As I sat in the newest bagel and coffee shop in town, I could not help but notice the group of four women…all in their late 60s or early 70s, having a conversation. It’s not that they were loud or that their conversation was particularly interesting—I think they were discussing pickleball if I’m not mistaken. (FYI—this conversation took place last summer—so forgive me for not remembering. I’m old.) But I was drawn into their conversation because one woman had a voice I recognized. Yet I couldn’t place her.
I looked up from my laptop numerous times, listening to her voice and taking a few not-so-sneaky glances at her, hoping I could put the voice and the face together with a name.
It didn’t happen.
Soon, the women left, and I ate my everything bagel with veggie cream cheese, drank my latte, added a few more words to my manuscript, and then packed up and headed home.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t think much about that day until I watched a video on Instagram yesterday about a professional football player who shared the impact that three teachers had on his life—an elementary teacher who made sure he had a snack each day, a high school English teacher who worked with him to make sure his reading and writing skills would serve him well in college, and a university professor who complimented him on his exceptional classwork in a world where those around him only wanted to talk about football.
As I watched him talk about his high school teacher, the proverbial lightbulb went on in my head! I knew who the voice and face belonged to in the bagel shop from this past summer.
That woman was one of my high school English teachers—my favorite high school English teacher. (And you can say, “Wait! You didn’t recognize her?!” No…I didn’t. High school was a long time ago—for both of us—and as I said above, I’m old.)
And while I’m thrilled that my cluttered brain could finally put 2+2 together, oh, how I wish I could go back to that moment in the bagel shop.
Because she deserves to know how much impact she had on me as a writer.
I would tell her how her encouragement of my writing in high school has shaped me. How I never forgot the assignment (a silly little essay about the holidays that she wanted full of description) made me believe I could write. And I’ll never forget the smile on her face when she handed it back to me, along with so many positive comments in the margin.
Because here I am, decades later, writing every day—stringing together words that are meaningful to me and, hopefully, to others. And it all traces back to her. That one essay. That one moment when someone saw something in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself.
Trust me, if I see her this summer, I will thank her for igniting a spark that has carried me through countless pages, stories, and ideas. I will share that her words—those simple, handwritten comments—became the foundation of a confidence I might never have built on my own.
But, for now, I’ll keep her smile, her voice, and her encouragement close. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll spot her again in that bagel shop this summer.
If I do, I’ll be sure to tell her everything.