Teacher

Teacher

by

Lorraine Drougas

I started at age five. Buttons from my mother’s sewing box, my first students.                     In rows according to size, round, eager eyes seeking mine; they recited.                           At recess, in circles, they played games, color and design making each unique.

Our spice cupboard, another classroom.                                                                           Tall children in back: Sage, Saffron, Cayenne.                                                                    Standing on a chair to reach the shelf, I told them stories and read them poetry.            Ever obedient, they were always there when I opened the classroom door.

When I was eight, the children were alive, gathered from neighborhood families.        School was year-round.                                                                                                       Our garage, the summer classroom; in winter, beside the furnace in our basement.   Desks and chairs made from old crates.                                                                                 I taught them of Columbus and Sacagawea,                                                                      how to add and subtract;                                                                                                                   we read Dick and Jane,                                                                                                   made time for recess.                                                                                                          We dismissed school only when the last child was called home to dinner.

More difficult my years in real school;                                                                              paperwork, test scores, hall watches, parents, principals, old math,                                 new math, their math, phonics, no phonics, phonics, sex ed, nuclear ed, no to drugs.                                                                                                                               Thank God for the staple, the children.

I’m retired now. Thought I’d enjoy resting and reading, maybe golf or tennis.             Instead, I find some boys next door who need help with homework.

Sixty years so far, my teaching career.                                                                               Not planned, not agonized-what shall I do with my life?                                                 Buttons, spices, neighborhood, real school, after school.                                                   Where students are, there I will be.

I am a teacher.

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About allinadayofme

I can't believe I'm in old age! I'm more than halfway through my seventies! I'm a child of God, wife to one, mother to five, grandmother to 15 plus two granddaughters-in-law! I'm a sister, aunt, cousin, friend and neighbor. I'm a housewife and former ESL tutor. I love reading and writing. I write and am the editor of a newsletter, Primetime, bi-weekly, for seniors. I love genealogy, traveling, birds and animals, blogging and taking pictures.
This entry was posted in Lorraine, Poem and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to Teacher

  1. Kathy McFadden says:

    How inspiring and what an honorable profession. Our most precious commodity our lovely children. Thanks be to God for your sister a true teacher in every sense!

    Like

  2. Sue Husted says:

    Thanks for sharing this poem, Anita. Lorraine sounds like she had a heart for the children and was a true blue, genuine, teacher. How special to have her poem.

    Like

  3. Thanks bjones for your good comment! 🙂

    Like

  4. Pondering Something says:

    What a lovely poem, Aunt Lorraine is always amazing

    Like

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