Linda Abel was my junior high English language arts teacher. On the surface, she probably seemed quite different from my dad. She taught English language arts; my dad taught social studies and drivers education. She drove a sporty little gold, two-door car (not sure anymore of the make), while my dad drove a station wagon for years and then a van. She was about five foot tall, single, lived in a quaint little house, and drove to work every day. My dad was over six foot, married with four children, lived in a large house, and walked every day to work.
They had lots of unimportant surface-level differences.
But beyond the above-mentioned characteristics and interests, the two were actually very similar, and not just because they were both card sharks who were happiest with a winning Pepper hand in their hands. Both worked long hours because they were completely dedicated to the job and to the students. They both had total control of the classroom and in the classroom. Even in the face of great provocation from terribly misbehaving or rude students, they both had the enviable ability to stay cool, calm, and collected. They both were fair, but firm. They both had a deep knowledge of their subject area and, while their teaching methods probably varied, they were both able to instill students with a love of the subject.
They were both giving of their time and knowledge and open to their former students for the remainder of their lives. In fact, years after I was a student in her class, Miss Abel graciously and kindly gave me some of her free time to help me with essays I wrote during my first year in college (and I didn’t go to college right after high school, so it was probably 10 years after she was my teacher). She allowed me to bring her drafts I had written for an English literature class, and she sat with me to go over the grammar, formatting, and organization of my thoughts. She didn’t write for me or even edit for me; she was still teaching, forcing me to answer my own questions, make my own decisions, and apply them to my drafts—before I spent hours typing up the final papers on my old manual typewriter. Her help and encouragement not only saved me a fortune in white-out (I wasn’t the greatest typist), but led me to a much greater appreciation of correct grammar and punctuation and a real appreciation of how planning ahead, being organized, and doing some groundwork for an unpleasant (or pleasant) task can save you a lot of pain and rework.
Miss Abel, like my dad, left this kind of lasting impression on decades of students. Miss Abel was the kind of teacher her students called Miss Abel thirty years after they’d been in her classes, just as my dad was forever Mr. Winkie to his former students.
They had lots of unimportant surface-level differences.
But beyond the above-mentioned characteristics and interests, the two were actually very similar, and not just because they were both card sharks who were happiest with a winning Pepper hand in their hands. Both worked long hours because they were completely dedicated to the job and to the students. They both had total control of the classroom and in the classroom. Even in the face of great provocation from terribly misbehaving or rude students, they both had the enviable ability to stay cool, calm, and collected. They both were fair, but firm. They both had a deep knowledge of their subject area and, while their teaching methods probably varied, they were both able to instill students with a love of the subject.
They were both giving of their time and knowledge and open to their former students for the remainder of their lives. In fact, years after I was a student in her class, Miss Abel graciously and kindly gave me some of her free time to help me with essays I wrote during my first year in college (and I didn’t go to college right after high school, so it was probably 10 years after she was my teacher). She allowed me to bring her drafts I had written for an English literature class, and she sat with me to go over the grammar, formatting, and organization of my thoughts. She didn’t write for me or even edit for me; she was still teaching, forcing me to answer my own questions, make my own decisions, and apply them to my drafts—before I spent hours typing up the final papers on my old manual typewriter. Her help and encouragement not only saved me a fortune in white-out (I wasn’t the greatest typist), but led me to a much greater appreciation of correct grammar and punctuation and a real appreciation of how planning ahead, being organized, and doing some groundwork for an unpleasant (or pleasant) task can save you a lot of pain and rework.
Miss Abel, like my dad, left this kind of lasting impression on decades of students. Miss Abel was the kind of teacher her students called Miss Abel thirty years after they’d been in her classes, just as my dad was forever Mr. Winkie to his former students.