I never thought I would reach the point in my life where my perspective was more “retro” than “pro,” nor would my memories be more about people than the interesting places I have visited and the major events in my life. Be that as it may, I am glad things turned out the way they have. I find that I have warmer and deeper feelings about people than anything else in my life. Those memories are far more comforting and reassuring. I can become terribly melancholy about some of those folks, but they are feelings that remind me of what a gift they were, never forgotten but so easily lost.
Of all the people who crossed my path, the most outstanding and memorable are those who dedicated their lives to the education of others. They are two in number. One was a college professor and the other was my junior high school math teacher, Miss Dorothy Bender. This is about her.
Miss Bender had a well-known reputation for being stern. In those days, it meant you paid attention in her class and you accorded her the deference she commanded. When I moved into junior high school, I knew I was soon to encounter her, which engendered a certain amount of fear and trepidation at the mere thought of that eventful moment.
I went to my first study hall only to find the teacher assigned to oversee the hour was, you guessed it, Miss Bender. We were all sitting at our desks with a certain amount of apprehension in anticipation of her arrival. Shortly after taking our seats, the door opened and in walked the dreaded disciplinarian of junior high - Miss Bender. I was both a bit scared, but mesmerized, as well.
Here was a very stately woman who I would have guessed was in her early fifties. She had a quality about her that was rather statuesque and which gave the impression of being taller than I suspect she actually was. She had salt and pepper grey hair that was about midway down her neck and neatly done in waves. Her blue eyes were accentuated by a pair of glasses that did not dominate her face. She appeared serious and did not smile. She wore a finely tailored black knit suit with a three-quarter length jacket and fine-quality black leather shoes with small heels. She had a certain air of refinement in the way she walked. Even at the ripe old age of twelve, I found her to be a lady with an elegant mystique. She reflected a sense of class and a good upbringing. Her very countenance commanded respect which, I am sure, contributed a great deal to her reputation for having a low tolerance for nonsense. Her persona was almost perfect except for the small, fine scars that were etched in her face. The cause of those scars was to remain a mystery for many years.
I don’t know where Miss Bender came from, but she did not fit the stereotypical impression of a person born and raised in Wyoming. Rather, she reflected the characteristics and demeanor of a person who was probably from a good family rooted in a less remote part of the country. I don’t know that she had any close friends. Her background and private life remained a mystery to me.
During World War II, Miss Bender served as the principal of the school, a position she vacated at the end of the war because, as she opined, it was what caused her hair to turn grey. That was fate pointing her in the right direction. Her skills as a math teacher made a vastly greater impression on the many young minds eager to share in the knowledge and discipline she had mastered over the years. Her influence convinced me that I would one day devote my adult life to math as she had done, but it was a destiny that was never to be realized.
In the grand scheme of life, junior high school seemed like a brief stop on the continuum of education that soon led me to the local high school and beyond. I continued to favor math as my major academic interest, but when I entered my junior year in high school, I encountered the complete antithesis of Miss Bender.
Walter Morse taught higher mathematics. There was something rather serpentine about his demeanor. He seemed to harbor an irrational contempt for certain students, manifesting a finely honed sarcasm and the need to demonstrate his prowess in that regard by singling out students to bear the brunt of his perversity. I was one of his chosen ones, and I soon developed a disdain for him that was equal in its intensity to the respect I had for Miss Bender. I could never quite figure out what made this guy tick. It could only have been either a faulty gene pool or poor potty training. All I knew was he was a perfect prick in every respect. He didn’t like me and I certainly didn’t like him. Sadly, the one tragic outcome of my experience with him was the loss of my interest in and any enthusiasm for math that was such a prized legacy from my brief time under the tutelage of Miss Bender.
As it became apparent that I was not doing well in higher mathematics with Mr. Morse, I sought out the help of Miss Bender. Not surprisingly, she graciously and generously gave of her time and talent that got me though to graduation and out into the world of a young adult. I don’t know if I ever told her how much I appreciated all she did for me. If not, I should have. I cannot think of anything more egregious than taking another person for granted, particularly one so grand as Miss Bender.
I had long moved on and, in my early fifties, found myself working in the Middle East. It was a weekend and in my solitude, as I was prone to do, my thoughts took me back to earlier and better times. On that particular day, Miss Bender entered my conscious state. A warm feeling came over me as I recalled the impression she had made on me and how much of this great lady still remained with me. Although I was almost certain she had long since passed from this world, I was moved to write a letter about all she instilled in me, how much I had gained from her and wondering if she still remembered me. I mailed the letter with the hope that just a name and place would suffice to find her if she was indeed still a part of that community.
I soon forgot about that brief flight into past memories and focused on other things. Much to my surprise, a letter arrived a few weeks later. The envelope was addressed in beautiful handwriting and with the return address of Miss Dorothy Bender at the Pioneer Home in Thermopolis, Wyoming. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She let me know how much she enjoyed hearing from me and, yes, she certainly did remember me, as well. I had no idea how old she must have been, but she surely had to have been in her nineties. She shared aspects of her life at that point in time, thanked me for thinking of her and taking the time to write, and wished me well in the future. I don’t think I ever answered that letter which is more an indictment of me than anything else. It is a regret I still harbor.
I am told Miss Bender died in 1992. I suspect she left this world with the same air of elegance she carried throughout her entire life. I cannot imagine her being anything less. I hope she was not alone at that appointed hour. She deserved better.
I have met kings and queens, chiefs of state, the rich and the famous during the course of my life. None can even begin to measure up to the person I so affectionately knew as Miss Bender. She was one in a million.
Oh, by the way, back to the story that was recounted to me about the scars on her face. It is reputed, when she was a young woman, she was to be married to the man of her dreams. On the way to her wedding with her fiancé they were involved in a car accident. He was killed and she was injured, carrying the scars of that tragic moment for the rest of her life. I could not confirm the veracity of that account, but it is somehow a perfect fit with the Miss Bender I knew. As I conclude with this brief story, I hope she is in her heavenly home and in the prime of her life, with her face free of the scars she carried in this life. I hope she is in the company of her fiancé once again, holding hands while sitting on the banks of some celestial stream, and savoring a life there she lost so early in life here.
I, also, hope she has found it in her heart to forgive an aging man who took her for granted so long ago and who now finds it somewhat bittersweet to recall her with such fondness. I suspect she has. Miss Bender was a class act.
Cowboy Bob
October 19, 2009
Of all the people who crossed my path, the most outstanding and memorable are those who dedicated their lives to the education of others. They are two in number. One was a college professor and the other was my junior high school math teacher, Miss Dorothy Bender. This is about her.
Miss Bender had a well-known reputation for being stern. In those days, it meant you paid attention in her class and you accorded her the deference she commanded. When I moved into junior high school, I knew I was soon to encounter her, which engendered a certain amount of fear and trepidation at the mere thought of that eventful moment.
I went to my first study hall only to find the teacher assigned to oversee the hour was, you guessed it, Miss Bender. We were all sitting at our desks with a certain amount of apprehension in anticipation of her arrival. Shortly after taking our seats, the door opened and in walked the dreaded disciplinarian of junior high - Miss Bender. I was both a bit scared, but mesmerized, as well.
Here was a very stately woman who I would have guessed was in her early fifties. She had a quality about her that was rather statuesque and which gave the impression of being taller than I suspect she actually was. She had salt and pepper grey hair that was about midway down her neck and neatly done in waves. Her blue eyes were accentuated by a pair of glasses that did not dominate her face. She appeared serious and did not smile. She wore a finely tailored black knit suit with a three-quarter length jacket and fine-quality black leather shoes with small heels. She had a certain air of refinement in the way she walked. Even at the ripe old age of twelve, I found her to be a lady with an elegant mystique. She reflected a sense of class and a good upbringing. Her very countenance commanded respect which, I am sure, contributed a great deal to her reputation for having a low tolerance for nonsense. Her persona was almost perfect except for the small, fine scars that were etched in her face. The cause of those scars was to remain a mystery for many years.
I don’t know where Miss Bender came from, but she did not fit the stereotypical impression of a person born and raised in Wyoming. Rather, she reflected the characteristics and demeanor of a person who was probably from a good family rooted in a less remote part of the country. I don’t know that she had any close friends. Her background and private life remained a mystery to me.
During World War II, Miss Bender served as the principal of the school, a position she vacated at the end of the war because, as she opined, it was what caused her hair to turn grey. That was fate pointing her in the right direction. Her skills as a math teacher made a vastly greater impression on the many young minds eager to share in the knowledge and discipline she had mastered over the years. Her influence convinced me that I would one day devote my adult life to math as she had done, but it was a destiny that was never to be realized.
In the grand scheme of life, junior high school seemed like a brief stop on the continuum of education that soon led me to the local high school and beyond. I continued to favor math as my major academic interest, but when I entered my junior year in high school, I encountered the complete antithesis of Miss Bender.
Walter Morse taught higher mathematics. There was something rather serpentine about his demeanor. He seemed to harbor an irrational contempt for certain students, manifesting a finely honed sarcasm and the need to demonstrate his prowess in that regard by singling out students to bear the brunt of his perversity. I was one of his chosen ones, and I soon developed a disdain for him that was equal in its intensity to the respect I had for Miss Bender. I could never quite figure out what made this guy tick. It could only have been either a faulty gene pool or poor potty training. All I knew was he was a perfect prick in every respect. He didn’t like me and I certainly didn’t like him. Sadly, the one tragic outcome of my experience with him was the loss of my interest in and any enthusiasm for math that was such a prized legacy from my brief time under the tutelage of Miss Bender.
As it became apparent that I was not doing well in higher mathematics with Mr. Morse, I sought out the help of Miss Bender. Not surprisingly, she graciously and generously gave of her time and talent that got me though to graduation and out into the world of a young adult. I don’t know if I ever told her how much I appreciated all she did for me. If not, I should have. I cannot think of anything more egregious than taking another person for granted, particularly one so grand as Miss Bender.
I had long moved on and, in my early fifties, found myself working in the Middle East. It was a weekend and in my solitude, as I was prone to do, my thoughts took me back to earlier and better times. On that particular day, Miss Bender entered my conscious state. A warm feeling came over me as I recalled the impression she had made on me and how much of this great lady still remained with me. Although I was almost certain she had long since passed from this world, I was moved to write a letter about all she instilled in me, how much I had gained from her and wondering if she still remembered me. I mailed the letter with the hope that just a name and place would suffice to find her if she was indeed still a part of that community.
I soon forgot about that brief flight into past memories and focused on other things. Much to my surprise, a letter arrived a few weeks later. The envelope was addressed in beautiful handwriting and with the return address of Miss Dorothy Bender at the Pioneer Home in Thermopolis, Wyoming. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She let me know how much she enjoyed hearing from me and, yes, she certainly did remember me, as well. I had no idea how old she must have been, but she surely had to have been in her nineties. She shared aspects of her life at that point in time, thanked me for thinking of her and taking the time to write, and wished me well in the future. I don’t think I ever answered that letter which is more an indictment of me than anything else. It is a regret I still harbor.
I am told Miss Bender died in 1992. I suspect she left this world with the same air of elegance she carried throughout her entire life. I cannot imagine her being anything less. I hope she was not alone at that appointed hour. She deserved better.
I have met kings and queens, chiefs of state, the rich and the famous during the course of my life. None can even begin to measure up to the person I so affectionately knew as Miss Bender. She was one in a million.
Oh, by the way, back to the story that was recounted to me about the scars on her face. It is reputed, when she was a young woman, she was to be married to the man of her dreams. On the way to her wedding with her fiancé they were involved in a car accident. He was killed and she was injured, carrying the scars of that tragic moment for the rest of her life. I could not confirm the veracity of that account, but it is somehow a perfect fit with the Miss Bender I knew. As I conclude with this brief story, I hope she is in her heavenly home and in the prime of her life, with her face free of the scars she carried in this life. I hope she is in the company of her fiancé once again, holding hands while sitting on the banks of some celestial stream, and savoring a life there she lost so early in life here.
I, also, hope she has found it in her heart to forgive an aging man who took her for granted so long ago and who now finds it somewhat bittersweet to recall her with such fondness. I suspect she has. Miss Bender was a class act.
Cowboy Bob
October 19, 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment