OCTOBER 9, 2021 – Our granddaughter is several weeks into kindergarten, and as close-by grandparents, we share in pick-up and after-school “entertainment” duties. For us the kindergarten experience was in a galaxy far, far away, but not so many light years that lots of details can’t be remembered. Our hard drives had ample storage.
One detail was that two of the oldest teachers in my school were teaching the youngest kids. I liked this arrangement, since white hair, it seemed, had a reassuring effect. Both kindergarten teachers, “Miss Squires” and “Miss Murphy,” had white hair, and we kindergartners benefited from the corresponding effect. “Miss Squires” also wore very red lipstick, was smartly attired, and spoke with an accent from another part of the country—south or west—all of which gave her a distinct advantage, I thought, in maintaining classroom control. “Miss Murphy’s” approach was less patient and her voice, more disciplinary.
Both teachers had years of experience and were in full command of their roles. They approached each day and each of their charges with sincere dedication and undivided attention. Their energy never flagged, and every word, every motion reinforced the impression that they were placed on earth to teach kindergarten.
Miss Squires and Miss Murphy lived on the second floor of a white, well-kempt duplex a few blocks from school. They took trips together too, to interesting places, and I remember my parents taking me to a PTA meeting at which the two travelers presented a fully narrated slide show featuring their summer odyssey. I was impressed by their adventurous spirit and curiosity about the world beyond our small town.
As I advanced up the elementary school food chain, Miss Squires and Miss Murphy remained at their posts, ushering kindergartners like our granddaughter into the world of structured learning. I saw these memorable teachers less and less, but whenever I did encounter them in the central hallway, they’d greet me warmly, and I’d feel better about the state of the world and my place in it.
Then came the dark day four years after kindergarten. I was in Miss Gorham’s fourth grade class. She was of the same vintage as the kindergarten teachers, and equally dedicated. There wasn’t a wasted minute in her room. After noon recess, we were in the middle of serious learning, when Miss Murphy opened our classroom door. Her face looked as stern as I’d ever seen it. She looked squarely at Miss Gorham and said, “The president has been shot.” Beyond that, Miss Murphy offered no details but moved on to the next classroom.
Jackie Rudrud, who sat directly across from me in the next row, burst into tears. Moments later, the voice of Mr. Kuefler, the principal, crackled over the intercom. School would be letting out early.
All Americans over 63 can remember where they were and what they were doing the moment they learned of JFK’s assassination. We students at Franklin Elementary School will forever remember the messenger that day—the kindergarten teacher, Miss Murphy.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
