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Heya!

I came across this story and was wondering if it would help you.

Regards,
Su.
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Lasting Lessons from a Fifth-Grade Teacher
By Terry Miller Shannon

His name was Ray Rinehart, but naturally we - his fifth-graders - called
him "Mr. Rinehart." I was a timid ten-year-old on the first day of class,
and the teacher's bullfrog rumble made me tremble in my tennis shoes. A
man teacher was a new idea to me, and one I didn't like.

One morning, he said, "Pick your best friend in this class and push your
desk right next to his." Huh? We stared at each other.

A girl raised her hand. "Are you telling us to put our desks beside our
best friend's
desk?"

"I am. This way, you can help each other." The room buzzed. Other
teachers separated buddies. Obviously, this guy didn't have a clue.

When I complained of my new teacher with his weird notions, my mother said,
comfortingly, "Terry, he's just a man. Just a person, like everyone
else."

As it turned out, she was wrong. In my life, he turned out to be a person
unlike anyone else.

The very next day, as I fidgeted over my page of mimeographed math
problems, Mr. Rinehart stopped at my desk. "Trouble?"

I nodded speechlessly.

"Have you asked your seat-mate for help?" Before I could shake my head, he
suggested gently, "Why don't you?"

My friend took one look at my paper and said, "How can you work - or even
think - in such a mess?" She scrubbed her eraser across my smeary
scribbles and half-erasures. "There!" she said. "Start with a clean page.
It'll make a huge difference!" It did - and it never would have occurred
to me without my friend's advice. Huh, I thought. Well, what do you know?

Mr. Rinehart on yard duty was different from any other teacher. He didn't
have the invisible "I am a grown-up" chalk line drawn around him. We were
able to talk with him as if he were our age - no holds barred. In his
turn, he spoke with us as if we were adults, listening to our opinions with
interest and offering his with no strings attached.

That's the year I was terrified of nuclear war. Frequent bomb drills found
us huddling beneath our school desks. Family friends built an underground
bomb shelter. In my house, we had a cardboard box of supplies stashed in
the hall closet "just in case."
My friends and I spent quite a bit of time discussing "when we're bombed."
Where would we be? What would we do?

On the playground one day when Mr. Rinehart wandered up, I asked what he
thought. He, never hesitating to share big ideas, said, "Since life is
uncertain, we should celebrate every moment of it." He looked around the
blacktopped playground at the kids playing foursquare and jumping rope and
leaping for the tetherball and added, almost to himself, "Be sure to do
what you most love." It was obvious to me that he was taking his own
advice.

I brought to fifth grade a passionate hatred of physical education class.
I couldn't organize my too-long legs into a run, couldn't catch, hit or
throw a ball. Throughout the years, I had participated in PE only because
I was forced to.

Sycamore School's dark gray basement held the cafeteria and a large room
for gymnastics on rainy days. That basement room was where Mr. Rinehart
held his PE classes, which were lessons in dancing. PE was PE, I figured,
my palms wet at the thought of new forms of torture. "Courage," Mr.
Rinehart whispered to me the first day.

We waltzed and learned to polka, but mostly we square-danced. Our teacher
managed to call, handle the record player, dance and instruct
simultaneously. I was amazed to discover everyone - even the most graceful
runner, the most gifted ball-player - was stumbling as much or more than I
was. Dancing came relatively easily to me. Winter found us strutting to
"Jingle Bell Rock," the music and shuffling of tennis shoes and steamy
smell of spaghetti from the kitchen an antidote for the black, frigid wind
pressing at the basement half-windows.

When I had Mr. Rinehart for a partner, he counted softly in my ear. At the
end of the dance, he'd whisper, "You're a good dancer. Don't forget it."
It was so much fun, I forgot it was supposed to be PE.

For a social studies project, we were to pair off and give a report to the
class. "Be creative," Mr. Rinehart urged us. "Make it fun."

My friend and I, two bashful and bookish introverts, chose San Francisco as
our topic. We sang and danced to a tune from "Flower Drum Song." It
started, "Grant Avenue, San Francisco, California, USA!" We practiced
every recess, every lunch hour and after school for weeks - until it was
second nature. But, in spite of my familiarity with our routine, stage
fright clamped my throat the morning of our performance. I fixed my eyes
on Mr. Rinehart, who grinned and nodded from the back of the room, seeming
not to notice my voice, high and thin with terror.

"Bravo!" he shouted, clapping thunderously, when we made our final bows.
No doubt his applause was for victory over self-consciousness more than the
caliber of our talent, but no Broadway star showered with roses could have
felt prouder than I did at that moment.

"Were you surprised?" we asked Mr. Rinehart after class that day."Not in
the least." He shook his head. "You were courageous - as I expected you
to be."

"I wasn't brave," I confessed. "I wanted to cry or throw up or run out of
the room."

"Yes, but you did it anyway - that's called bravery. It's not about how
you feel; it's about how you act."

Wow. His words arrowed into me, striking a rare bull's-eye of total
understanding. It was one of my life's most tremendous "Aha!" moments.

When Mom asked over meat loaf that evening, "What did you learn in school
today?" I doubt I replied, "The very nature of courage."

But I do know I left Mr. Rinehart's classroom equipped with knowledge no
quiz could test: truths about cooperation and joy, respect and bravery.
Truths about my own uniqueness that have lasted my lifetime.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Regards,
Surya Badri
Marketing and Public Relations
Ph: 044 2811 8492




denise neri wrote:

I am looking for long quotes or a story that i can print and put in a frame
for my daughters 2nd grade teacher. Something of a story that she can keep
in her class for as long as she teaches. Telling about what teachers
actually 'do' and how they are so important. I remember seeing a cute
story, "All i ever wanted to know i learned from my teacher", but i
cant,seem to find that.


Any help would be appreciated!


Denise,
I found this quote which appears to be what you are looking for from a
parent's position. Hope it helps.
Gladys

AS A Parent...
I leave my child with you
each day that you may instill in him all
the concepts of life.
You teach him sharing
so he understands nothing is of
value unless it is hared.
You teach him art so the radiant
colors of the world will not pass him by.
You teach him letters so words
may become his tool to help make
this planet a gentler place.
You teach him time so he comes
to know nothing lasts forever,
especially childhood...
You teach him about acceptance
so he learns not all of life is fair.
You are my child's teacher, and
there is no better thing to be.
- Robyn Keough




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