 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Thank You, Mrs. Mather
Article by Jane Bluestein, Ph.D.
I knew it the instant I walked into Edith Mather’s kindergarten in the fall of 1956: I’m going to be a teacher. There was something about that classroom that was so wonderfully exciting, so inviting, so safe. It wasn’t just the room, of course, but the warmth, enthusiasm and dedication of a brilliant teacher who greeted me as I cautiously peeked into that room for the first time.
It
was a wonderful year! Behind every vivid memory there is the teacher who
told us stories and taught us to tie our shoes, took us to the pond to
see the tadpoles, and helped us learn how to share, put things away and
wait for our turn. She provided a learning environment rich in colorful
and stimulating resources and activities, and yet had the grace and patience
to allow me to indulge my preoccupation with “painting at the easel,”
even when it was the only thing I wanted to do for weeks at a time. She
handled the rare discipline problem with gentle good humor and managed
to treat each of us as though we mattered more than anything in the entire
world.
Although I had some marvelous teachers in the years that followed, Mrs. Mather was a tough act to follow. I always went back to her class to visit, but the kids in my neighborhood went to other schools from fourth grade on and I never saw her again after that.
I
often wondered about her, especially when I walked into my first classroom
as a teacher. As I prepared for my first group of students, I wondered
if I’d ever be the kind of teacher Mrs. Mather had been. I knew I
had the content down, that I could develop materials and prepare lessons
with the best of them. But what about the relationships, the way I’d
interact with my students, the way they’d feel when they were in
my class? Mrs. Mather became the yardstick against which I would measure
my successes and analyze my mistakes. Throughout my career, I have tried
to hold the image of her patience, her commitment and her ability to believe
in all of her students as a beacon for me to follow.
From time to time I would try to contact her. I wanted to see how she was doing, to share a few memories with her and to let her know that my career passions and pursuits had begun in her care. Unfortunately, the new teachers did not remember her and the personnel office had lost track of her. I kept trying with no success. (This was, after all, in the days before electronic wizardry made finding people much easier!)
Years later, I was having dinner with a friend whose mother once taught with Mrs. Mather. She said she’d ask around at the next Retired Teacher’s Association meeting and sure enough, found someone who had an address for Mrs. Mather in a town nearby.
I
was so excited! I finally wrote her the letter I’d been composing
in my head for more than twenty years. I shared my memories of things
we did in her room, of how wonderful that year had been. I dug up my school
picture from 1956 (below) and sent her a copy. I told her about my own experiences
as a classroom teacher. I sent her the first article I had published in
a magazine for teachers, and a brochure that detailed the work I was currently
doing as an independent contractor and consultant to schools throughout
the world. “All because of you!” I wrote.
I sent the letter off feeling as though I had completed something that
was critically important for me to do. A few months later, I received
a note from her son, who had found my correspondence with some of the
last things his mother had read. 
My
letter had arrived two weeks before Mrs. Mather passed away. I’ll
never know if she actually remembered who I was or how she felt about
receiving my letter, but all that was somewhat beside the point. For regardless
of any response or recollection this letter might have inspired, I just
wanted to let a gifted teacher know that her efforts had come to good,
that many, many years ago, she had touched the heart of a child, and that
above all things, she had made a difference in another person’s life.
