Above you see a picture of Ephraim, Wisconsin.

 

Sure it is picturesque and tourists flock to the harbor every summer to take photographs while lovers sit on benches, holding hands and watching the sun set on Lake Michigan. But, for me, the most beautiful spot in town isn't in this picture. It's just off to the right, on top of a hill. A grey, square building hidden in the shadows of the trees. Now, it is the fire station. Driving past, the garage in the back houses giant red beasts ready to flare up at a moment's notice to take on any emergency situation.

 

In 1980, though, that garage wasn't there; the gaudy sign did not block the view of the building's front steps. In 1980, this building still was dedicated to educating kindergarteners. With two floors, little kids for decades had been bursting through those big wooden doors to toss around snowpants, rain coats, wind-breakers, and umbrellas. They would head up the stairs and in a three-quarter square, the little ones would find a piece of masking tape on the floor with their name. This was where they would sit, cross legged, taking in the sights of the room.

 

10 little, non-politically correct, Indians helped kids count from posters forming the boarder above the doors, a piano sat near the front of the room guarding the books, and Peamoony the puppet rested on his perch. We had two teachers in that little school, Mrs. Erickson and Mrs. Loving, but today with it being the Valentine's Day season, Mrs. Loving is on my mind.

 

Mrs. Erickson was the more academic teacher, drilling phonics and math facts; Mrs. Loving was the instructor of being a good person. Peamoony was a puppet with no eyes and no mouth, but with a large nose and even bigger ears. Peamoony was a great listener, and he encouraged all of us to put on our listening ears wherever we were, because if we don't pay attention, we might miss something important.

 

Patch the Little Pony was a series of film strips that taught us to say "neigh, neigh, stay away from strangers"--and the record player would play songs, such as the one about Razor, the loyal dalmatian that was the firemen's dog.

 

They were great teachers, but behind all of these imaginary friends was the very real figure of Mrs. Loving. She was a large woman, who wore large floral dresses that had a lace collar, and her eyes seemed to be half the size of her face as they were hidden underneath her large, round tortoise shell rimmed glasses. The other half of her face seemed to be taken up by her smile, which was in a frozen position of potential laughter. Her cheeks were plump, and because of her size she kind of waddled when she walked.  

 

Valentine's Day was her favorite day. She found each kid at some point in the day, sat down with them in a quiet space, and took their hands in her own.  She used those big eyes to look, to really look at each of us; and in a half whisper she would reveal to us a secret about ourselves we never knew.

 

She had a little speech she would give about Valentine's Day being about not only about who we loved but what we loved about ourselves, and then she would tell each kid what it was that made him or her special in her eyes. She told us that she loved us, and not one of us doubted her words. And then she would give each a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

 

"Justin, you help out anyone who asks for it, no matter what...and that is special"---that was for me.

 

"Tanya, you are strong in all different ways"--that was for my sister.

 

"Susie, you are beautiful inside and out"--or something close to that, said my mother on the phone tonight. 

 

It had nothing to do with chocolate, or paper cut-outs bought at the grocery store, or candy hearts, or flowers--it was a simple sentiment that was simply told to the impressionable children in her classes. And we all remembered it, and I know I am not the only one.

 

In 1995, I lived in Minneapolis and was planning for my own high school graduation.  My cousins, who were in my kindergarten class, told me that by a unanimous vote--Mrs. Loving was to be the speaker at their high school graduation. She had just retired, her walk was even a little slower than all the kids remembered, but she still had those big eyes and that bigger smile. 

 

Though I wasn't able to go to the ceremony, and only heard about it through my extended family, I had been invited to attend because I had been there--in her class, in the small school in Ephraim that had been closed down by that time--and when she got up on the stage, she brought Peamoony with her--the 18 year olds, the big jocks in the crowd busting out of their royal blue and gold gowns all the way down to the shy, bookish types that never said a peep in school--all of them roared with applause as they stood up to cheer on the sight of their old friend--and he taught them one more lesson about the importance of listening, listening to the voice in ourselves.

 

So, on this Valentine's Day I write this for her...for Mrs. Loving, who is no longer with us, but who sat down with five year olds, holding their small hands in her own, looking in their young faces hoping against hope that only good things would befall them in life--and if nothing else, she wanted to give each something to hold on to that could never be taken away, no matter what happened--and she did...boy, she did.

 

Mrs. Loving, yes, it was her real name...and it is her legacy.