May Day memories of favorite teacher

My older brother Orvin, who lives in my hometown in eastern Montana, just emailed me on May Day. Time to go to Mrs. Roush's house. In big brother fashion, he gently prompts me to write. Perhaps he knows this is a stressful time of year for a tired and slightly disillusioned 30-year, high school teacher. Perhaps he knows the importance of recalling the simple story of my one and only May Day basket. Perhaps he's prompting me to renew the innocence and belief in the love for one's teacher. Orvin is always open for a story, especially about the past.

Mrs. Roush was my first grade teacher and something of a first love for me. You remember, don't you, when you fell in love with your elementary teacher – completely innocent love? Mrs. Roush taught me how to spell h-i-p-p-o-p-o-t-a-m-u-s (and I'll be forever grateful for that useful skill). I can still say it in that sing-song rhythm it requires when you spell it. And with that accomplishment, I had utter certainty that I could do ANYTHING. I mean, who could have ever predicted that a six-year-old could spell an elephant of a word like hippopotamus? I was at the top of the world looking down. And Mrs. Roush brought me to those dizzying heights.

Juxtaposition plays again as I recall my sister Viv's husband Tim who was in first grade with me and had a completely different experience with the same Mrs. Roush (I learned later). He did not feel empowered. Oh, the grand power a teacher has to instill confidence or to create doubt.

I loved Mrs. Roush, and my mother -my first true love - acknowledged it. Probably because starting first grade was so very hard for me – it was my first experience going to school "in town" after glorying in kindergarten at a country school with my older siblings and my mother as our teacher. According to my older sister, Denise, I cried every night those first weeks of first grade begging my mother to let me stay home. Denise said it was heartbreaking for her to watch. Five years my senior, she even joined in pleading with mom to spare me. Mother, all-wise, sent me gently on the bus with a kiss each morning and a prayer, certain I would make my way. Perhaps she saw herself in that little girl.

So when I fell in love with my teacher and May Day came around, I wanted more than anything to give Mrs. Roush a May Day basket. Mom, happy to hear this, agreed. We would drive in 27 miles to town on that Saturday morning in 1964, ring my teacher's doorbell and follow the tradition I learned about in "town school." After placing my May Day basket at her doorstep, I would run around the outside of her house while my teacher (the love of my six-year-old life) would chase me, catch me, and land a kiss on my cheek! I could barely imagine what to anticipate. First, the flower basket.

Now, in how many ways can I count the changes in today's culture? In how many ways can that be misconstrued today? Ring the teacher's doorbell? Let her chase a student around her yard? Allow a kiss? But then it was innocence personified and the apex of my six-year life. I blushed at the horror of Mrs. Roush kissing me and yet the delight of her attention. Did she really look into my face and see me, just me? Was I, for one moment, singled out as important and worthy? I was equally fascinated and horrified by the magnitude of such attention.

Lovingly, my mother waited in our GMC Suburban, a monster of a vehicle that always embarrassed me; it was cream-color and, like a hippopotamus, could carry a load (five children and two parents) while drawing attention to itself (or so I imagined).

As my mom waited in the Suburban, she watched me ring the doorbell. She watched me leave my May Day basket at Mrs. Roush's doorstep. She watched me running from Mrs. Roush. (She was wearing red plaid stretch pants, I remember, and a turtleneck sweater). Mom knew this was my moment. My four siblings were elsewhere, not a part of this momentous occasion. It was my May Day, my moment with my first grade teacher Mrs. Roush.

It was 1964, and I was six years old. The sky was Montana-big, and my heart was full. It was a May Day like no other.