What's Wrong With Mildred?

Mildred was 30 when she taught my parents in the first grade. The girls all wanted to be like her, so aloof and self-assured. The boys all fell in love with her.

Those were the days when children gave their teacher an apple a day. Teachers were apple barons in my parent's time.

Twenty years later and Mildred was teaching me, one generation to the next. Her influence on her young charges was exactly the same, girl and boy, even though she was now in her fifties.

Those were the days when we gave the teacher an apple if we wanted a favor. Why we thought an apple could buy influence is anyone's guess, but as our parents would remind us: "It's the thought that counts."

Twenty years after that, Mildred was 70 and long since retired. My children were taught readin', ritin', n' rithmatic by a younger group of teachers; older than me but younger than my parents. None seemed to inspire my children the way that Mildred had inspired the rest of us.

No one was giving away apples then either. If a student did, the teacher would have it checked for razor blades.

Mildred, even at 70, didn't look her age. Mildred had never looked her age. She was what my Mom called timeless.