I did my student teaching in a small rural community northwest of my own hometown.

Every day, I would get in my little Pontiac Phoenix and drive the 22 miles to McKendree grade school in Flora, Ill.

When we signed up for our student teaching experience at Eastern Illinois, I wasn’t sure what grade level I wanted.

At that time, I thought I wanted to teach younger kiddos.

Among my guy friends in the education program, it was becoming a cool thing to teach little kids. Several guys were teaching lower elementary. One of my friends ended up teaching first grade and when last I
checked, he was still going strong, teaching, coaching baseball, and married with three kids. He actually survived and lived to tell about it.

I decided I would sign up for second or third grade. I knew I wasn’t brave enough to go lower.

Having the responsibility of teaching first graders to read struck fear in my heart. The directive
came down that I would be in second grade and I was set.

My plan was to move home with my parents, work part-time and complete my student teaching assignment. Back then, we student taught for 16 weeks, which meant I would be in this particular classroom from the beginning of school until right before Christmas break.

I visited the school in May on my way home for the summer.

I had said goodbye to my college pals and was on the road to my future in more ways than one. I remember how exciting it was.

When I arrived, I found a school built sometime in the late 1960s, well taken care of and neat as a pin. It was a bit like the grade school I first went to.

Soon, I met the true boss of the building, the cantankerous and loyal secretary who I immediately
liked. Jean told me to take a seat. After telling her that I thought I was about five minutes late (I don’t remember why), she held up her hand and said, “You’ve been waiting out here at least that long.” She gave me a little wink, picked up the phone to let the principal know I was there, and let me go in the office. We were to become good buddies while I was there. She kept me in line every day, making sure my lunch account was to the penny. “I don’t want to wind up in Vandalia,” she’d say. “But if I go, you’re goin’ with me.” I can still see her pointing that finger at me and shaking her head.

The principal was down-to-earth and kind. My cooperating teacher, Mary Ellen, was someone I immediately felt at home with. I soon found out she was a stickler for good behavior and didn’t put up with funny business.

She expected a lot from her kids. She was a hard worker and put her entire self into her job. Her students loved her. I have tried to mimic her tough love approach over the years and it usually works well.

She had me observe her classroom for an afternoon, and then proceeded to give me a little run-through of what I’d be doing when I began teaching.

She let me borrow some resource books over the summer, books I read and made copies from (many of which I still have; yellowed and a little tattered with use). I would return in August to help get her ready for the school year.

With my part-time job and learning how to live under my parents’ roof again, my summer seemed to fly by that year. It was a strange time of transition, thinking I’d soon be somewhat in charge of 20 little second graders. When I met them on that first day, they were the perfect mix of 10 girls and 10 boys.

All of them scrubbed up with new tennis shoes; shiny and eager. The room number was 2a.

I taught cursive handwriting, phonics and spelling. I read stories to them every day after lunch and made art projects with them on Friday afternoons.

We also painted their faces on Fridays when there was a home football game, a task that sometimes aggravated me. I soon found this was common practice in a town so fiercely loyal to their football team. I think my problem was that I wasn’t in to face painting. I did it anyway.

I brought chrysalises to school and put them in a terrarium.

It was my first stab at teaching science and was to be a precursor for my ineptness at teaching the subject.

We watched the chrysalises change and eagerly anticipated the day butterflies would appear.

You can see where this is going maybe. It’s called foreshadowing.

One day, on a warm October afternoon, we cracked the half windows of the classroom and I went about teaching my little group. Suddenly, I looked up at the open window to see the three beautiful butterflies perched on the side of the windows.

Almost on cue, I pointed and opened my mouth. A lucky few students were able to catch a fleeting glimpse of them as they flew away. Devastation followed by hysterical laughter.

There wasn’t anything I could do but laugh. Thankfully, the kids laughed, too.

I learned more in those 16 weeks than I could have ever learned sitting in a desk listening to professors. I learned how to be proactive and avoid certain issues with kids. I learned how to cut corners and be more
efficient. I learned how to care for co-workers and how important it was to invest in the lives of the people you worked with.

It was a great place to “get my feet wet.”

Yes, I was sad to leave that little school. I had made lots of friends there. One of my students wrote a note which said “This is the worst thing that ever happened to me. You are the best thing about second grade.” Wow. I had never experienced adulation like that. An amazing experience.

I hope you’ll forgive me for waxing nostalgic. I realize none of you probably know the people or the place I’m talking about.

This was all prompted by a visit to the school website the other day. Wondering about the little school and how everyone was doing, I typed in a search and was excited to see that they had a website, complete with
the photos of the staff.

Of the staff, only one or two teachers I knew remained. All the other photos were of strangers.
It’s weird when you look back and say, “Well, that was over 25 years ago. Everyone is retired or gone.” Yes, weird.

Through Facebook, I’ve managed to stay in touch with a few of my old pals from that little school. I guess we always hold dear the places we get our “start” with certain facets of our lives.

And thank goodness for those memories.