End of the year teacher's story

Carol Ferguson was wrapping up her room the week after school let out for summer. She had been a teacher for thirty-nine years, the last thirty-three in this inner city high school district and at this particular school. When she told people how long she had been there and just after their gasp, she would comment “Well, I have changed rooms over the years.” What she didn’t say was the last twenty had been in this particular room, tucked away in one of the older wings. Now, at the end of her career, Carol Ferguson found herself trying to find a place for the lifetime of memories, most of which she knew she couldn’t take home. It was time for Carol Ferguson to make room for the new teachers and time for her to rest. Carol Ferguson struggled with the idea of whether it had been worth it.

She walked the room as if lost. She would start packing a box then flitter to another part of the room. She would bog down with opening a book or a file and finding something that she hadn’t looked at for years, in this case, a file with cards from students. She would linger over their words and pictures. Carol Ferguson would then smile and again wander the room, trying to find a place to put the old treasure. She had until the end of the week to clear out. A new teacher was transferring in and wanted to get keys and move in before they got too deep into summer. It was at this point Carol Ferguson heard a knock on her open door.

“Hello,” the old man with the cane said. He was about seventy but looked older with a hunched back and a long mustache. A well worn hat covered his head.

“Hello,” she said.

“Are you Carol Ferguson?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

The old man shuffled a few steps into the room before he spoke. “You don’t know me. But I needed to see you.” The man paused for a moment.

“Would you like to sit down?” she offered but the man held up his hand.

“No, I can’t stay. I just needed to see you.” There was another pause. “Thirty years ago, you had my kids. They was one behind the other in ages,” the old man slowly started, a tinge of southern drawl hung in his voice. “Two boys and a girl.”

“What were their names?”

“It ain’t important. What is important is what you did.”

Carol Ferguson had a flash of worry. Fear, quickly swept over her; as if this man posed a violent threat and that she was going to pay for some mis-deed from years past.

The old man’s voice began to break. “You see, I wasn’t around much when they was growin’ up. I wasn’t around at all, by choice, I guess. Their mother raised them as best she could and they were ripe for the pickin’ if you get my meaning. They could have gone either way. I hadn’t seen them since until last year. They found me and we all got together and,” he paused again and caught his voice. “It’s something now. Really something. I needed to come tell you because when we was talkin’ they said one thing that got them through and that they remembered for, well, until now, was their high school teacher, Mrs. Ferguson, giving them the will and the courage to believe. One’s a contractor in Chicago, one’s a writer for a magazine in LA, and the girl is a teacher in the South Miami. They all said between momma and you, they made it. I just came here to tell you thank you for saving my kids.”

The two stood for a moment and neither spoke. The old man shuffled in his turn and left the same way he came in. Carol Ferguson walked over to her desk and sat down, still holding the treasure in her hand. She opened the file and a card fell out. She picked it up and opened it, noticing it was signed by three kids-two boys and a girl.

Carol Ferguson closed the file, laid it on her desk, and began to cry tears of joy.