He looked familiar. The voice triggered something in my memory. I had that nagging feeling that I knew him. It would haunt me until I figured it out.
Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.
As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.
Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.
English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.
As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.
So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.
This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.
Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.
As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.
Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.
English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.
As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.
So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.
This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.
No comments:
Post a Comment