The Women Who Taught (Part 1 in a series)

On January 9, 2015, my high school guidance counselor passed away quietly in her sleep.  She was 74. 

I have been out of high school for 35 years now, but the news of her death, brought about faded memories of her disheveled office: a flurry of papers and college pamphlets on her desk, a sliding stack of brochures atop the filing cabinet, posters taped to the cinder block walls, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

I don't know that Karlyn Armstrong provided me much guidance toward a career or college choice; I marched to a different drum.  What Mrs. Armstrong did offer in that tiny office was a place of safety and laughter.  I spent many hours in her company and I remember regaling her with stories of my summer in France when I was 17.  It was clear from comments on social media this week that many of my classmates sought refuge in Mrs. Armstrong's office.

Mrs. Armstrong was not the only woman at Denver High School who would influence my life.

I remain friends with Fran Johannson (the former Mrs. Gohlke) through the wonders of social media.  Fran was my 8th grade English teacher and encouraged my love of books.  She and I could sit for hours discussing literature.  I read books beyond my peers and she challenged me to read even more.  We continue our friendship today, both of us older, and I am the one recommending books to her these days.  She lives a full and exciting life of volunteerism and world travel that I hope to emulate.

I can type fast.  I earned the typing award when I was in high school (nothing gay about that).  I took two years of typing and a year of business machines, not because I had a particular interest in it(although mad typing skill are handy), but because Mrs. Clara Hudson taught these courses.  There were quite a few of us who wasted time in Mrs. Hudson's office, eating Doritos and being silly.  Mrs. Hudson had an impish sense of humor (matched by her short stature) and her students adored her.  I still do.  We met for coffee shortly after I moved back to Iowa and spent a few hours recounting our personal grief, sharing our writing life, and managing to laugh about it all.

I took as many English classes as my high school offered and one of those was taught by the bawdy and brassy, Mrs. Kemalyn Scott.  She had a wicked sense of humor and seemed to like rebellion as much as her teenage students.  Should she read this blog, I hope it is no surprise that her sex kitten figure was the subject of much discussion among the male student body, except for this gay boy, who liked her for her striking laugh and sense of style.

And finally, among the women who taught and influenced me, is my freshman-year English teacher, Miss Mary Jo Englehardt.  She was 25 that year, right out of college and she seemed more like one her students than a teacher.  She was sweet and sometimes reserved, and during our freshman year, she taught a segment on poetry.  She introduced poetry through music, Bob Dylan and John Prine and the Beatles (I can not hear 'She's Leaving Home' without remembering Miss Englehardt), printing out the lyrics for us to read along as the album played.

Miss Englehardt challenged her freshman class to write a poem, providing several topics.  I chose the subject of war, and wrote a poem called 'War Is Hell', very daring for a 15 year old kid in rural Iowa in the 1970's to use a swear word in class.  The poem was broad and overwrought; what experience did a kid have with war?  But I wrote it as if I'd seen battle and Miss Englehardt applauded my effort and asked to keep my poem and reading it to her other classes that day. 

That was the day I became a poet. 

I live about 40 minutes away from Mary Jo Englehardt now and another classmate and I have planned to seek her out and pay her a visit. 

I would love to tell her in person how she changed my life.

Live Exceptionally

Earlier this week, following a quote by Beat poet, Gregory Corso, a post in which I commented on his death from prostate cancer, a friend wanted to know how he lived.  I replied, 'he was a poet.  He lived exceptionally.'

I doubt Corso lived the high life, poets are generally not well-paid, or even paid at all, so I wasn't referring to his exceptional lifestyle.  Nor did I mean to imply his history with the Beat Generation, although that is something exceptional (and for this poet, a bit enviable).

What I meant by 'living exceptionally' is the gift of having a poet's sensibilities.  Poets look at everything, and they see it through a prism of language and detail.  The poet sees the whole universe in a mote of dust.  The poet grasps an entire lifetime in the dash on a tombstone.  The poet feels an entire symphony in a dying note struck on a piano.

That is living exceptionally.

It snowed most of the day here in the Big Woods, but this afternoon it has all but stopped, save for the tiniest glints of crystal still swirling in the air, visible only because a half-hearted sun is shining through the gray clouds.

That is living exceptionally.

My dog, Joey, is curled next to me on the sofa as I write, blissfully dreaming his dog dreams and every few seconds his front paws twitch and his brow furrows as if he's digging for imagined rabbits.  To play witness to his dreaming...that is living exceptionally.

Later tonight, I'll pour a finger of good Kentucky bourbon, turn off all the lights and stare into the reflected brightness of a waning full moon on the new snow.  I can thing of nothing more exceptional to do this evening.

This week, as I rummaged my brain for a poem to write, another friend complained about the winter squalls moving through the area.  There were some untamed images running around in my head, but until I read the word 'squall', I'd been unable to put them into a poem.

After writing the poem, I thanked her for giving me the word 'squall' and she replied upon reading the first few lines that perhaps she had been too harsh in her opinion of the weather.

'It is the poet's privilege to experience the world differently,' I replied, thankful to be living exceptionally.