Every once in awhile, if you’re lucky, you get a teacher who changes your life.
I’ve been fortunate to have had a few over the years, notably my cello and orchestra teachers, without whose influence I would be a very different person. But I also had one very special English teacher in high school: a wonderful lady by the name of Penny. All of her senior students got to call her by her first name, and I was looking forward to earning that privilege upon completing her class at the end of my junior year. It was the spring of 2004, and I had loved her English class. It was hard work – Penny didn’t take crap from anyone, and she also didn’t accept any late work. She demanded and received responsibility, attention, and excellence from her students. Through literature, poetry, and essay writing, she got us to think critically, to examine the deepest parts of ourselves, and to develop empathy and compassion for others. Imagine my dismay, then, when she told my class that we were to be her final students – she was retiring.
Not to be deterred, I struck up a friendship with Penny after she left teaching. I had connected with her on a deeper level than most kids find with their high school teachers, and I didn’t want to lose that bond. She seemed to value me too. When Penny, who had long been a single mom, got married in 2004, I was the first student at school that she told. It hadn’t been a big to-do of a wedding, and it hadn’t even occurred to her to announce it to her students. But she felt like she should tell someone, so she confided in me one day after class. Being a self-absorbed 16-year-old, this didn’t make much of an impact on me at the time and I had almost forgotten about it. But years later she reminded me of this fact and shared what it had meant to her to have a student she could trust with the details of her personal life.
So what was Penny’s influence on me? She didn’t teach me to write. I was already pretty competent by the time I got to her class. Although she did, however, help me refine and examine my writing, and taught me the value of using writing as a means of self-reflection. She didn’t teach me to appreciate literature, either. I was already a bookworm. I read some great stories and poetry in her class, but I could have done that on my own. What Penny did was she told me I could be a writer. 
Autumn foliage in Oregon
She didn’t just say it once, either. She would write it in her comments on my school essays. She would write it in her emails about my blog posts. Over the course of nineteen years, during which we kept in touch and would get together when I came back to town, she never neglected to encourage me to become an author. She said that whenever I got up the courage to write a book, she would gladly volunteer as an editor. During that whole time, outwardly, I was enjoying my career as a music teacher. But deep down, I really wanted to write.
Admittedly, until recently, I never seriously considered ditching my music career to become a writer. I had invested too much time and energy into teaching music to even fathom giving it up. And besides, a healthy dose of realism and pessimism prevented me from thinking I could ever succeed as an author. But Penny planted that seed in the fertile soil of my mind twenty years ago, and finally the first tender sprouts are springing forth. The specter of failure still sits with me every time I sit down at my writing desk, but I’ve found the courage and the confidence that Penny always knew were there.
I last saw Penny in person around Thanksgiving 2019. I brought my then three-year-old daughter with me to Penny’s house and Penny was absolutely delighted to chat with me about books, films, and travels and to play hide and seek with my daughter behind the cushions of her overstuffed couch. We had a lovely time together, but I could tell that something wasn’t quite right. When we had knocked on the door, Penny opened it still wearing her bathrobe. She had forgotten about our meet-up. No problem though; she quickly changed and we sat down to a cup of tea surrounded by the many wonderful paintings on her walls. We had a lively conversation, but I noticed her occasionally repeating statements and questions that she had said only a few minutes earlier. This forgetfulness was new to me – I hadn’t seen any evidence of it before, and it was pervasive enough that I started to feel a tiny crack in my heart when we left. This was more than just her getting older. Her memory was slipping away from her.
A few months after our last visit, the world began its quick collapse under the weight of Covid-19. Consecutive lockdowns, coupled with our move from Hawaii to England made it highly unlikely that I would see Penny again any time soon. As the months turned into years, it became more and more difficult to get in touch with her. Not because of her memory, but because of my fear. Penny had such an incredible mind - sharp, inquisitive, insightful - that I couldn’t stand the idea of her losing those powers of thought. I decided it would be too hard to see her diminished in such a cruel way. So when we finally came back to Oregon, nearly three years later, I made the rather cowardly decision to not get in touch with Penny. How I regret that now.
I’m back in Oregon for my first Thanksgiving since 2019. I decided to become a full-time writer in September, thanks in no small part to Penny’s persistent encouragement for more than half of my life. So at this time of gratitude and reflection, it felt only right to contact Penny and thank her for never giving up on me. I didn’t know how she was doing, I wasn’t sure if she would respond, but I needed to try. I emailed her and waited. A week went by. With each passing day, I felt more certain that things had gotten much worse for her. Finally, I saw an email from her in my inbox. My heart leapt for a moment, only to be crushed in the next when I saw that the response was from Penny’s husband, offering to call me with an update.
Penny is now in a memory care facility. She was moved there about nine months ago and her husband visits her several times a week, taking her out to lunch, and bringing her back home for a few hours. But every time he takes her back to the facility, she gets upset again, which must be absolutely heartbreaking for him. Nonetheless, Penny’s husband kindly offered to take me to see her. He was hopeful that she might want to go out for coffee, or at least chat with me in the cafeteria. I, on the other hand, had no idea what to expect. Would she remember me? Would she want to talk to me? Would any of the teacher that I loved and respected remain?
The answer: I’m not sure.
Perhaps due to some side-effects from her medicine, Penny has recently been sleeping for most of the day. When we visited her, she was tucked up in bed, unable to stay awake for more than a minute. She hadn’t had breakfast, hadn’t gotten out of bed at all that we could see. She was so drowsy it seemed like she was struggling to come out of general anesthesia. When she briefly sat up, I could see that her gray hair was longer than she used to keep it, and was unusually untidy. She looked old and depleted, not the petite firecracker of wit and wisdom that I was accustomed to.
.
But when she saw me, for a brief moment her eyes lit up, her wan face transformed with a radiant smile, and it was just like old times. Her husband asked if she remembered me and her response was a quiet but enthusiastic “Yes!” I felt replete with hope, my heart so happy to see her smile.
Then, just as suddenly, she flopped back down on her pillow and closed her eyes as if we weren’t even there. After a few more attempts to wake and engage her, Penny’s husband went to the cafeteria to procure a bit of food for her breakfast. When he returned, she and I shared a small chuckle when, with a sassy shake of her head she replied “ppfft” in response to an offer of strawberry yogurt. It was a very Penny-esque gesture, and I felt a moment of relief that some element of her was still there.
A good teacher leaves indelible marks on her students, helping them to grow and to overcome the obstacles in their path. Penny achieved all of this and much more in her decades of teaching. I only had one year in her class, but was lucky enough to get nineteen years of her friendship. I am beyond grateful for her love, encouragement, and support, and would give anything to take away her present afflictions. But even now, I’m still learning from her - learning how to have courage and strength in the face of difficulty. And of course, she’s still inspiring me to write too.
Here’s to you, Penny. Thank you for everything.
