The Best Teacher. Ever.

So, I had THE BEST teacher in the world when I was in 4th grade.  Her name was Mrs. Westmoreland, and she was... amazing.  

Sigh. 

I pray every day that I will be just a fraction of the teacher she was to me, and I still fail miserably.  

I've been thinking about her a lot lately, probably because of the books my boys are currently reading:  Where the Red Fern Grows for Shaun and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing  for Jordan.  Mrs.  Westmoreland read both of these books aloud to our class.  We cried and laughed right along with her during the reading of these gems.  

Shaun is just getting started on Billy's adventures with Dan and Ann, but I know what's coming.  I think I'll let him read the final chapters alone in his room in case he needs a moment to gather himself after he's done.  :)

Jordan finished reading about Peter and his annoying little brother, Fudge today.  I read it with him.  We took turns chapter by chapter, laughing all the way.  It was wonderful to share the book with him.  I loved watching him throw his little head back and chuckle with his mouth wide open.  I taught him to read.  Me.  Or rather, I introduced him to the tools he used to teach himself to read.  This will always be one of my greatest accomplishments.  

We went out to lunch today, the kids, and I. Shaun and Violet had an appointment in Dawsonville that ended right at lunchtime, and of course everyone was starving.  I had planned to just go home and have last nights leftovers, but the boys saw the "Ryan's" sign and got really excited.  Violet got a little squirmy as the meal went on and at one point Jordan asked, "Mom, did you ever notice that Violet is starting to act an awful lot like Fudge?  I  mean, next she'll be smearing mashed potatoes on the wall".  I laughed out loud and said I really hope we never let it go that far!  

I thought of sweet Mrs. Westmoreland again on the ride home.  I really had the best time in her class, all year long.  She was every student's dream.  We learned, and had fun while doing it.  We were "out of the box".  I was already a book lover when I came to her class, but by the end of the year, you could say I was obsessed.  She introduced me to the wonderful feeling of being deliciously scared when she read Wait Til Helen Comes to our class.  On rainy days we would sometimes forget about "book learning" and do center work all day.  Because, you know, there's nothing more cozy than doing center work while the rain pounds down outside.  

Once we even had a potluck salad bar in our classroom so that everyone would learn to enjoy a good salad and practice etiquette.  Maybe there was another reason for this, but I didn't care what it was.  I've always loved salad and I was in heaven! 

One thing didn't love, however, was math.  I always struggled with it.  Reading was my thing, not numbers, and I always felt stupid when I opened my math book.  It was time to learn something complicated... I think it was long division.  Of course, I had a hard time grasping this terrible concept that, by the way, I never, ever had to use in my adult life until it was time to teach it to my own son.  After a few weeks of trying, trying, and trying again to understand which steps to take and where to put the numbers, our class did something horrifying.  We were called to the chalkboard to work out a math problem.  Three students at a time, in front of the rest of the class!  Seriously, a living nightmare come true for me.  When it was my turn, I trudged up and took my place at the board.  Of course, with the added torture of my peers' eyeballs boring holes into my back, I couldn't even finish the problem.  I got flustered, lined my numbers up incorrectly, and just gave up.  Right then and there, with  lots of laughter and encouragement involved, Mrs. Westmoreland helped me understand what I was doing wrong.  In front of everyone. She was so good at it that I didn't even care.  She made me understand! This may or may not have involved smacking my arm when I made a wrong move to keep me on track!  A few minutes later, well, I wasn't exactly a pro, but at least I knew what I was doing. Ha! And, for the record, my 14 year old son has become an expert at long division under my teaching.  

I could write about so, so many more memories from what I learned in fourth grade.  More important than math and spelling, though, are the life lessons.  Mrs. Westmoreland taught me to appreciate all of my blessings.  Especially my parents and how hard they worked to give me everything I needed and even most of what I wanted.  She also taught me empathy and the value of being kind...she wasn't afraid to call me out when I was being a snotty turd.  Still, I loved her.  She taught me to find my true self and value it.  She made me see that even though I struggled with math, math didn't make me stupid.  She cared about us, our whole class, and we cared about her.  Our softball team won a tournament once and the first thing my classmate and I wanted to do when we got back to my house was to call Mrs. Westmoreland. 

She inspired me to be a teacher. I never dreamed that this inspiration would lead to the honor of teaching my own children.

  

The only thing bad about having Mrs. Westmoreland for a teacher is that she ruined all of my future teachers.  They didn't have a chance!  Every year after the first day of school, I'd call my mom at work and she'd ask about my teachers.  "Is she nice?" mom would ask?  "Well.  She's not Mrs. Westmoreland," was always my reply.  After a few years of this my mom finally said, "Well, no one is."  In case you didn't know, Mrs. Westmoreland was a big hit with my mom, too.  

Thinking of her still makes me smile.  I'm so thankful for her!