Just got back from my annual pilgrimage to St. Clare Walker Middle School, where I taught for nine years, from 1992 to 2001. I go back to help my good friend, the media specialist, with the Accelerated Reader assembly. I run the Jeopardy game that we created about seven years ago. Actually, this was the last year since she’s retiring and I couldn’t help feel a little sad as I clicked the link to the last question, Characters for $1. (Middle schoolers always go for the big bucks first so unlike real Jeopardy where they generallly work down the category, we always work up.) I won’t go back next year and will really have no reason to set foot in the school again. No chance to get my annual hugs from Mrs. Kidd and Vicki Davis, the secretary. No chance to see my old principal with whom I worked so closely over the years. No chance to get a taste of middle school life. Things end, and I’m never reallly prepared.
Last week, I went to the retirement party for the woman who was my first mentor when I became a teacher in 1988. I taught 9th and 10th grade English in the Coatesville School District in Pennsylvania. Lots of the veterans have already retired, but I saw some old familiar faces and fell right back into old friendships. I sort of envy the faculty camraderie they have: they go to the movies together, find great places for afternoon tea, and play poker on Friday nights. When you work from your home primarily, you don’t have that kind of shared community. I can’t help thinking what it would have been like if I had stayed there. Yet, I was happy to come home to Williamsburg and Bob and the pets and the gardens and the country.
Right now, the past is very much with me. I wonder if I am having a mid-life crisis. The image of Vivian and Scott that appeared in my mind when I heard Helplessly Hoping by CSNY. The annual email from my ex-husband, who I haven’t seen since 1987. (Wow, it will be 20 years soon since we split up. TWENTY!) The invitation to my 25th high school reunion that’s lying in my inbox as I decide what to do. Driving over the Pamunkey River early this morning looking for the ospreys the way I did for nine years. They are building a new bridge that seems like it will dwarf the small town of West Point. Things end, new things begin, and we try to remember the past through parties and reunions, scrapbooks and diaries.
But the present calls…time for groceries and stamps and some quality time spent cleaning the bathroom. I’ll put on some old music and do some memory conjuring while I scrub and polish.
