First Day of the Last Semester

 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 naive to believe they didn’t whisper together in the hallway after class.

“Dude! Did you see that? Howard’s lost her marbles!”

John’s known for quite a while that it was time to retire. He kindly waited for me to come to the same conclusion. I’ve struggled with the idea, he understands. After all, I graduated from this fine old institution more than 50 years ago. As soon as I finished college, I hurried right back. Mom was dying of cancer, my little brothers and sisters were all at Central Catholic, and I wanted to be with them. GICC was home, that’s all there was to it.

Back then, I couldn’t have imagined that I’d meet my husband here. And can you believe this? With great excitement and trepidation, I actually took a pregnancy test in my second floor classroom one cold morning to discover we were having a baby. The students weren’t there at the time, of course. But that would have made a great story.

We’ve taught our own kids, my nieces and nephews, and even the grandchildren of former friends and students. It’s high time to get the heck out. 

But Lordy, it’s hard. 

I’ve decided to cope the way I cope with every big turning point. I’ll write my way through it. That way, even years from now when I’ve long forgotten the joys and antics of the kids in my classroom and the marvelous people I work with, I can dig out this old blog and remember.

Central Catholic was the best dang place in the world, and it was home.