Three years of education for grades 7 through 9 will be hard to capture in one blog entry, however, there are significant memories and experiences that ignited “things” in me that I now refer to as passion(s)…I think that sometimes as people who want to truly know and understand who and what makes us the person we are in a moment, we must be brave or curious to go back in time to our memory banks and look at our “deposits”–those things that were put in motion for us as young impressionable teens trying to figure out life, school, and our giftings. Since I began writing about my early years of life, I am beginning to truly see the people and experiences that helped or hindered who I am today. In this entry, I want to focus on some positive moments during the awkward years of being a junior high student.

Meet how Susan and music collided together in 7th grade. Listening to music was part of our enjoyment in the home; my parents had a wide variety of albums that they played on the record player. There was opera, movie soundtracks, and vocalists with styles and names I no longer recall except for Nat King Cole, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Burl Ives…. But, what I do remember is that often the TV was turned off and the music was turned up and we enjoyed the sounds coming out of the speakers. There were evenings I watched as my parents danced in front of the fireplace, their feet gliding ever so smoothly and eloquently across the hardwood floor. I would sit on the couch and watch, and then there were the times dad held my hands and as I stood on his stockinged feet, he would glide me across the floor “dancing”. A love for music and the feelings it erupted in me began early in life with those living room seeds, which were watered and fertilized in 7th grade with a mandatory music class. My teacher was Miss Gase, who was young, very poised, perfectly groomed every day and had a no nonsense approach instilling music theory into our young minds. She was also the school’s choir director and because I loved to sing, I joined. Practicing in the classroom or the empty auditorium never bothered me. I was full of joy and confidence until our first performance in front of parents and teachers. My joy and confidence in front of full seats and bright stage lights were exchanged for fear. I was in the front row and to Miss Gase’s left as she began directing our arranged pieces. In the first few stanzas of our initial song, I must have gone white, pale, and I remember feeling flushed with heat and a need to throw up. Ever feel that way and try to escape? I had nowhere to escape unless I wanted to truly be the center of attention at that moment. I tightened my knees, clenched my toes inside my shoes, and hoped whatever was happening would leave soon before making a spectacle of myself. And then it happened. Miss Gase’s eyes made contact with mine. Without losing a movement of her hands that were directing our song, the choir and me singing out parts, she was able to point with her index finger towards the curtains of the stage while mouthing “are you ok?’….giving me a viable alternative to throwing up on the stage….and while that solution was perfect, it still meant I’d draw attention to myself if I suddenly walked off…but something magical happened. In that moment of eye contact with my teacher, I relaxed. The feelings of nausea and being overheated left my body and I was able to nod to her and mouth “I’m ok”. And I was.

I don’t think Miss Gase ever knew what her actions did for me that evening. I know what they did for me. My fears were acknowledged. I was seen. I was assured. I was given a chance to escape my fears. I stayed. I faced my fear and with a loving teacher, I replaced them with a newly learned confidence, one that would serve me well later in life as my love for singing grew and expanded for many audiences, but mainly for God. Thank you, Miss Gase.

Meet Mr. Noble.

As polished and elegant was Miss Gase, Mr. Noble was the opposite. He was an older, more seasoned teacher with a bald spot on the top of his head complimented by fluffy tufts of hair around his ears tinted with salt and pepper. His teaching methods weren’t what we’d call “safe” today (his paddle still hung on a corner of his desk) and the map pointer sometimes became a projectile aimed at a sleepy non-responsive student. Every week in our social studies book looked alike with reading, studying, quizzes and tests, but it was what he did with a blackboard and a piece of chalk that shone a new awareness in me–a love for words. Let me explain.

Every Friday Mr. Noble wrote a rather obscure word on the upper right corner of his chalkboard. When we came to class, it was our responsibility to write the word down in our notebooks and the assignment over the weekend was to find out the meaning of the word and write a complete sentence using it correctly. On Monday, when we came back to class for a new week, it was expected of us to have our research completed. This simple assignment was part of our grade.I wish I could remember all the words or phrases I learned from Mr. Noble in 7th grade social studies class, however, I’m sure those obscure words have and continue to make their way into conversations and written documents that I produce today. One phrase I DO remember is: Caveat emptor . If you don’t know what it means, well, how about you do an investigation, write it in a complete sentence and wait for a time when you can use it correctly when speaking with someone.

Meet Miss Roethke.

Miss Roethke was my 9th grade English teacher. She was another seasoned teacher by the time I was in her class. Tall, gray hair always coiffed, with round black glasses framing her blue eyes, she was serious and stern. She didn’t tolerate nonsense in her classroom either and anytime we were out of control she merely flicked the lights on and off a few times to regain our attention followed up with an admonishment. 

Miss Roethke used the upper right corner of her blackboard for similar practice as Mr. Noble. Each week, she’d write a word and it’s grammatical progression so we’d learn proper grammar. Lie. Lay. Laid.   There. Their. Then. Than. Except. Accept. (those familiar troublesome words!)

We read classic novels. We read poetry. We wrote stories. I loved it all! One of my favorites in her class? Listening. When Miss Roethke read poetry to us it’s a miracle I never fell asleep as her mouth and lips formed each word and phrase that made the lyrics jump off the pages as though dancing. The lilt in her voice was soothing and showed a side of Miss Roethke that was otherwise hidden. 

Another time that she appeared “real” to me was the Friday leading into spring break. Just because we’d be off school for a week didn’t mean we were escaping homework. Our assignment over spring break was to choose and read a book. To hold us accountable, we were required to write down the title and author on a sheet of paper she taped to the windowsill. Before leaving school that Friday, I stayed after my last hour and quietly entered her room. She was seated at her desk, a book in hand and we exchanged brief hellos as I walked past her to the window. With my back to her, as I was entering my information, I heard her ask “Miss Jewell, does your family have any special plans for spring break?” I looked up. I didn’t turn around. For a moment I was in shock. “Miss Roethke just spoke to me!” I pondered…she didn’t talk about our classroom work or a particular issue I may have had regarding  understanding conjugating a verb…she asked me about me and my family…I don’t remember what spring break held for our family that year so my answer was a brief “no, nothing special”. I walked into her classroom on a Friday afternoon feeling very much like an average awkward 9th grade girl, but I left with a new skip and bounce in my step and a smile on my face as I walked the many blocks it took to get home. Miss Roethke saw me. She acknowledged my presence on a quiet Friday afternoon in front of a sunny window. And with one simple question she showed me that in addition to being a stickler for learning proper English and enjoying a variety of literature, she engaged outside of all those requirements assigned to her by letting me see that a teacher would be curious about life outside her classroom.

Music. Words. Reading. Writing. Those and more were and remain vital to my passions. But of greater value from lessons learned in junior high years was “being noticed”. Being acknowledged, those one-on-one moments where a need or love to learn were seen, opened with the discovery of new songs to be sung, new books to read, new words to learn and use. New simple questions to be asked. Those beloved teachers are now long gone from the rooms and halls of South Intermediate Junior High but their instruction, their discipline, their encouragement echo in my memories and spill out into my life with many beautiful memories and lessons for my life as I continue to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Oh, did I tell you? Miss Roethke was a sister to Theodore Huebner Roethke, a famous poet. It was often that she read his writings to us, lulling us to a place of deep appreciation and relaxation, which is magical when you think of it, a classroom full of snarky 9th grade boys and girls. In those moments, listening to her, we were temporarily transported to another time and place. Thank you, Miss Roethke, for being stern, gracious, and passionate for the English language. 

A mother is the most important person to have in one’s life. After all, without a mother none of us would be here. I will admit early in the writing of this blog that my mother and I had a relationship that encompassed tension, love, grace, being misunderstood, but above all, love, especially in my adult years when I came to my senses and realized my shortcomings that led to hard conversations. Make no mistake, I loved my mom dearly and learned so much from her. I’d like to tell you about her.

Ida was the baby in her family of six children. My grandparents were German and had immigrated to America in the early 1900s. For her formative years, German was her primary language although English was learned alongside which prepared mom for her parochial education through the 8th grade at the Lutheran church the family attended. Compared to most families living in the 30s and 40s, theirs was of modest income which meant food, shelter, and needs were always met. My Grandpa Hillert worked on trains, grandma was home with the children.

I loved hearing stories about my grandparents whom  I did not have the privilege of knowing before I was born. I heard about how grandpa did all the “marketing”….that grandma spoke very little English and how mom and her sister Emma would go to a movie, come home and act out the plot to their mother, all in German, sitting in the parlour. I was told about Christmas seasons where my grandparents spoke about gifts to be purchased, using Russian or Polish to keep secrets from the children, how mom and Emma would grab hold of a few of those words, run across the street to the neighbor to have them “interpret” the words, but to no avail; they were unable to remember how to pronounce what they’d overheard.

Mom was a good 3 years younger than my dad when they met. Dad and his brother Lyle moved to Saginaw to get jobs in a plant. This was World War II time and Uncle Lyle had met his future wife, Dorothy, whose best friend was Ida. A blind date was arranged between dad and Ida. I don’t recall what the evening held, most likely a movie, but it wasn’t exactly the most exciting time for either of them. As mom explained her side she told me “I didn’t want Jack to think I was hard up for dates so I played hard to get”. When dad told Lyle about the date his version was “I’ll never go out with her again, what a sourpuss”. Well, mom told me that in reality she REALLY liked dad. The “hard to get” was a ploy, and secretly she truly hoped he’d call for a second date. On dad’s side of the failed evening, was Lyle fervently convincing dad to give Ida another chance. And he did.

In 1999 my mother was diagnosed with a second cancer that took her life in March that year. I made the trip home to be with her and I can remember sitting in their living room with my dad. The TV was on but we weren’t really watching it. We had cups of tea, each of us in a cozy chair, and I listened while my dad reminisced 50 plus years of being married to “his Ida”. My favorite thing he told me was “I can still remember what she was wearing the first time I met her. She had on a dark green jumper with a white blouse. She was beautiful, and I thought to myself ‘what did I ever do to deserve such a beautiful woman as this!?’ It was her senior year of high school. As the school year progressed they were steadily dating but no firm commitment had been made so mom made a date for commencement night. His name was Larry. Dad was to work his usual shift at the gun plant in Saginaw, but he had other plans. He skipped work, showed up at Saginaw High School and waited for mom to come outside. Of course, she did, and now faced with two dates she had to choose. She chose dad and whenever she told this story she always emphasized “I felt bad for Larry but I REALLY liked your dad….”

Compared to my dad, mom was more stoic. She was a stay at home mom but as we kids entered grade school she made herself available to be a driver for field trips. She found out at a parent teacher conference for me one year that when my teacher asked “whose mother could possibly be a driver for our trip?” that my little hand went up immediately with the proclamation “mine will, she doesn’t do anything”. No, nothing….if you don’t count keeping a home clean, laundry and ironing, fresh meals three times a day every day, scheduling to have the car for hair or dentist appointments, reffing arguments among siblings or childhood playmates.

In addition to all those hats she wore, was her most treasured one, her unfailing prayer life that was deep yet very private. God was in the right place in her life and we were taught reverence for His Name and the importance of obeying His Word. While I didn’t always appreciate the lessons I had to learn along the way of growing up, later in my life they became a treasure to hold onto and help mold my own faith journey. 

Other small lessons included: “Don’t argue in front of your children. Have those conversations in private”.

“Don’t embarrass your husband in public”

“Never call a child a brat…”

“When you’re making pie crust use VERY cold water and get all your utensils room temperature”

“Don’t worry about having an argument; making up is fun”

“Don’t say OH MY GOD!”

I’m sure there were other lessons but these are the ones that readily come to mind when I think about my mom. Other than church on Sunday, there was no other place she’d rather have been than that of her home. She was proud that she and dad bought the lot, built a house with a salary of $4,000 in the early 50s. The house went through several makeovers but remained her pride and joy. Many family and friends were entertained in the living room that spanned just over 50 years on Arthur Street. It’s where she was most comfortable, it’s where she chose to be during his last days. Facing the harshness of cancer and the treatments that accompanied it, she decided to forego final chemotherapy and declared to her doctor “I want to go home”. After some conversation to do otherwise, true to mom, she stuck to her guns and was discharged from the hospital on a Thursday. We got hospice set up, complete with a bed situated in the living room echoing 50 years of memories for her. She was home and on Sunday of that first weekend, she went “Home”.