Mariann

It was a rainy fall day when she came into my third-grade classroom, wearing a light beige raincoat.  She had a steno pad in one hand, a Flair pen in the other, and she was looking everywhere.  A tall, older gentleman was with her, clad in overalls and the predecessor of a Carhart coat, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.  She would look at a wall, or look at the ceiling, gesticulate with her Flair pen hand, and write something down, while the man sipped coffee and nodded cordially.

Time passed, and I moved into upper school.  One of my teachers was running late for homeroom, so I went to see if we could get her room unlocked. This was my first encounter with Mariann, who was in charge of just about everything.  Ours was a small school, so we knew of each other, but we hadn’t ever exchanged a word.

Given the schoolwide respect and admiration Mariann had, I approached her with a careful mix of reverence and fear.

“Mariann?”

“Yes, Patrick.”

I’d been at the school about five years, and, in addition to making sure things were fixed, busses came in from field trips at 1AM, substitute teachers were arranged, and a thousand other things, Mariann’s radar was wide enough to know the comings, goings, and nature of Every. Single. Student. Including me.

I explained my dilemma, and she seemed at ease.  “Oh, OK.  My keys are in my purse.”

Wow.  I carefully lifted the top of the purse, and the new view revealed a lined interior, replete with a wad of keys, various bits of paper, a lipstick tube—and a pack of Camel straights.

Not only was Mariann smart, industrious, kind, and blessed with a keen appreciation for order—Mariann knew all about me, and Mariann was a real woman.  I returned the keys, and spread the word about Mariann’s drag of choice.  For about a week, everyone seemed to have a heightened reverence for Mariann.  I think some of the boys even called her sir.

Mariann put in the good word that got me my first job, which in turn earned me an invitation to her house one Sunday for dinner, where she put me in charge of grilling $100 worth of steak, even though I’d never barbecued (miraculously, it was a hit).  She came to my wedding (“Women always wear hosiery in church”), she cooed over my kids, and she warned me of the perils of her least favorite things—Jello and chewing gum. 

She was the first person to tell me I was a good teacher (“In Patrick’s classroom, it’s like real school”), she sent me a nutmegger as a housewarming gift (“Do you know what it is?” she asked when I thanked her. “Sure” I responded—since I had called the store and asked) and she likely gave me too much financial aid when my kids went to school there.  When it was time to dedicate the new garden at the school, it was named after her—and I got to throw the schoolwide surprise party. No honor I have since earned was cherished more than that one.

We have an embroidery in our home that was in Mariann’s living room for years.  When I see it, I remember her, especially around her birthday in November, and think of the day I delivered a bouquet of 75 white roses, all in one vase, for that special birthday. After she tore open the paper, there was a long pause, then “Well, Patrick, if you wanted to impress me, you’ve done it.”

Likewise, dear one.

November Sky

Artists flock to Santa Fe
For the special blue that’s in the sky.
It’s something, to be sure
But outside my Michigan window
In and around hunting season
The grey-blue hue of the world
Calls on us to reconsider
Who we are
What’s got us here
And how to go forward
And we long for hot spiced cider.

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