357 Days until the Big 50

Frank McCourt died. I remember when I was reading Angela's Ashes and like I do with all my books, I carried it with me and read it wherever and whenever time allowed. I was on a stationary bike at the health club reading Angela's Ashes when all of a sudden tears started pouring out of my eyes. I could not stop them. I got up hoping no one noticed and ran to the bathroom. I was embarrassed. I was enthralled. I was in love with Mr. McCourt. As years went by I had the chance to see him being interviewed on television and his humor and intelligence always came shining through.

He was a writer. But first, he was a teacher. All the obituaries spoke in depth of his long career as a teacher in New York. His third book, Teacher Man is now on my list to read. I had read Tis, but never bothered to pick up the third in the series of his memoirs. I think about teachers a lot. Not just because I have two school aged children, but because a long time ago I wanted to be one. As a young child, I would line my dolls up on my bed and teach them everything I knew. I am sure I had some of the smartest dolls on the block. As the years went by I realized the reason I wanted to be a teacher was because I had not had any positive experiences with the teachers in my grammar school. It was sad but true. Oh, there may have been one or two exceptions in the entire school but not enough to out number the negative ones.

There is a series of books my kids read in First Grade starting with The Teacher from the Black Lagoon and I believe it proceeded with a wide variety of types of Teachers from the Black Lagoon (math, science, gym). In the end though it was always the child's run away imagination in fearful anticipation at work, and the teacher ended up being sweet and nice. I always told my son that in the real world of my childhood, the teachers were far from sweet and nice. They really could have been from the Black Lagoon.

Frank McCourt had some tough teachers in Ireland, but he ended up being a magical teacher in New York. I did not become a teacher. My mother told me it was a dangerous profession. I guess that is because we were living in Chicago at the time and our city schools were generally miserable. It never dawned on me that I could teach in the safety of the suburbs, but this is another story. A story of how my mother limited's point of view flowed down into the gene pool. (see tomorrow's post).

I am so jealous of any child who had the privilege of being in Mr. McCourt's classroom. I will pray that my children will get a teacher like Mr. McCourt one day.