Roll the Credits

At this time of year we are reminded to be thankful for either our blessings or good fortune (depending upon where your faith lies). If you’re table is so inclined you may hear the grateful phrases from those seated around it. Popular subjects for gratitude at Thanksgiving include the turkey, jobs, and a warm house. Instead of things, try to be thankful for the people in your life and for those who have passed through your life.

What about your first grade teacher? Most likely it was a woman. She was probably your very first teacher. She may have been the one who taught you how to read, how to perform simple mathematics, maybe even how to draw, cut and paste construction paper together. You probably made a turkey hand-print to bring home to mom.

My first-grade teacher was Mrs. Bosard (my own bad guess at the spelling of her last name). She was a tiny little woman, not much bigger than some of her students. In fact Kenny Neisen’s hands were bigger than hers. Her tiny VW Beetle was perfect for her, and she probably wanted to drive away in it the first time she saw her classroom.

It was set up in the basement of an old school, down steep, concrete steps five and six year olds descended into a dungeon-like setting with only a pipe to lean on for a handrail. The room could never have been designed to be a classroom - it must have been a former storage room or a workshop for the janitor instead. All the pipes were exposed on the ceiling, and most likely, wrapped in asbestos. There were only a couple opaque windows on one wall way-up high, which gave a dark, gloomy room little natural light.  On one wall were some metal lockers, and a dark closet used to store paper, paste and other supplies. In the middle of the room was a large industrial sink, where we once bobbed for apples during a Halloween party.

Surrounded by a dark, depressing setting was a happy, pleasant woman who taught little children five days a week. I remember the room, but I also remember how Mrs. Bosard created a bright little world for her students.

I grew up in a neighborhood filled with several dozen kids roaming around. Across the street were the Weldon’s: four girls and one boy - Brendan. Brendan was (and still is) eight to ten years older than me.

When I was six or seven, I broke my wrist at a family picnic on my mother’s side. They were Irish. It was the summer-time and a little boy with a cast from his fingers to his elbow had very little to do. I couldn’t ride my bike, play ball, wrestle with my brothers, or do anything that required both arms. One day Brendan walked across the street with a wiffle ball. I don’t know how long we played, but I will never forget it. Brendan, a star-baseball player on the high school team took the time to play with a little boy. He pitched the ball to me, and I swung my arm and hit the ball with my cast. He laughed and pitched it to me again and again.

Gary Krant, and old friend from Belle Plaine, called me the other day to tell me he enjoyed one of my essays he had read in the paper.  I thanked him for being so thoughtful and taking the time to call me. He then said something quite simple, yet very profound. “You have to take the time to tell people they did a good job.” He’s absolutely right. 

We are far too quick to criticize and correct, it’s time now for the pendulum to swing the other way. Go out of your way, take the time and make the effort to let someone know they did a good job or they did something well. Make them thankful that you were in their life.

This Thanksgiving you may want to thank the cook or the host and then reflect on who else you are thankful for, maybe even a former neighbor or teacher.