There are occasions you remember all your life.  One such occasion occurred, for me, on May 1, 1969.  Every May Day, the vision of my third grade class, dressed in our Sunday best, parading out of the WPA-era, elementary school’s front door in boy-girl pairs, holding hands in public for the first time in our young lives, comes to the fore of my mental scrapbook.  

Songs were sung.  A king and queen were crowned and presented with bouquets.  But best of all, as we danced around its base, we braided satin, pastel-colored ribbons around the Maypole.  Whatever we have or haven’t done with the rest of our lives, on that day we were part of something beautiful and fine.  And it all took place under the watchful eye of our kindhearted teacher – Miss Oliver. 

Thirty years have elapsed since I last saw Miss Oliver.  She attended an open house my parents hosted when our firstborn son was three-months old.  Since we were living in Georgia at the time of his birth, it was our first chance to introduce him to friends and family back home in Kentucky.  I can still picture her gently cradling him in her arms, smiling proudly, her eyes alight with their characteristic twinkle.  

A year or so ago, while rummaging through a box of Mom’s keepsakes, I stumbled across a newspaper clipping from the aforementioned event.  This past May Day, I decided to post it on Facebook. How amusing to read the reactions from classmates who share that memory.  One of them, still residing in my hometown, commented that she had actually seen Miss Oliver recently. Relieved to discover that she was still living, I asked if it might be possible to obtain an address.  A couple of days later, the address appeared via Messenger.  

As I penned the salutation on that first letter, highlights from third grade came flooding back.  Along with the traditional academic milestones typical of the 60s – reciting multiplication tables, mastering cursive writing, composing personal and business letters as well as correctly addressing envelopes – there were the teaching practices unique to Miss Oliver.  Unlike other teachers, she would interact with us on the playground during recess.  Sometimes she would even participate in our games by rolling the kickball for us.  She nurtured our creativity by incorporating art into our regular reading lessons, allowing us to draw and color a picture that reflected what most stood out to us after we had finished a story.  But the most notable practice, the one that had the greatest impact on me personally, was her reading aloud to us every day after lunch.  She didn’t merely say the words, she breathed life into the story.  

Although she managed to complete several chapter books over the course of that year, the title that sticks out in my mind, The Boxcar Children, was destined to become an all-time favorite.  The prospect of taking up residence in an old, abandoned boxcar, keeping butter cold in a stream, and picking bouquets of violets to put in a cast-off jar as a centerpiece on a makeshift table was spellbinding.  Miss Oliver fueled our imaginations as well as our intellects.  In her eyes, we weren’t simply students.  We were children in whose future she took a personal interest.                

As mentioned in previous posts, I have no memory of not knowing how to read.  But Miss Oliver took the reader I was and transformed me into a full-fledged bibliophile.  She gave me a whole new perspective on books.  They were not just meant to be read, they were intended to be experienced.  Within their pages were characters to be admired, even emulated, as well as those whose example should be eschewed; choices that produced desirable consequences while others resulted in disaster; adventures that promoted personal growth whereas others ended in self destruction; and lessons as relevant and informative to me as to those about whom the book was written.  Literature was an invaluable, wellspring of information from which I could benefit vicariously.  Textbooks were not the sole source of worthwhile knowledge.      

Like Kathleen Kelly in “You’ve Got Mail”, Miss Oliver was apparently of the mind that, “When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.”  So reading was not just a means of finding out about others, but a means of finding out about myself as well as discovering the kind of person I wanted to become.  Whether reading about fictional or non-fictional characters, the character being developed was mine.              

Decidedly, expressing gratitude to Miss Oliver was long overdue.  Not surprisingly, that first letter read like a lengthy thank you note.  My eager anticipation for her reply was promptly allayed.  A letter was delivered within a week.  Even if her name had not appeared in the return address, her meticulous handwriting was unmistakable.  The familiar loops and flourishes replicated those on the third-grade report card tucked away in my cedar chest. 

Having felt slightly uncertain how my attempt at reconnecting with Miss Oliver would be received, I was positively giddy with her response.  Any apprehension was completely unwarranted.  According to her, my contact was both welcomed and appreciated as it “gave me a lot of pleasure, and I love you for it.”  

Having taught both my sisters as well as me, known Dad as a fellow teacher and Mom as an involved parent, Miss Oliver wanted to know how they were all doing.  Ironically, she mentioned the last time she’d seen me at our son’s hometown debut.  She recalled bringing a gift and that when she handed it to me, I asked, “Is it a copy of The Boxcar Children?”  A reasonable assumption given the size of the package, but it turned out to be a picture frame.  We’d shared a good laugh at my blunder.                  

The remainder of the newsy note revealed she is 98 years old, lives alone on the family farm, but is visited regularly by nieces and nephews, and works jigsaw puzzles to stay busy, all of which served only to enhance any existing admiration.  Like any proficient, letter writer, she peppered her message with questions designed to solicit an answer.  Keen on sustaining this renewed connection, I sat down to indite a reply straight away.  Eight months and a stack of letters later we are still exchanging correspondence.  In fact, her most recent missive is laying on my desk right now awaiting a response.  

Through our postal tete-a-tete, I have come to know Miss Oliver as a person rather than a role.  Devoted to her family, church, and community, she has lived a life of service to others.  An adventurous spirit compelled her to travel to all but four of the United States, and that was after she retired from teaching at the age of 55.  Along with one of her sisters, she pieced, stitched together, and embroidered more than 50 quilts.  Collecting and planting a variety of daylilies was a passion she shared with another sister.  As of late November, she is the sole survivor of nine children, having turned 99 on her birthday, January 1st.  Although grateful for her longevity and continued good health, her guiding philosophy is that it’s not how many years she’s lived, but how she’s lived those years that counts.

The magnitude of the 38 years and seventy-some miles that separate us has diminished in comparison to the closeness we have forged.  Discovering our shared penchant for needlework, gardening, and writing, as well as reading, has further strengthened the bond between us.  Her genuine interest in what my children are doing and how they are is endearing.  Since current circumstances prevent us from visiting in person, swapping photographs has enhanced our ability to visually chronicle our lives for one another.  We are both waiting in earnest for the day we can sit down together for a good, old-fashioned chinwag.

During these lugubrious months of national unrest and social isolation, the consistent arrival of Miss Oliver’s letters has been a balm.  When she referred to us as pen pals in her third letter, I was delighted.  When in her fourth letter she gave me permission to call her Gladys, it was as though my former status as student had been elevated to that of friend.  And when she complimented my letter writing and suggested I write a book, it surpassed any satisfaction I ever felt for receiving As in her class.  Even after all these years, her approval was profoundly validating.     

Fred Rogers spoke of the importance of taking the time to think of all the people who have “loved you into being.”  Miss Oliver has been one of those people for me.  Rekindling our relationship has reminded me how mutually gratifying it is to tell people precisely what they mean to me.  Repeatedly she has mentioned that my letters have “meant the world” to her and do her “a world of good.”  Actually, they have extended a lifeline between us.  Hopefully, Miss Oliver, Gladys, realizes that her letters have meant as much to me as mine have to her.