A True Story

The best elementary teacher I had was Mr. Yoder, 6th grade. He was an institution, a legend. Students looked forward to being in his class. He was kind and firm. He was innovative. He loved teaching. He loved kids.

It was Mr. Yoder who opened my eyes to art. Every week he'd hang a print in the back of the classroom. Throughout the week, when we had some free time, we were to go spend time with the painting and fill out a questionnaire. Some of the questions required looking up information in the art books he kept beside the painting. But other questions were subjective: "How does this painting make you feel?" "Do you like it? Why or why not?" Then on Friday we'd talk about the painting. Heady stuff for a classroom full of framer's kids, illegal migrants and Russian immigrants.

(My favorite painting that year was Van Gogh's "Starry Night'. When I finally saw it for real at MoMa, many years later, I stood in front of it and cried, partly out of gratitude to Mr. Yoder).

Mr. Yoder also believed that Friday afternoons were worthless for teaching so after lunch, we'd play. Trix tops were big that year (anyone remember those?) We'd have races to see whose could spin the longest or travel the farthest. We'd do art projects. We listened to music. (You could bring in your own 45s to play. "Crimson and Clover". Over and over).

Every Monday we were given a creative writing assignment, due on Friday, when we'd read them aloud to the class. If I'm ever published, Mr. Yoder will get a dedication. Under his tutelage I realized how much I loved to write. He gave me so much encouragement, praising my work, urging me to keep it up.

He also never gave us homework on Wednesdays because he knew most of us attended one of two Mennonite churches in the area and he didn't want homework ot interfere with our attendance at Bible Study and choir practise.

He never yelled, laughed a lot and always had time to explain, listen, encourage.

I loved Mr. Yoder.

The next year he took the dramatic step of switching to 3rd grade. He was getting on in years and thought the younger kids would be easier on him. My sister, Martha Stewart, was in his class. Halfway through the school year, he was out golfing one day, laid down on the green and died of a heart attack.

He was the first person I'd ever lost. It was a shock. He was only 60. He had grown children, one who had gone to Canada to dodge the draft. (He could have claimed CO status because Mennonites are pacifists but he felt so strongly about the war in Viet Nam that he didn't want to take the easy way out). He couldn't come to the funeral, of course, but someone read a letter he'd written, praising his father.

One night, maybe a week or so later, I had a dream about Mr. Yoder. In the dream, he was standing outside of the gym. A pep rally was going on. My friend Sharon and I were trying to get in but he wouldn't let us because we hadn't been excused yet. We were laughing and joking with him, trying to inveigle our way past him but he wasn't having any of it. At one point I said, "Hey, you can't keep us out of there. You're dead".

He gave me a really funny look, a look that, in my dream, scared me. I woke up with a start. I looked at the foot of my bed, and Mr. Yoder was sitting there. He was looking out my window. He looked just like himself except that he was, well, ghostly white and transparent. I could see the wall on the other side of him.

Needless to say, I was freaked out. I was horrified to think he might try to address me. I closed my eyes tight and rolled over, casually, pretending I was still asleep. I'd just moved into this particular room, which had been inhabited by my brother and had wall paper coverd with medallions that featured Revolutionary War soldiers. I opened my eyes and looked hard at one of the soldiers and stayed that way until dawn. Once the light crept into my room I was sure Mr. Yoder would be gone and I could fall back asleep.

I didn't tell anyone about this experience, for the longest time. Usually, I'd only tell it if someone else told a ghost story first. I knew it was real, knew I hadn't been dreaming it, but who's going to believe me, right?

The only thing was, I could never figure out why he'd come to me. He didn't say anything (thank God), didn't look at me. He'd lived a pure and blameless life. My theory about ghosts was something on the lines of them having unfinished business and I couldn't make that fit with Mr. Yoder. It always bugged me a little that I couldn't figure that out.

Over 10 years ago I was sitting with my mom and sisters at Thanksgiving. We started talking about angels and telling angel stories. (There are a surprising lot of them in our family history). I didn't have any of my own but I finally decided that it was time to tell them about Mr. Yoder's visitation. I told the story, just as I've told it to you and Martha Stewart said, "Oh, you've told that to me before".

I was sure I hadn't because I could pretty much count on one hand the number of people to whom I'd told it so I said, "No, I'm sure I haven't".

"Sure you have," she said, "I remember you telling me how he was sitting on the end of your bed and how he looked...." Her face turned white and her eyes got big. "Oh!" she said, "It wasn't you! It was Betsy".

Betsy had been her best friend in third grade and Mr. Yoder was Betsy's godfather. And then I started to cry a little because I finally understood why Mr. Yoder had come to me. He was making the rounds of all the kids he'd loved the best, the ones he thought might have had the hardest time with his death. He was just checking in. Which was a very nice, if unsettling, thing for him to do.