A couple weeks ago I received a Facebook friend request from a “Scott Kenyon”. The name sounded familiar, but I’ve responded to similar friend requests before and gotten hacked, so I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of resetting my account and reaching out to all my legitimate friends warning them of my misfortune. I didn’t want them to fall into the same trap by getting a request from a hacked account.
A few days passed and I received a message through Facebook messenger. This is what it said.
Mr. Tebo, do you remember me? While attending a recent 50th class reunion committee meeting for Plainwell High School class of 1976. The subject of favorite teachers came up. I did a little research and stumbled upon Robert Tebo my 7th grade homeroom teacher in 1970. I also discovered your book. Wow talk about time travel. You made me laugh and you made me cry. So sorry about Ruth. I read it twice while sitting on the beach in Gulf Shores Alabama. I also signed up for your blog. Love the stories. Keep um coming. Sincerely, Scott Kenyon.
I’m happy to hear from Scott. I hope he reads this because I want him to know how grateful I am for the kind words. Educators work with thousands of kids during their careers. You know in your heart that you’re going to touch a few, but you’re never sure of how many or how deeply. And you certainly don’t know how long the memory will last.
If I told you that I remembered everything there was to know about Scott, that would be a lie. I do remember he was a handsome kid. He couldn’t have been a troublemaker because I’d remember that. I don’t, so he wasn’t.
I had lunch last week with my sister, Sharron, and my niece, Susan. It was the first time Barbara met the two of them. While we were talking, Susan commented on her mom’s teaching career. Sharron’s been in Brown City since she started teaching, and at seventy-six, former students still remember her and say hello in the local grocery store. Susan thinks that’s cool. So do I.
Ruth and I went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for twenty-five spring breaks in a row. David was three when we started, and it was just the two of us for the final few years. We stopped in an out of the way restaurant on one of the trips, and an attractive lady approached me and asked, “Are you Mr. Tebo?” I confirmed that I was, and she told me that I was her favorite teacher and she brought her two daughters over to the table and introduced us. I’d estimate that thirty years had passed, and she still recognized me.
I wish I remembered her name, but I don’t. She told me she was the younger sister of Valerie Morris. I remember Valerie. She was in my first homeroom in the fall of 1969. I remember her because she was lightning quick and the point guard on my homeroom basketball team. That was the first time I coached such a team and she was my best player. And yes, she excelled in the classroom as well.
In March of 2018, I wrote a story about one of my teaching day friends, Ken. He’s a few years older than me and was one of my unofficial mentors. This is the portion of the story that mentioned Valarie.
Most of the junior high teachers had a homeroom. My group was 7-D. 7th grade, fourth group. We had a series of activities organized around homerooms. One of the big competitions was a basketball tournament. There was a boys’ tournament and a girls’ tournament. Separate but equal. I was fortunate to have a pretty good group of girls. One of the girls, Valarie, could do it all – shoot, dribble, re-bound, pass and she was lightning fast. Coaching basketball was not my strong suit, but I enjoyed working with the kids and had a good time.
During one exciting, close game, I called time out so that we could set up a play. I don’t remember the play, and I wouldn’t have remembered any of the tournament if it wasn’t for Ken. As the timeout ended, I sent the girls back onto the court and as I did, I patted Valarie on the butt. I probably said something like, “Get in there and make the shot.”
I don’t know if it was later that day, or next morning during our planning hour, Ken pointed out the error of my ways. “Bob, you can’t be patting girls on the butt.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. He recounted my steps during the timeout and, sure enough, I did pat Valarie on the butt. I was caught up in the excitement of the game and gave her a pat of encouragement, that if taken in the wrong context, could have been seen as being sexual. It wasn’t, but Ken was right, I shouldn’t have. I kept my hands in my pockets throughout the rest of the tournament.
Some memories stay tucked away in the corners of our minds, waiting to surface without warning. I doubt Scott would have remembered me if he hadn’t been helping plan his fifty-year high school reunion. And I wouldn’t have thought of him, or be writing this now, if he hadn’t reached out. But he did, so I am.
If I’m right, twelve-year-old Scott and I are both collecting social security these days. Valerie is too. She’s a year older than Scott. Her sister, the attractive woman who recognized me on one of my last trips to Myrtle Beach, might be as well. Funny how life works. I’ve always believed you never know what you might do or say that could change someone’s life forever. Scott poked at an old memory, and in the process, he’s changed mine.