The Road Less Traveled

How many of you remember those teachers, or professors, that you would consider to be legendary? The ones who are on your mind for years after you have been in their class. They may not remember you, but you sure remember them. Good and bad, here is my list.

Mrs. Wade — My first grade teacher. I think this woman was my first love. I was a year younger than my classmates, but she never treated me any differently. She had hair the color of autumn leaves, perfect for the beginning of the school year, and was just plump enough to be cute and cuddly. She always greeted us with a smile and a hug, two things I wasn’t so used to seeing on a daily basis. And she always spoke with excitement and enthusiasm, no matter what we were studying.

Mrs. Stone — My second grade teacher. Talk about a wake-up call. She was by far the meanest woman I had ever met, at least at that point. I’m not sure how old she was, but to a six-year-old, gray hair = pretty darn old. She barely smiled, often spoke with a hateful, bitter tone, and just flat out did not like hyper little boys. I can’t hardly remember one single lesson she taught us, but I do remember being told to “Sit down” and “shut up” a few times. I had a weak stomach in second grade and I remember she was reading us a story. I suddenly felt as if I were going to vomit. I begged and pleaded to go to the restroom, or even the trash can, without luck. So, after a few minutes of no longer being able to wait, I walked to the front of the room, turned to Mrs. Stone, and vomited on her shoes. Believe it or not, she didn’t even flinch. She stared at her feet, stared at me, mumbled a bitter-sounding, “Well…” and pointed to the door. I sat in the back of the room near the bathroom for the rest of the year.

Mr. Copley — My fourth grade teacher and the first teacher who became a close friend as I grew up. He was funny, taught class in an interactive and engaging way, and I could really tell he cared about us. He was a portly gentleman with a full beard and an infectious smile. Once, while working on an assignment, I could not settle down. He called me to his desk, wrapped his arms around me tightly, and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing? I’m squeezing the meanness out of you. Is it working?” I smiled and mumbled, “Nope.” We laughed together and when I returned to my seat, I was settled (at least until the next day). Mr. Copley was also the first teacher to inspire me to write. A few years ago, Mr. Copley died in a motorcycle accident. I found out about it well after it happened, so I did not get to say goodbye. Thank you, Mr. Copley, for being the first teacher I could also call “friend”.

Mrs. Priddy — My elementary school phys ed teacher. Though I’ve never been athletic, I have always been fond of exercise if it were fun and active. Mrs. Priddy was the most dynamic phys ed teacher I have ever had, back when phys ed was fun and it was okay to jump around and do your own thing, to make physical activity like a game rather than a sport. In middle school, all we did was play a lot of basketball and do some warm-ups before. In Mrs. Priddy’s class, we jumped through hoops, tossed giant balls back and forth, pretended to me riding horses, spun around in circles, flapped our arms like giant birds, all for the sake of physical activity. I see her often today and I am sure she is proud of me and my unique physical abilities. Thank you, Mrs. Priddy.

Mrs. Racer — My ninth grade English teacher. After two years of misery in junior high, I finally found a teacher I could really enjoy. She incited my love for literature and writing and made me into a devoted fan of Stephen King. She was one of the boldest, most out-of-the-box teachers I have ever known and became one of my good friends after I graduated. I remember she would close her door and read forbidden Stephen King stories to us because they were good literature. She was even brave enough to read most of The Stand to us. I was a depressing mess in ninth grade, often wishing my life could end soon and quickly, and she filled me with confidence every day by giving me a safe place where I knew I could express myself without fear of judgment or humiliation. I came to her room often, crying about whatever was bothering me that day, and she would encourage me to hold strong, chin up. And, of course, my struggles were encouraged to be the topic of my writing. She is my greatest inspiration as a teacher and I strive to be as inspiring to my students as she was to me.

Mr. Miller — My high school Biology teacher. Mr. Miller was a hard-edged, strict science teacher who taught with a slight, old-fashioned, southern African-American accent, in which he said words like “particularily”. He ate grapes on a daily basis because he believed the made you smarter, and took science and learning very seriously. he had a reputation for being the strictest and most difficult teacher in the school. The most exciting aspect of his class, though, was that students had to do 4 dissections. I loved science (still do) and was looking forward to the chance to cut open some animals. Our first dissection was a crayfish. At the beginning of class, trays were on every desk with a crayfish already lying on top, with various dissecting tools next to the tray. Mr. Miller handed out a sheet with squares, and each square was labeled. Our goal was to remove the parts, place them on the correct square, and he would come around with a clipboard and give us a grade. All grades would be posted on the wall with student ID #s the next day. “Be sure to put youh name on youh papuhs,” he said, as we enthusiastically began to cut open the crayfish. I had studied the crayfish’s anatomy extensively and I was ready for this. As I worked, Mr. Miller wandered from desk to desk, mumbling things like, “Good, good,” as he nodded, or he shook his head, frowned, and mumbled, “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” I knew I was going to get a nod and a “good, good.” As he finally reached my desk, he glanced at it briefly, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Huh.” Huh? The next day, grades were posted: 0 out of 200. How? What did I do wrong. I respectfully approached Mr. Miller at the end of class. “Did I get every one wrong or something?” He grinned. “Nope, you actually got them all right. But ye didn’t put youh name on youh papuh.” I was crushed, but I learned a valuable lesson. I passed his class with a “B”, the highest in my class.

Dr. Stuart McGehee — The greatest college history professor I have ever known. Dr. McGehee is one of the most loved and talked about professors at West Virginia State University. With an encyclopedic knowledge of history and a wit unmatched by any other history professor, McGehee’s class is guaranteed to get students back into history again. His primary form of teaching is lecture, but his contagious enthusiasm and excellent speaking skills make it easy to forget you have sat through an hour lecture on the Louisiana Purchase. But don’t let his teaching fool you. McGehee is also a very serious scholar who expects the same from his students. Tardiness is inexcusable. Attendance is mandatory. And his tests? Mostly short answer and essay questions. But my love for history was rekindled during Dr. McGehee’s class.

Dr. Juris Lidaka — By far the funniest and most intelligent professor I have ever had, Dr. Lidaka is a true scholar, with thick-lens glasses and a shiny bald head. He spends his weekends in a library, translating ancient languages and studying various topics related to English history and linguistics. I had never even heard the word “linguist” before I met Dr. Lidaka. I took three classes from Dr. Lidaka and they all began the same. He warned us about his exams, stating that no one would receive an “A” and most of us would not even pass. Then, he proceeded to point out his vision problem, a lazy eye that could be distracting if you were not careful. “Sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking at you, but I’m actually looking over there. And sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking over there, but I am in fact looking at you.” He had the most atrocious hand writing I have seen from any professor, and he addressed this, as well. “If you ask me to translate my handwriting, I will begin to speak to you in an obscure foreign language of my choice, because while my handwriting is messy, it is written in English.” This is also the same professor who, during a discussion about the Venerable Beade, warned us not to refer to him as “Venereal Disease”. While Lidaka’s tests were really difficult and required time in the library, his classes really motivated us to be scholars ourselves.

So that’s it. I’m sorry it’s such a long list. I actually have about three more professors I could write about. There’s just something quirky and eccentric about a the best college professors that makes them so legendary. Thanks for bearing with me.

Want to tap into some forgotten part of yourself? I’ve perfected this more than I should be proud of. I have even managed to break myself down into tears trying this out. Heed this warning, though: Trying any of the following might just put you on an emotional roller-coaster that is undeniably out of your control.

1. Listen to a song from your past: This is more successful if you choose a song from a very significant time in your life and if you haven’t heard the song for a long time. The other day, I heard “Freshman” by the Verve Pipe and I was transported to trying to scrunch into the back seat of a Chevy Cavalier with three friends on our way to the mall. Most of those faces are strangers to me now but hearing this song brought all of them flowing back. “For the life of me, I cannot remember what made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise…We’ve tried to wash our hands of all of this. We never talk of our lack in relationships and how we’re guilt stricken sobbin’ with our heads on the floor. We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip…” Man, that was some good stuff.

2. Watch a movie: This is also more effective if you haven’t seen the film for a while and if you once watched it with someone close to you. I rummaged through my VHS tapes and found my copies of Casino and Goodfellas. Once again, memories of propping my feet up on the arm of my friend’s basement couch with the rest of the group sprawled out on the floor, in lounge chairs, staying up until 4 a.m. for our Mobster Movie Marathon. Other films of this famous insomnia inducer included Godfather I and II (we cursed III), Scarface, and Heat.

3. Read one of your favorite children’s books: This is a sad one. This summer, one of my fellow CWVWP participants taught a grammar lesson in which she passed out copies of Amelia Bedelia books to us. I spotted the one I wanted right away. Amelia Bedelia Goes Camping. Just seeing that book brought a wave of memories that nearly sent me out of the room in tears. And I had to fight them back again as I read the book aloud. My grandfather took me to the Cross Lanes library when I was about five or six and this was one of the books I chose. He read it to me in his gruff smoker’s voice, his country accent adding to the humor. Six years later, he died of a stroke on Christmas Eve. Seeing that book… man… it was like looking right into his face again. Moments like that can sweep you off of your feet before you know it.

So, that’s my adventure into the old vault. Heed my warning, though. Objects in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

I hate onions.  I know this is odd because they’re in just about everything.  I remember my mother cooking foods that needed onion and my stepfather shouting, “Put a buncha onions in it.”  Mom would wink at me and only sprinkle in a few.

On the other hand, I love ramps.  For those of you who are not up on Appalachian culture, ramps are a special type of wild leek and they taste something like a cross between onions and garlic.  They grow just like wild onions with tall green stalks above ground and round white bulbs below ground.  When you cook with them, the whole house radiates from the stink.  I know a lot of people who will never even try ramps because of their strong aroma.

But oh my gosh, when my mother would fry potatoes and chop up little bits of ramp into the pan, I would savor that smell.  It would last long after dinner was over, but we didn’t care.  I would bite into those potatoes with surprising enthusiasm. 

 My grandfather loved to cook pinto beans with ramps.  Pinto beans were always a childhood favorite of mine, but I remember turning down a bowl while visiting a friend because I could see chunks of onion floating on top.  But, mmm, when I saw my grandfather chopping those familiar bits of green into a huge pot on pinto beans, my mouth would drip with hunger.

I remember spending some time with my father in Ohio and talking to other kids in the neighborhood about ramps.  “Like boat ramps?” one kid asked.  This, I found out later, was very common.

That evening, my father drove me to the northern panhandle and we hiked up a small hill just beside the road.  A few times I kept peering down the hill at the flashing hazard lights on my father’s truck.  But when he said, “There we go,” I turned my attention to a small cluster of dark green stalks and smiled.

The next morning, we ate an awesome breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits, and fried potatoes with… you guessed it… ramps.

Thus the mystery of my hatred for onions but my love of ramps.  Never have been able to figure it out.  Maybe this is a message to anyone who hates onions:  Try ramps.

Here’s a link to a wikipedia article about ramps.  It even says that they are “especially popular in the cuisine of the US state of West Virginia.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_leek

Until later– There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.

My favorite game when I was growing up was spotlight.  There is just something unexplainable about the summer nights I spent chasing my cousins around our yard in pitch darkness, trying my best to search for flip-flops poking out from behind bushes or the glint of jewelry in the rays of my flashlight.

Our favorite place to play was at my aunt’s in Poca, WV.  Miles away from big city lights, the yard behind her house became our fantasy nightmare world of shadows, reaching tree limbs, and mysterious noises.  In the beginning, when I was it, my cousins would choose strategic hiding places and torture me with spooky groans and wails.  Little did they know that even as a youngster, I had sensitive hearing and a good sense for where the sounds were coming from.  After a few times of getting caught, they quickly stopped their taunting and sat in desperate silence.

When I finally had the chance to hide, I was probably the biggest cheater.  I would scramble up a nearby tree and sit in silence on the highest branch that would hold my weight.  After a while, though, my cousins got wise and started searching high for my scrawny silhouette perching on the branch of an elm somewhere.

I remember one year, during the fourth of July, our summer night spotlight was made even more magical by distant sparks of the fireworks my uncle was setting off in the front yard.  After a few minutes of searching with the flashlight, I turned it off and watched the dark back yard until a bright flash from the air lit up and I could just see my cousin Jamie’s sandaled feet behind one of the bushes.  Without turning on my flashlight, I ran in the direction of her hiding place.  Another flash lit up the yard and I could see her preparing to run.  The yard went dark again and I ran as fast as I could, reaching my arms out until another flash of light exploded in the sky and I felt my hand barely touch her back.

“You’re it!”

I know I made this all sound so melodramatic, but I don’t think I write enough about some of the positive memories I have of my family, especially my cousins.  And, as I have said before, childhood has some sort of magic to it that we don’t really notice until we outgrow it and look back on it with longing. 

Most of the time, when I bring these memories up to any of my cousins, they smile and say, “Um, I guess…  I don’t really remember.”  They do remember that I was a spoiled child who whined a lot when things didn’t go my way.

But, like me, they remember that there were good times, games we played together, where for a brief amount of time we were all getting along.  In my memory, spotlight was one of those games that kept us busy for a while, that brought us together long enough to get along and remember that we were family.