Publications

When I was in fourth-grade, my teacher asked me to write a poem in honor of Mrs. Cunningham, who was retiring after who-knows-how-many years of teaching. Mrs. Cunningham was my first grade teacher, and—may she rest in peace—I cannot say I adored her. She droned endlessly about the chickadees at her birdfeeder, and made it clear to us that she preferred their company to ours. Then there were the more personal offenses. She placed me in the slowest reading group—the Cubs—only to point to me as an example of hard work paying off when I advanced to the Bluebirds, exactly one week later. I might have forgiven her the unwarranted, unwanted attention were it not for the Sticker Debacle.

Applying stickers to the papers of your classmates was an honor bestowed on the student with the best mark. You got to stand next to her desk and work on the pull-out shelf of oak over her right-hand top drawer. I applied the stickers sometime in March—leprechauns with pots of gold, green-clad Irish children walking hand-in-hand toward rainbows. I imagined the kids walking up a hill, the leprechaun approaching them. I did not apply the stickers in a consistent position, nor did I apply them straight-on. For my creativity, I was screamed at—up close, and in front of the entire class. And never allowed to play with stickers again. No, I cannot say I adored Mrs. Cunningham. Why I was asked to write her farewell poem is unclear. But I made my deadline. "That's Our Mrs. Cunningham" was recited by a chorus of kids at her retirement party.

I’ve completed many odd assignments since: Peanuts cards for Hallmark, all manner of ads for a classical radio station, songs for strangers (another story), and a lot of magazine articles about books and bookselling. I’m also at work on two more personal writing projects: Cottage for Sale: Must Be Moved, and The Memory of Laughter.

Recently I was asked to write a piece about “becoming a writer,” and I left all this out. I talked about being a voracious reader and a bookseller and about discovering my writing career quite by accident. But now I realize I didn’t tell the whole story. I guess I owe more than I ever realized to my first-grade teacher. Thank you, Mrs. Cunningham.