Mrs.
Creel made third grade matter
It
was the year the world appeared
Filled
in around me
I
began to see distant horizons
The
curvature of the earth
All
flatness banished
She
had been to places
Places
no one went to
Not
in those Cold War days
And
she had stories
Stories
that transfixed
All
the little impressionable souls
Like
the Pied Piper
Telling
the stories of the Arabian Nights
With
trepidation I entered her class
She
was known as the strict teacher
And
the piercing look
That
glowered over her librarian glasses
Let
you believe it was true
But
it wasn’t strict
It
was anxiously engaged
It
was learning more and more
It
was so much to do and so little time
And
we willingly participated
We
were rewarded in knowledge
The
slide show from Russia
When
she was there
With
a group of friends
On
the 50th Anniversary of Communism
With
fireworks exploding in air
Over
the wonder of St. Basil’s Cathedral
While
at the hotel their room was searched
When
they weren’t distracted
And
all they took was a Bible
But
it was more than that
She
gave me my start as a poet
When
she picked my poem
To
be placed in everyone’s book
The
books we were making
Really
making
The
right way
Hand
sewn binding
Large
yellow covers
Glued
down with copious amounts of rubber cement
My
drawing of Frodo and Sam at Mount Doom
Selected
as well and printed on those covers
I
still have that book
Filled
with every project and assignment
From
an entire year
I
still wonder how she did it
Not
just keeping track of it all
But
the fact we wanted to do any of it
Helped
all of us care enough to make it good
I
think a little of Mrs. Creel remains
Right
down in my formative core
To
the outside observer
I’m
probably the strict parent
Have
a serious look now and then
But
it isn’t strict even still
It
is all the fun stuff to share
And
I have so much to show you
And,
I care enough to spend the time
And Isn’t
this cool?
And Ooo! Look at that!
And
1001 nights of stories still left to tell
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