I come from a line of English teachers beginning with Daddy, who raised 5 kids, 3 of whom (including me) followed suit in English teaching careers. Love for, or talent for, or a combination thereof for the profession of letters, must proceed from some genetic propensity.

One of my favorite later-years pix of Daddy----with Mama----on the Lakefront at Mandeville.

One of my favorite later-years pix of Daddy—-with Mama—-on the Lakefront at Mandeville.

Daddy retired from teaching I’m not sure when—-the late 1980’s?—- so all of his students are more-than-mature adults. For that reason, a few days ago I took extra gratification from a random former student of his from that distant time who shared her memories of junior high English when he was her teacher. She wrote the following to me:

“I really loved [your] Dad. I had him as my teacher in [junior high.] He was friend to us as well as a teacher. [You] don’t have teacher’s that really care about the student’s like he did. They [are] far [and] few between.”

Wow! That was a touching compliment, one special to me professionally as well as personally, because I would love to imagine that my former students, 30 or 40 years from now, will look up my children and offer such gracious remarks about my influence on their lives.

Daddy’s not here to receive this humble reward, but I will accept it on his behalf and post the memoir in this venue to give it audience. The sentiment is too rich to keep within. Thus, here reading, may others remember his life as an example of the life-touching work that teachers do.