“For those who would squash dreamers and their dreams, God had surely sent Miss Greenlee as the antidote.”
–
Miss Lucinda Greenlee was utterly, completely beautiful from head to toe, and then some.
I could tell right away she loved being a teacher because she smiled freely and often, like sunshine in summer. And kids couldn’t help but smile right back at her.
She didn’t look at all like the other teachers in their plain, prim dresses and drab catalog-order suits. Miss Greenlee wore lovely, smart blouses from sophisticated foreign lands, and skirts splashed with patterns of butterflies or colorful birds or bold, bright stripes running down them — or big flowers you could almost smell like a flow of perfume from the quality fabrics.
Sometimes she even wore handsome slacks with a fitted waist, like the women who’d worked in the factories during the war. Only Miss Greenlee’s slacks were soft and butter colored, like a movie actress might wear. And her shiny, blond hair spilled long and glamorous past the back of her open collars, offsetting her clear, blue eyes.
On the opposite end of the food chain, however, I was shocked to discover one teacher at Havenwood School who was certifiably, pure awful . . .
She was old and sour, with withered skin as blanched as baking flour. And every day wore the same depressing, dark crepe dress that reeked of mothballs, with her sparse, slate-colored hair trapped in a twisted knot at the back of her neck.
Her nose was shaped like a wilted carrot, her mouth an unforgiving slit. And her narrow, hateful eyes were black and gleamless.
Naturally, I figured she was about as friendly as a rattlesnake with rabies.
Artistic License
I’d been going to school for less than a week when I spied the old woman out in the schoolyard, planted stubbornly under a hickory tree with her hands on her bony hips, hurling disapproving scowls like javelins aimed at Miss Greenlee’s classroom.
I watched in awe as she sputtered and spewed the-devil-only-knew-what grievances to our handsome, well-groomed principal, Mister Attabee, while he stood there and took it like a saint.
When she finally stopped to gasp for breath, Mister Attabee removed his hands from his trouser pockets and raised them, ever so slowly, to his chest. Then he hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders, cleared his throat and ended that conversation once and for all.
“Ahem! Pardon me, Miss Hickey, but Miss Greenlee has artistic license. Don’t you have a Latin class to teach somewhere?”
And away she huffed with her pruney face screwed up so tight it practically swallowed her warts — plotting a lonely revenge, no doubt.
Dream Teacher and Witch
Timmy and Mama had warned me about Miss Hickey; they just hadn’t told me how ugly she was.
She’d been terrorizing Havenwood School, droning Latin grammar at snoozing students with her witchy voice and a willow switch hidden under her desk, for as long as anyone could remember. And having witnessed her encounter with Mister Attabee, how she managed to keep her job was a mystery to me. But I concluded that he must have had his reasons to allow it.
One thing was sure: He was right to defend Miss Greenlee.
I imagined she had her artistic license framed somewhere at home, too, because she let us paint pictures of whatever we wanted, She encouraged us to render our art as we saw fit and never questioned our choices. You could draw conclusions in the dirt and call it art, for all she cared . . .
For those who would squash dreamers and their dreams, God had surely sent Miss Greenlee as the antidote.
It was on my first day of school, as I was gazing out the window and across the distant hilltops toward Silver Bear Lake, when she floated like a whisper past my desk and murmured, “Daydreams are like butterflies.”
And her words set instantly in place a precious and unspoken bond between us.
~
Copyright©2008, 2013 D.J. Houston. All Rights Reserved.
Spirit Of The Butterfly by Carol Cavalaris
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Mystery Story Intrigue – Freedom, Inspirations and Wisdom – Havenwood School
Posted in Inspirations, Wisdom, tagged America, American Literature Treasures, Art Artists, Coming of Age Story, Inspiring Stories, Life Journey, Magical Mystery, Native American Stories, Secrets, Self Awareness, Social Commentary, Special Teachers, Spirits & Ghosts on April 27, 2011| 15 Comments »
PART II of the excerpt from HAVENWOOD TALES Beginnings– “Spring in Heartland America”
Missed PART I ? – CLICK HERE
*
I must say, I had the most godawful urge to stick my tongue out at spiteful old Miss Hickey, the Latin teacher. Her mission in life since before she was born had apparently been to hate anything and everything new and different; that much seemed obvious. But I’d figured out enough about human nature to know that it probably wasn’t really me she was mad at. I just didn’t know who.
I did put an end to her using me for a firing range, though. Daring, considering she had that willow switch hidden under her desk. But it was easy!
One day, I hung outside her classroom door with my arms stacked full of fresh library books till she sniffed me out. And when she huffed over to shoot me the daggers, I just gave her my goofiest grin.
Now, nobody EVER smiled at Miss Hickey. So after both her eyes popped out of her head and rolled on the floor like gumballs (. . . that’s how I saw it, anyway), needless to say, she never bothered to glare at me again. Blame it on the power of imagination, if you like. But, hey — Mission accomplished.
In that glorious Spring before I turned seven, little could suppress my urge to learn. I had given myself free rein.
With reading treasures I culled from Havenwood School’s library and the books of her own Miss Greenlee loaned me — books filled with beautiful illustrations and intriguing photographs that could tell their stories without even needing words — the whole new world Mama promised me when I first started school was mine to explore every day.
Through books, I could marvel at masterful statues in London and Greece, canal boats in Venice, four seasons in Paris; explore Ireland’s pastoral sheep farms, and scamper with wild goats in the Scottish Highlands.
Aboriginal Dreamtime
I could wonder at the linear depictions of skinny Egyptian queens and kings and track the hieroglyphic stories of their lives. I could listen to Dreamtime Story spirits of Australia’s Aboriginal people, and feel the throbbing rhythms of African Zulu warriors dancing the hunt as their pictures came alive for me. And I could dream of my life’s journey carrying me across the vast oceans of earth, to make friends with fascinating people in foreign lands.
Through books, I became enthralled with the art and culture of my Native American ancestors, and amazed by the genius of Renaissance Men in America. Benjamin Franklin, George Washington Carver, witty Samuel Clemens with his pen name, Mark Twain, all spoke to me.
And I would later come to know the Founding Fathers of my nation, and realize–after the dark years that followed my own generation’s folly–how much the character of these great men and others of their ilk helped shape a Neo-Renaissance awakening.
And in my youth, their foresight, will and wisdom inspired me to believe in my ability to help in this world, and fueled my determination to visit my friend Mister Walling again, even if it had to be a secret . . .
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C O N T I N U E D – C L I C K for Surprising Part III
Author D. J. Houston
Copyright©2011, 2014 D.J. Houston. All Rights Reserved.
Magical Mystery – Social Commentary – Coming of Age Story – American Literature Treasures
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