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The Sweet Smell of Christmas

This is my pre-Christmas post. I sit by the fire and grade papers, putting in final grades as I go. Some of these grades will be received as cheerfully as a welcome gift; others will be received as a lump of coal. Nevertheless, each is a kind of gift, an unwrapping of the semester and its learning opportunities. The gift, for some, is an awakening of the need to dedicate oneself to the continual work and reward-in-itself of education. At the half-point of my life, if I am lucky enough to live to be 100, I see that education is truly the answer to self-actualization as well as to a person's ability to understand the world around her. It must be accompanied, however, by empathy for others, as the mind cannot do its best alone. It needs the heart, equally invested in becoming better, loving more, and doing more good in the world.

It seems right to me to take the time, then, in the season of giving, to remember those who gave me an education. There are too many to list here, but let me try to acknowledge some of them:

Mrs. Ward, 1st grade: Smyrna, Georgia --- She modeled generosity and concern. Major memory: She gave me a candy bar when I left the school to move to a different city. I believe it was a $100,000 bar, and looking back... wasn't that a symbol of her hopes for me to do well?

Mrs. Barnhart, 2nd grade: Gurley, Alabama -- She applauded my reading ability and let me be the narrator for the class "play" -- a reading of a scratch and sniff Christmas book, The Sweet Smell of Christmas. I can still smell the ginger and cloves in the gingerbread man, the muted peppermint, the evergreen pine, and the orange.

Mrs. Hawk, third grade: Huntsville, Alabama --- well, I didn't like her. She pointed out that I got cursive and print mixed up, but that wasn't so bad. She recommended that I repeat the grade because I was so young. My mother thought better of that. She was also the only teacher who ever caused me to get a whipping, and for what? for sliding down a newly waxed and delightfully slippery floor on my bottom, for fun. It was surely a harmless activity. She did not whip me herself but handed that responsibility over to someone else. I also recall getting my name on the board in her room; I don't recall what for. Nonetheless, Mrs. Hawk taught me that everything does not go my way, that certain people are more rigorous than others, that discipline is part of life even when it is perhaps unfair, and that we can make progress if we push back when we need to, and keep on working.

11th grade, Gurley, Alabama -- yes, I was back there again, and fell in love with Mrs. Barnhart's son, Jimbo. The teacher I remember today, among others, was Mrs. Otey, who caught me skipping class. She taught me that we can't get away with foolishness too often, particularly when we are absent at the same time our boyfriends are.

Freshman year, university: Jacksonville, Alabama: Dr. Clyde Cox. He was not only a brilliant lecturer and a sensitive soul, he taught himself to play piano at 40, and ended up playing at the piano bar at The Victoria, a local beauty of an inn with a fabulous restaurant. From him, I learned that it is not too late to begin a creative adventure.

Sophomore year, university: Susan Methvin -- poet, spiritual mentor, friend, teacher. She taught me how to write poetry. What can I say to show what a difference that made for me?

I'll offer a Christmas poem for my greatest teacher, my mother, whom I miss terribly at Christmas:

Names on Photographs

The Christmas tree is still bare except for an angel

in flaming red robes, fiber optic halo, tilted at the top,

looking as though she will fly down at any moment

and bring us good tidings. According to the Sioux,

a tree itself is embodied with spirit and should be revered.

In the woods, when we think we are alone in silence,

Chief Seattle said, we are surrounded by those who

have gone before, even when memory seems more like myth.

On the mantel a lighted swag, candles, Santa figurines,

silver, gold, and white glitter manger scene under a bright

star with a long reach, and a photograph of me at three

years old seated by another Christmas tree, 1968, in my yellow

pajamas.

In the frame, I smile at my mother, who always wrote

dates and names on backs of photographs, and who sat

me down in front of the television six months later to see

the man land on the moon. She never wanted me to miss

out on anything.

“The dead are not powerless,” said Chief Seattle.

I haven’t missed out. If we count the years in the native way,

by moons and seasons, I’ve been here fifty winters, many moons.

The moon, some natives say, is the spirit of a much-beloved

woman.

What a gift, lifelong, to have had her in flesh and bone,

now an angel, tree-spirit, moon-mother, bright star with a long

reach. Come and take my photo; I’ll sit near the tree and smile

into the camera. On the back, we’ll write our names.

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