Third Grade Memory

If only for the fact that she read
Laura Ingalls Wilder to us after lunch,
my third grade teacher still retains a special
place within my heart. Happy stories of a
family put to paper with quiet grace and
clarity, they compensated for the time she fussed
at me because my Mary Poppins bracelet
made a noise against the desktop as I rested
on my arm. Lost in visions of Plum Creek
I hadn't even noticed, but she stopped her
reading so that everyone would know she
was annoyed. I suppose that I could
pick out any teacher from a line-up, first
through sixth, at least, but Mrs. Botner is
the only one, thank God, who hissed at me -
she hissed! I didn't understand the lesson,
hadn't seen that math sign, ever.
"That's what you get for skipping,"
she said meanly, unimpressed that men in
suits had said that I'd do better if I jumped
ahead, forget the second grade completely.
I showed her. 
And to her credit, she was gracious when
I finally caught up and held my own.
She'd been teaching several years
too long, I think, but still, she read those books.
And hissed at me, which made me want
to prove that I was better, smarter than
she thought. Perhaps she was the one,
sly thing, to outsmart me instead.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014