All The Good Things
He was in the third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in
Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark
Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, he had that
happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional
mischievousness delightful.
Mark also talked incessantly. I tried to remind him again and again that
talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so
much, though, was the sincere response every time I had to correct him
for misbehaving. 'Thank you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know
what to make of it at first but before long I became accustomed to
hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too
often. I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If
you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking
again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but
since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my
desk, very deliberately opened the drawer and took out a roll of masking
tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two
pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then
returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That
did it! I started laughing. The entire class cheered as I walked back to
Mark's desk, removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders. His first
words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior high math. The years
flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was
more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen
carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in
ninth grade.
One Friday things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new
concept all week, and I sensed that the students were growing frustrated
with themselves—and edgy with one another. I had to stop this
crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of
the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space
between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they
could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, but as
the students left the room, each one handed me their paper. Chuck
smiled. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good
weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate
sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that
individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Some of them
ran two pages. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I
heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I
didn't know others liked me so much!"
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The
exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with
themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I had
returned from a vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were
driving home, Mother asked the usual questions about the trip: How the
weather was, my experiences in general. There was a slight lull in the
conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply said,
"Dad?" My father cleared his throat. "The Eklunds called last night," he
began.
"Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them for several years. I wonder
how Mark is"
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The
funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."
To this day I can still point to the exact spot on 1-494 where Dad told
me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked
so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I
would give all the masking tape in the world if only you could talk to
me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The
Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the
funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the
usual prayers and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved
Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers
who had acted as a pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math
teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark
talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's
farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously
waiting for me. "We want to show you something," his father said,
taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he
was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook
paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I
knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had
listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can
see, Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Chuck smiled rather
sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my
desk at home." John's wife said, "John asked me to put his in our
wedding album." "I have mine, too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out
her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry
this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think
we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his
friends who would never see him again.
Author: Helen P. Mrosla
Seen in: chicken soup for the soul #1
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