Teacher, teacher

On the final day of third grade, Mrs. Fox lined up all the kids and, as we walked out of the classroom, she said something to each of us. To me she said, “You are ready for this,” and handed me a copy of My Friend Flicka. It was a dauntingly big book, more than 300 pages. I read it that summer, my first real chapter book, my first deep-dive into a world created by a writer, my first submersion into literature. It was the first book that made me cry. It was the book that made me want to be a writer.

And I owe that to Mrs. Fox, my teacher, a woman who recognized the reader in me, the reader who grew to love words so much that she wanted to spend her life working with them. I wish I could tell you something about Mrs. Fox. I don’t even know her first name. She must have been married as she was a “Mrs.” Did she have children of her own? Was she a reader? How long had she been teaching? When you’re 9 years old, you don’t think of adults as having any other life than the one they live in front of you. I remember wondering whether teachers ever went to the bathroom.

Now I wish I knew more about her. But mostly I wish I could reach out across the decades to thank her. I wish she knew that that book, a story about wildness and devotion and the bond between humans and animals, a story about wounds and patience and resilience and healing—a perfect book—I wish she knew about the impact that book had on my life. The impact she had on my life.

I am writing this on National Teacher Appreciation Day. I am writing this to spur your memories of teachers who came into your life at just the right moment, who asked that question that set you on a path, who said that one thing that made a difference, who you gave you the book that changed your life.