A few days ago I had a phone conversation with a nephew on mywife’s side of the family. He is about thirteen years younger than me. He’s a teacher in his last year.
Some of our conversation had to do with the change in kids, which really means the change in parents. He expressed how much the state-mandated in the classroom having little to do with actual education. That’s a rabbit hole I intend on not going down.
We began talking about the teachers who influenced us the most. To our surprise, it was the same teacher, but different schools.
The journey of my nephew and I was much the same; marginal students at best. Suddenly when we got to his classroom the lightbulb went off—we excelled.
My sixth-grade teacher and my nephew was Tom Bales. He died a couple years back.
I could likely write a few thousand words on the man. He taught me his first year of teaching. And I saw him only one time after our last day of school in 1960.
He showed up at my uncle's funeral. We looked at each other from across the room. It had been at least 30 years since we last saw each other. We knew each other immediately.
We talked about the class I was in. He remembered everybody. Not only that, but he remembered our struggles. I could tell that the plight of some students still affected him.
Do they make them like that anymore?
Just something and someone I thought about.
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