The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”

‘Teachers’

Six months ago at Veterans Gardens, the plants weren’t green enough. Weren’t full enough.

We brought in a new landscaper. An artist’s soul. We walked through the garden. He put his weathered hands deep in the dirt.

He said our garden didn’t need new plants. We needed better soil. He said it’s all about the soil. He said with great soil, plants can blossom beyond their wildest dreams.

This morning I walked through that same garden. Beaming with green, lush, full-of-life plants.

I was pulled back in time to the soil in a different garden. Grade school days.

When my parents went to the year-end, parent-teacher conferences at St. Francis Xavier, my brother and I preemptively put on a stack of underwear under our pajamas covering our rumps—preparing for the bad news that was sure to walk in that door.

My third-grade class? Three classrooms. Fifty kids in each one. They hadn’t invented air-conditioners yet.

My parents sat me down.

They told me my teacher, Mrs. Husfield, said she moved my seat across the room so I’d stop staring out the window all day long.

She told my parents she didn’t know what to do with me. She said she was on the fence about either holding me back a year—or having me skip a couple grades.

A few days later in class, in a quiet moment, Mrs. Husfield came up behind me at my desk. She whispered in my ear, “You keep looking out that window. I have a feeling you’re going to find what you’re looking for.”

Never forgot that.

In eighth grade, I met Sister Virginia. A spunky, too-young nun, full of dreams and love. Fiery red hair peeked out of her nun garb that tried so hard to cover up who she was.

She gave me maybe the greatest gift you can give someone.

She believed in me.

Virginia has been a pen pal for life. Left the convent and nunhood and lived happily-ever-after with her partner—reimagining ways to make a profound difference in children’s lives.

My creative writing teacher in high school, John Wheeler, gave me an “F” on my first paper. He told me safe gets me an “F” in his class. Told me to write something that looks like a mirror. Opened my eyes to the art of creativity.

Down the river at college at U. of Kentucky. A sophomore biology professor stood in front of our class and said the only reason he was a teacher was so he could teach this one story a year.

Showed us a picture of a scab.

Told us how it worked. How you cut your arm and an army from your body somehow, some way, all gather on that very spot to do its work.

First, builds a tent over the scab. Then gets to work. Calls in the “medics” squad in your body. They see what’s wrong, talk about it, fix it and stitch up the cut. No medicines necessary. After they’re all done, they bring back the crew to tear down the tent over the scab.

Down comes the tent, and you’re good as new.

He said there, right there. There’s the wonder of life. There’s a Picasso.

Right on your arm.

Opened my eyes to a lifetime gift of searching for that wonder in the boundless treasure chest of science.

And the richest bed of soil was right in my own childhood home, selflessly tilled by my mother and father.

The lover and the boxer.

A dad who would look us seven kids in the eyes as we walked out the back door and say like he was Mel Gibson in “Gladiator,” “Be a Dunne.”

And a mom who would walk me to my bike, kiss me on the head and tell me to “be kind.”

My mom always said that the greatest two gifts a parent can give their child are love—and the greatest of them all … respect.

I’m sure you’d agree, teachers come in all shapes and sizes. Brothers, sisters, friends, coaches, authors, bosses, gardeners.

Teachers.

Great ones steer our lives.

Just enough that we barely know it, but just enough to make all the difference.

Not because of what they told us from a book, but from their hearts.

If you wouldn’t mind, I hope you take a moment right now.

Fifteen seconds.

I’ll start my watch.

Think about those teachers—in your remarkable journey.

And that rich, rich soil you’ve had right under your feet.