View of Toledo

With my elbow propped on the desktop, I shielded my eyes from the teacher. Instead of working on the math problems in front of me, I stared longingly out the window of my prison. My hand itched to pick up a paint brush, to lose myself in duplicating the scene outside. The dark sky provided a dramatic backdrop for the bright green of newly formed leaves. Wind rippled across the stars and stripes, unfurling Old Glory to salute the approaching storm. Gray clouds churned angrily past the wide windows. A rumble of thunder began softly, swelling into a roar loud enough to rattle the thick glass panes. A powerful storm was brewing.

I would much rather be outside than cooped up inside this stuffy classroom. I have always loved the feel of wind on my face, the scent of approaching rain, and the rumble of thunder in the distance. Besides, I wasn’t a great student, mediocre at best, but with a better attitude and a little more work I could have gotten straight A’s. I hated school. How had loving school in first grade turned to hatred in a mere six years?

As I witnessed the power of nature, my mind wandered back to a time when a four year old girl had wanted to go to school so badly, that instead of running away from school, she ran to school. It had been storming that day, too. The sun was shining when I told my mother I would be wading in the tiny creek below the house. Unaware a storm would soon hit, I jumped the creek, climbed the hill, and made my way over the fence that separated our property from the school playground.

I quietly slipped inside the main door, cringing at the latch’s loud click as it closed behind me. Flip flops had barely touched tile floor when I was detained by a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, hello there,” the woman said.

Timidly looking at my feet, hands clasped behind my back, I answered, “Hello.”

“I’m Mrs. Young. What’s your name?”

“Betty,” I murmured in a small voice.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

“Betty,” I repeated loudly.

“Where do you live Betty?”

“Over there,” I said, pointing toward the east.

“Is your last name Cather?” she questioned.

“Y-yes,” I stammered through the nervous chattering of tiny teeth.

“You must be Otis’ sister.”

“Yes.” At that, I looked up and smiled. “Is he here?”

“Let’s go see Mr. Marshall and find out,” she said softly.

Mrs. Young escorted me down the hall toward the principal’s office.

The principal greeted me with a kindly smile. Bending down to my level, he listened intently as Mrs. Young explained my predicament.

“I guess we better have your brother walk you home. I’ll be right back,” Mr. Marshall said as he gave me a quick pat on the shoulder.

The principal returned with my brother in tow. Otis didn’t look happy to see his pesky sister at school. Nevertheless, since he is the best brother ever, he didn’t make me feel bad about my adventure, he just led me toward the exit. Unfortunately, when we opened the door to go outside, the ground was white with gumball size hail, and it was pouring down rain. Otis didn’t bring up the fact that I was going to be in big trouble; he just helped me across the fence and followed me to the house.

When I entered the kitchen, my mom’s happiness at seeing me alive soon changed to a frown. Mrs. Young had intercepted me before I could explore the school, although not before my mother was pelted by hail while searching for me.

Even though Mrs. Young hadn’t allowed me to wander through school that stormy spring day, she was the teacher who taught me to read, so I forgave her for ending my fun.

From the moment I learned to read, I didn’t want to do anything else. Books became my cure-all. When I was sad, I read a book. When I was sick, I read a book. I even read books when I was happy. I was the child with a flashlight beneath the covers, trying to stay awake long enough to find out what happens next. I loved summer vacation because I could read a whole book in a day. I enjoyed reading so much that I dreamed of becoming a writer myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t think I would ever be able to come up with an interesting story, or enough words to fill a book.

I’m not sure what happened to me between first and sixth grades. Somewhere along the way my passion for learning had died.

I was startled from my reverie by the teacher clearing her throat.
“Okay, class,” Mrs. Everhart said. “Since your attention seems to be outside instead of on your Math homework, I want you to write a two page essay about what you see.”

Groans erupted from several of the more vocal students.

Tapping a ruler on the desk to regain order, she continued, “You have thirty minutes. Get started.”

I took one more look at the stormy sky, reluctantly opened my notebook, and started writing. Surprisingly, I didn’t need time to think about what to write, the words seemed to magically appear on the page. I wrote about how the colors of the stormy sky reminded me of the painting, View of Toledo by El Greco. I compared the painted sky over Toledo, Spain to the actual sky over Toledo, Illinois. I explained how that particular painting embodied the two things I loved most…art and storms.

I don’t know if Mrs. Everhart was impressed by my story, or the fact that a sixth grader actually knew there was an artist named El Greco. Whatever caused her to notice my essay; she gave it an A+.

A simple A or a complimentary remark written in red ink across the top of the page would have been enough to make me happy, yet her praise didn’t end there, she read my words aloud to the class.

Looking directly at me she said, “I want to share an essay with you.”

Embarrassed at being singled out, I slipped lower in my seat. As I listened to my words repeated out loud, something unexpected happened. Pride exploded inside me, straightening my slumped posture, filling me with a need to learn more about the art of story telling.

Mrs. Everhart will probably never know the gift she gave me that day. It was the day I realized I had something to say that others might find worth reading. On a stormy spring day, inside a classroom that no longer felt airless, a passion for writing was born.

Story ID:	1710
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family Memories
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Toledo IL USA
Year:	1955