ALL GOOD THINGS
Posted by: tz8cy5 <tz8cy5@...>
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in
Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one
in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude
that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking
without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was
his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving - "Thank
you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what to make of it at first, but
before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and
then I made a novice teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you say
one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!" It wasn't ten seconds
later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I hadn't asked any of
the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in
front of the class, I had to act on it. I remember the scene as if it had
occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer
and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to
Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his
mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!! I
started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed
the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for
correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew
by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome
than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my
instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had
in third.
One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept
all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with
themselves and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it
got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in
the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I
told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their
classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to
finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me
the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister.
Have a good weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of
paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On
Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was
smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to
anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much."
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The
exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves
and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from a
vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my experiences in
general. There was a lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways
glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as he usually did
before something important.
"The Eland's called last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard
from them in years. I wonder how Mark is." Dad responded quietly. "Mark was
killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would
like it if you could attend." To this day I can still point to the exact spot
on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so
handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, "Mark I would give
all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me."
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle
Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It
was difficult enough at the grave side. The pastor said the usual prayers, and
the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by
the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the
coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up
to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to
stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse
for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We
want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his
pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might
recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper
that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without
looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things
each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing
that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it." Mark's
classmates started to gather around us.
Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the
top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his
in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet
and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at
all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our
lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his
friends who would never see him again.
Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla