When I was six years old we moved. I was the oldest child, and I guess I really liked my school and friends, because the move traumatized me. I begged my mother not to make me go to this new school; I cried - I cried hard. I'm sure it was one of the hardest things my mother would every have to do - make her little six year old son go to school as he walked away, sobbing. But I did go. And I cried every day. I went to the school counselor. But I wasn't happy. And then came Mrs. Pulley.
First grade teachers should get hazard pay. I can't imagine a more demanding job than having to deal with an entire classroom of six year olds. But Mrs. Pulley had to deal with me. A new kid. A new kid that cried every day. A new kid that wanted his mommy. A new kid that caused disruption in her class. But she loved me. She looked out for me. She cared for me. She protected me. And for that, I will always be grateful. She is a saint.
I saw her the other day in the store. She was older than I remember. And smaller. When I saw her, feelings of gratitude and sadness and guilt filled me. I stood there, watching her go by, and I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to embarrass her. I didn't know if she would remember me, or if she did, would she want to? And so, I let that moment pass me by. She may never know how much I appreciate her; what she did for me; gave me strength and courage of her own, when I had none. I wish I had said something. Please forgive me once again Mrs. Pulley.
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