Diary of a Retiring Teacher

  Cindy and Kevin Willey Cindy Ryan could have graduated from Central Catholic and gone straight to Hollywood to become a magazine cover girl. Tall, slender and beautiful, she was also sweet and gentle - as gorgeous on the inside as she was on the outside. She did not race to Hollywood to become a  cover girl model. Instead, right after she graduated in 1981, she married Kevin Willey, another GICC graduate, who one day broke up a fight in my classroom and still remains one of the nicest kids I've ever taught. They say you should never marry young, but Cindy and Kevin were as devoted to each other as any couple I've ever seen. They raised their three children - Jason, Giann and Katie - and sent them to Central Catholic to continue the family tradition. It wasn't long before they became young and vital grandparents to their growing brood. Cindy was in her element and as happy as she'd ever been. Then she was diagnosed with cancer.  We were stunned to hear the news. Surely

Back in the early days of Central Catholic, we wore uniforms. No, not the easy pull-on-a-polo-shirt-and-shorts uniform. Not on your life. The boys got off easy, but we girls were required to wear pleated skirts and navy blue blazers with knee socks. Once a month when the rank odor of well-worn blazers permeated the halls, we were allowed to dress up in civilian clothes and send our uniforms to the dry cleaner. Most of us, though, threw our skirts into the washing machine then tried to iron those polka-dotted pleats. Your eyes would swim staring down at those dots very long. From left: Hunter, Anna, Sam Fifty years ago, none of us gave a thought to the future. Heck, I was having so much fun in high school, I hoped we'd never graduate. Sauntering down the hallways in our pleated skirts and blazers with our friends in the early days of the 70's, none of us was looking too far ahead. The VietNam War was drawing to a close, and we were only happy that none of our brothers or classma

  Long, long ago, John and I made a pact. We refused to become bitter, cranky, forgetful old teachers, we decided. If either of us noticed the other leaning in that general direction, we were to be brutally honest and retire before we embarrassed ourselves. Too late. John’s irritable, and I’m forgetful. It hasn’t escaped notice.  Not long ago, I was collecting quizzes from my junior English class. “Hand ‘em up!” I said when all at once the classroom phone rang, a senior appeared at the door asking for a recommendation, and one of the kids asked to leave for a dental appointment. Having dealt with all of that, I snapped at the juniors. “I said hand those quizzes up here! Where are they?” Blank stares. “They’re in your hand, Mrs. Howard,” one nice girl said very gently. So they were. Only a few years ago, the rush of activity wouldn’t have phased me a bit. It was clear, however, that the juniors believed I was in the last phase of dementia. They were kind to me, of course, but I’m not so