My high school English teacher was a powerhouse. To put it in diplomatic language n she was no lower level in charge d’affaires. She was no shrinking violet. To express her position in military terms, she was the supreme allied commander n a commander-in-chief wearing five stars on her shoulder. She knew her position as chairperson of the English department and all her students were well informed of her authority.

I remember being in her class as if it were yesterday. Our high school burned and school was in session all over town n scattered from churches to the only elementary building near the former high school. Can you imagine fitting high school students into an elementary building without having diurnal chaos?.

Students who were seniors and wanted to graduate and wanted to walk in the procession wearing a cap and gown knew senior English was a necessity for that ‘sheep skin.’ Mrs. Glassco had the grade book and she had the last word. She had a captive audience under her control.

Having said all this, I was challenged by her teaching and by her presence. What small writing skills I had were enhanced by Mrs. Glassco’s demanding that her students keep a daily journal. This activity was not in class, but at your leisure. Often we forgot to write each day. Then we might try one night to complete the week’s entry at one sitting. She could always detect and recognize that method of daily journal writing n which was usually sloppy and mediocre. The first draft was to be thrown out in ‘file 13.’

As a practice in daily journal writing, very seldom did a day pass that I forgot to write my parents while I was overseas in military service. Letters were marked “free,” so I had no reliable excuse. Time has effaced the memory, but I still have the portable, small metal Smith-Corona typewriter bought at the PX in Seoul in 1951. Making a fortunate discovery accidentally is a serendipitous treasure.

Back in the trenches in the classroom one winter morning, Mrs. Glassco confronted me by saying (and the entire class heard it) “You are not paying attention.” I did have my long legs stretched and relaxed. My beloved teacher stood akimbo, glasses on the end of her nose with a colorful shawl draped around her shoulders, and said, “Walter if you cannot quote from the two pages of the literature assignment, I am going to give you an ‘F’ for the six weeks.”

There was no guffaw. The entire class had heard my dilemma n and I made a quick counter-point. With alacrity, my thought was if I can quote from either page, “Will you give me and “A”? No guarantee was made, but I did quote “Maid of Athens” by Byron n even closing with the Greek tine nZw? Uov Oâs ay?itU?. “My life, I love you.” A hard lesson to learn, but she and I became friends. Hopefully, my poem quote did not elide the words of Byron.

As a former student, but now on her staff, Mrs. Glassco introduced me to a new dimension n a tour of a world class museum n The Huntington Library in San Marino, Calif.

She guided me through the myriad of art, history and important American writers on each floor of the museum. Suddenly, we walked into the room displaying the originals of “Pinky” and “Blue Boy.” This was almost too much to comprehend for a Delta boy fresh from the country.

I left Huntington Library with a handwritten (manuscript) of “Annabel Lee” by Edgar A. Poe n which is still hanging near my desk.

This tough, thorough, master teacher gave me a strong competitive spirit that was missing in my life. I am forever grateful to Mrs. Glassco.

As a neophyte teacher on her staff, she was charming and much different from my high school English teacher.

How can I say thanks for the thing you have done for me?

Take time to be grateful,

It is the key to joy.

Take time to pray,

It is the greatest power on earth.

Walter Redden is a Northsider.