second grade: Mrs. Miller. White hair, kindly. We had a challenge of some sort one semester — reading? participation? test scores? — in which our results were reflected on a wall decorated to look like outer space. We each had a paper rocket ship with our name on it, and as we progressed, Mrs. Miller would move our rocket closer to the goal. Hey, it was 1972, the height of the space program. Mrs. Miller’s husband, Mr. Miller, was my dentist. His first name was Kermit, which I still find hilarious.

Third grade: Miss Francis. Young, pretty, nice. I had a crush on her. Sadly, she’s the only teacher whose name I had to look up to write this. During this school year I wrote and drew a mystery novel and for a Christmas present I made a photocopy and gave her the original. I don’t know why I didn’t give her the copy. Miss Francis left at the end of the school year to get married (not to me).

Fourth grade: Mrs. Hubble. Older, matronly, serene. Looked a little like Aunt Bee from Mayberry. During a bubble-blowing activity, was astonished to learn that we did not know “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” a waltz from 1918. Was big on reading, bless her. Weekly Reader magazine was a regular part of our week.

Once I was sick two or three days and when I returned everyone was doing multiplication and division. Spent a frustrating day trying to catch up, felt dumb and cried at my desk. Mrs. Hubble assured me that not everyone had understood multiplying and dividing right away. One boy turned and whispered that everyone had. By the end of the day I got it. Nyaaah!

Fifth grade: Mrs. Gher. Pronounced “gear.”  Young, fun at times, a little stern. You didn’t want to make her mad because her eyes would blaze. She wrote in my report card: “I have enjoyed having David as a student. He is a ‘teacher’s delight.’” Aww. Later she was my home-ec teacher at middle school, where she seemed more relaxed, and my shop class was taught by her husband, Mr. Gher.

Sixth grade, mornings: Mr. Rue. Perhaps to prepare us for middle school, our day was split between two teachers. We felt more adult. Middle-aged, wavy hair, reserved. He was also principal, which made us fear that if we got in trouble we would really be in trouble.

He did me a good turn in kindergarten. I had to use the restroom, raised my hand for a half hour and Mrs. Fletcher never called on me. So I had a little accident. Only then does she tell me it’s OK to simply leave the class to use the restroom. I didn’t know! Mr. Rue was in the restroom, saw I was crying and helped me clean up. The man was unflappable.

Sixth grade, afternoons: Mrs. Czemski. Smoker (but not in class), throaty laugh. Loved books, loved history. We could choose a historical figure to research and then on the anointed day the class would ask us questions. I got a perfect score. The assignment helped spark my interest in research. She and my mom became pals and still are.

And that was Silver Street School: seven years, eight teachers. I don’t know why I remember the scraps that I do and why I’ve forgotten almost everything else. Some of those years are a blur.

But I know I liked school, I liked my teachers and I still appreciate them for setting me off on the right foot in life.

Also, I hope the former Miss Francis is well.

David Allen writes Friday, Sunday and Wednesday, ma’am. Email dallen@scng.com, phone 909-483-9339, visit insidesocal.com/davidallen, like davidallencolumnist on Facebook and follow @davidallen909 on Twitter.