Diary of a Retiring Teacher

Good afternoon, and Happy Mother’s Day. First of all, I’d like to say that Mr. Howard and I chose to retire this year so that we could go out with this very special class. I’d LIKE to say that. But the truth is, we're shot. That does not make, however, the class of '24 ANY less special. From left: Morgan Schulte, Anna Blake, Allison Haney and Rubi Carrasco I am one of the fortunate few who's been able to teach these kids ever since they were in middle school, and it was apparent even then that some of them were already exceptional. Kate Novinski thinks she needs to go to med school to be a doctor. She doesn’t. She could be my doctor right now. Kate, when she was 12 years old, could have said, “I’m skipping English class today,” and I would have said, “Here’s 20 bucks. Take my car.”  Reese Reilly is another girl who wants to be a doctor. There’s nothing that Reese doesn’t do well. But I can imagine her - just as I imagine Kate - in a white lab coat treating her patients with

Once I retire, I worry I will have no friends.  What will I do the rest of my life? Hang out with Mr. Howard? That's another worry. School seems to be the center of our conversations. What will John and I talk about? What if I bore him to tears? What if, after forty years of marriage, he gets tired of me?  Fortunately, John is far too kind to abandon his boring wife. He feels sorry for me because I can't set up Alexa. For the last half century, Central Catholic has been the bulk of my social life. Those good friends are very dear to me, and the current staff - who is remarkable in every way - are the best people in the world. I'll miss them. I'm terrified this post might seem like the written notes of a high school yearbook, but I can't leave without thanking the lovely people I work with.  Every day I share my classroom with three exceptional women. Dawnell Glunz, our speech teacher and school interventionist, breezes in every afternoon with little Shire the Comfor

I used to believe, very strongly, that my superiors should be older than I was. That meant my doctor, my dentist, my pastor and my boss.  Then a terrible thing happened. I got old. The people in charge of me either died or retired. Before I knew it, my seventh grade student Johnny Goering was performing my colonoscopy. It didn't matter that he was 45. He'd always be in the seventh grade. The kids I used to teach at Central Catholic were now in positions of authority. Johnny G was my doctor, C.J. Stec was my dentist, and Jimmy Golka -  now the Bishop of Colorado Springs - heard my confession. Nothing seemed right about it until I experienced a startling epiphany. Just before a surgical procedure, I was dozing on a gurney when I felt a comforting hand on my own. I looked up to see Dr. John Goering smiling at me with such...compassion.  "This wonderful boy is now my doctor," I realized in a kind of wonder. He would take care of me. The seismic shift settled, and just lik

Jolene and Tim Wojcik Central Catholic is bursting with magnificent women.  They fill our classrooms, offices, cafeteria and weight room. Most of them grow babies in their wombs, push them out at the appropriate time, and spend the rest of their lives worrying about them. Women do anything for their kids, and at Central Catholic - whether we are mothers or not - they're  all  our kids. One particular GICC lady is my personal hero. She's also impossible. I've wanted to blog about Jolene Wojcik, our development director, for several years now. But she won't let me. "We'll do a story sometime," she waves me away. "But not now. I hate the attention. Some day." Some day is now. I'm retiring in a month and with or without permission, I'm writing about Jolene Wojcik. What can she do, fire me? (This is my new favorite mantra.)  Jolene was brought to us courtesy of the Holy Spirit. I believe this about all our development directors. Each of them w

I can only admit this now. I was a terrible teacher.  I'm coming clean at last because I'm retiring. What can they do, fire me? My former students from eons ago are able to testify to my many deficiencies as a young teacher, and I thank them for being loyal to me all these years later. When I first arrived at Central Catholic as a 22-year-old kid, I didn't have any idea what I was doing. All the student teaching in the world didn't prepare me for my own classroom and the responsibilities of a first year instructor. GICC 1980 classmates at a  recent reunion: from left - Jerry Dunn, Martin Rogers, Steve Ryan Like every brand new teacher, I agreed to take on any  available extra duty to get the job. Not only did I teach sophomore English, but I was yearbook and newspaper advisor, Sharon Zavala's assistant volleyball coach, the seventh and eighth grade girls' volleyball, basketball and track coach, and the sophomore class sponsor - which meant selling concessions th

  James Lowry James Lowry, with usual energy, is on his way out the door when I stop him.  "Where are you going?" I say in my most commanding teacher's voice.  He skids to a halt outside my classroom. "Panda Express!" he explains, to buy lunch for his student teacher Daniel, for his geography student Jaycie who was brave enough to sing the National Anthem, for 12th grader Damian who fills the Coke machines, and for the freshman kid who sheds weight for wrestling. "Chinese food for a wrestler who's trying to cut weight?" I question. Lowry pretends to consider this. "Probably defeats the purpose," he says, "but it'll make him happy." This is typical James Lowry. He takes care of everybody in school - including "the Oldsters", as he calls my husband John, Marilyn Luther, Sharon Zavala, Keith Kester and me. Every day he makes his rounds and checks up on people in a sort of diligent rotation. Whether we're old, youn