Archived posting to the Leica Users Group, 1998/12/02
[Author Prev] [Author Next] [Thread Prev] [Thread Next] [Author Index] [Topic Index] [Home] [Search]> >>He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in >Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was >one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive >attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful. Mark >talked incssantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without >permission was not acceptable. >> >>What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I >had to correct him for misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!" > I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became >accustomed to hearing it many times a day. >> >>One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, >and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If >you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!" >> >>It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking >again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since >I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I >remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, >very deliberately opened by drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. >> >>Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of >tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the >front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked >at me. That did it!! I started laughing.The class cheered as I walked back >to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first >words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister." At the end of the year, >I was asked to teach junior-high math. >> >>The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. >> >>He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen >carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in >ninth grade as he had in third. >> >>One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new >concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, fustrated >with themselves, and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness >before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other >students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each >name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about >each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the >class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, >each one handed me the papers. >> >>Charlie smiled. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good > weekend." That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a >separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about >that individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. >> >>Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. >> >>"I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked >me so much." >> >>No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they >discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. >> >>The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with >themselves and one another again. That group of students moved on. >> >>Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at >the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions >about the trip- the weather, my experiences in general. >> >>There was a lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a side-ways glance >and simply said, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as he usually did >before something important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began. >> >>"Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark >is." Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. >> >>"The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." >> >>To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me > about Mark. >> >>I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so >handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark I would >give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me. >> >>The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle >Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? >It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual >prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a >last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last >one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as >pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. >> >>I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a >lot," he said. >> >>After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's >farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting > for me. >> >>"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of >his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you >might recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn >pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and >refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones >on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had >said about him. >> >>"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, >Mark treasured it." Mark's classmates started to gather around us. >> >>Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in >the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to >put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. >> >>"It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her >pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to >the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting >an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists." That's when I finally sat >down and ried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see >him again. >> >> >>Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla >> >> >> >> The purpose of this letter is to encourage everyone to compliment the >> >> people you love and care about. We often tend to forget the importance >> >> of showing our affections and love. Sometimes the smallest of things, >> >> could mean the most to another. Tell them, before it is too late. >> >> >> > >