Day 7, January 7

I am a baby-boomer, growing up in the 50s and 60s. Computers belonged to the future. We had never heard of iPods, iPads, or the internet. (Notice how all of those being with the letter I?)

We didn't have language labs, media centers, or cafe-auditoriums. We brought our lunch from home, wore dresses every day to school, and minded our manners.

What I remember most from those years are the teachers: Mrs. Little, my kindergarten teacher. Miss Pease and Miss Bush, who taught second and third grade respectively. Mrs. Kennedy, who taught fourth grade and navigated my class through the first presidential election I can remember. Mrs. Biedler, who taught sixth grade and challenged the class to read every day.

These special teachers taught me reading, writing, arthrimetic, and so much more. They taught me how to think. More, they taught me how to dream.

Fast forward two decades. I was married, had a young family of three little children, and pulled one of my dreams out of cold storage. I wrote a short story and sent it to a magazine. To my amazement and delight, it was accepted. An editor liked my story! What's more, she sent me a check for it. Someone had paid me to write. It was a heady feeling.

I continued writing, selling a story here, a story there. My mother wrote to say that Miss Bush called her to tell her that she had read one of my stories in a magazine. I was touched that she remembered me and took the time to contact my mother.

Our family grew to include two more children. I kept writing, eventually selling a book, then another. All the while I remembered those teachers who instilled in me a love for words and how they could be strung together to form sentences, paragraphs, pages, stories.

So, for today, I am grateful for teachers who care enough to inspire.