Dear Mrs. Morrow,

It’s been thirteen years since my mother took a picture of me walking into my first day of school at Babylon Elementary. The day before, she told me that you had been her teacher in fifth grade. Being only five, I didn’t understand what that meant, but I took it as “something good.”

Every classroom was themed with an animal, and some were themed with scottie dogs, butterflies, cats – we got frogs. There were desks and tables, there was a closet area for our backpacks, and of course there was a chalkboard, but I mostly remember the reading area: a four-by-six rug outlined with shelves of picture books and a device for listening to books-on-tape.

And in the center of it all was you.

You, in your black sweater, green frog pin and glasses, presiding over everything with the grace of a queen. You shook each of our hands as we walked in, giving us a beaming smile and leading each of us to our seats. When it was my turn, I remarked, quite excitedly, “You taught my mommy!” You grinned again, led me to my seat and asked me, “What do you want to learn?” My answer was immediate.

“I want to learn everything!”

And oh, did I!

There was the classic trifecta of reading, writing and arithmetic, but there was more to that. There was how to share, how to be kind to people, how to use all of the crayons in the box at once, how to say “please” and “thank you,” how to win prizes when it came time for the Read-A-Thon. Those last two things may or may not be related.

Sure, not everything was peachy. I got in trouble once for cutting off my own hair with safety scissors (my mother didn’t even notice until I gave her the index card you had taped my hair to), and I had to take a time-out for throwing big pieces of cut-up paper into the air.

Never mind that, though. I made it through the year and got into a good first-grade class, and I didn’t forget you. Whenever I saw you in the halls as my new class marched around, I would wave eagerly, and would always get a wave and a smile back.

In 2007, I was finishing up fourth grade at Babylon Grade School when it was announced that you would be retiring. My best friend Julia and I missed our last-day-carnival to go to your sendoff celebration, and I’ve still never seen a person so surprised in my life.

I don’t remember if I’ve seen you afterward, but I want you to know that I still think about you and I now know how valuable your lessons were to me, intentional or not.

I’m now going to end this letter with something that I learned from you and has become very useful in this day and age: never write in all capital letters.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH, ROSE WELDON.