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Cathy C. Hallhttps://cathychall.wordpress.com/I write, write, write. Then I rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. THEN I submit all those polished-up words out into the world and sell 'em. It's a plan that's worked pretty well.

One Good Teacher

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When I was a sophomore in high school–I attended St. Vincent’s Academy, an all-girl Catholic school in Savannah that’s still there today–I grew about ten inches that year.

220px-AbsalomAbsalomNot literally, but it felt that stupendous. See, I had a teacher, Sister Michael Mary, who blew open my mind with books like All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren and William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!

William Faulkner. Absalom, Absalom! It was the tenth grade, y’all, and we were a pretty sheltered group of girls back then. Not to mention that Sister Michael Mary had to explain nearly every page to us. That entire year, we read brain-busting novel after novel, each one painstakingly explained to us by this nun who had such a passion for literature. It was so hard and frustrating and confusing and yet, it was exhilarating, too.

Years later, lots of years later, I saw Sister Michael Mary at my Tybee Island church, but we recognized each other immediately and spoke of high school days. I told her what I most remembered was Faulkner and Absalom, Absalom! and she burst into laughter. What was she thinking, she said, having us read Faulkner?! She was new to teaching, she said, and had a lot to learn about tenth grade English classes. I said how much I’d loved her class and all those novels.

What I didn’t say–and wished that I had–was that she made a difference in my life. That she broadened my mind and introduced ideas and themes that were completely new to me. That she challenged me, challenged all of us to think of a world beyond our 15-year-old boundaries. Even if she had to explain every single page to us.

Though even with all that explaining, she managed to make me, and I suspect most of us in that class, feel capable and smart and up to the challenge of grasping most of what these literary giants had written so eloquently. And when I moved on, I wasn’t the same girl. I was someone who believed she was more than she’d dreamed.

The best teachers are like that, I think. It’s not so much the facts or figures you learn–honestly, I remember very few of the details of Absalom, Absalom! –it’s learning that you can do more, think more, be more than you ever imagined. A good teacher’s influence far surpasses the walls of any classroom ….

You know what? I’m about to get myself choked up here. So I will just say that I shared another teacher’s influence over at The Muffin today in Here’s to You, Mrs. Robeson and I hope you have time to read another personal story. It’s more about teaching, not so much about writing. But it did involve a letter so I think that counts. And I hope you had or have a teacher that you can count as a blessing in your life.

Everyone needs at least one good teacher.

Earth Day (Or It’s A Jungle Around Here)

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adventure-blur-close-up-346885 (1)Monday was officially Earth Day but around the Hall House, every day is Earth Day.

Not so much because I’m recycling and saving the environment and such (though I do recycle and I’m all for cleaning up our rivers and lakes and oceans and air). But what I seem to be particularly good at is protecting our wildlife (though I didn’t exactly plan to be good at keeping all kinds of critters safe).

Here’s how you, too, can become good at protecting wildlife right where you live: create a natural habitat in your backyard!

So I should probably add that I didn’t so much as create the natural habitat as let it happen. And I suspect the Homeowners Association around here might not refer to my backyard (and honestly, it’s beginning to encroach upon the front yard) as a “natural habitat.” They might, in point of fact, call my yard an “eyesore” and other unmentionable words. But they’d have to be able to see my yard in all its natural jungle beauty and I keep a fairly solid fence in front so it’s all good.

IMG_20171027_230856

Why, yes. Yes, it is. That’s a (baby) possum on my deck.

The wildlife have a pretty big yard, as well as the green belt forest and a river behind the yard, where they can hang out and do whatever they want. But for some inexplicable reason, they find my deck and screen porch tantalizing. And so I regularly sweep snakes off the deck,  birds out of the screened porch, and the occasional possum away from the flowerpots. The deer insist upon jumping my back fence and lounging about my yard, sometimes strolling through the front yard and down the street.

I mean, this is some pretty emboldened wildlife around here. A few weeks ago, I opened the screen door to let Libs the Tiny Terror who delights in chasing down deer, possums, raccoons, and snakes, out for her morning constitutional. But there was an owl perched on the old swing set. We both froze. I hollered what I thought might shoo an owl away  like, “Scoot, Mr. Owl! Off you go, Mrs. Owl!” because how was I to know the gender of that owl? Mr. (or Mrs.) Owl did not move. Not even an inch. Just stared us down. I’m pretty sure he (or she) was licking her lips/beak, waiting for poor little Libs.

The point is, the wildlife is not just protected around here. It rules.

Don’t tell the neighbors.

(P.S. I wrote up an Earth Day writing post over at the Muffin. It’s not about recycling, though that’s a fine thing and I hope that you recycle waste as well as  words. It’s about something totally different so off you go! And yes, I know that didn’t work on the owl. I’m hoping for better results from you.)