Memories of my Favorite Teacher

My favorite teacher of all time, Mrs. Belflower, once told me that if I applied myself I would be a better student. I think I believed her, but I never did; at least not in high school. Somehow “the powers that be” made a decision, (in some back room, or otherwise) to include me in classes with “the best and the brightest.” I can’t account for their seemingly faulty decision, even today, except that perhaps “they” (whoever “they” are) knew that I was capable of more. I did manage to eek out a Senior Test score which rated me #47 of 208 total students in my graduating class, so I was well within the top 25% in terms of this quantifier. But a test like that only speaks of Potential, and very little else.

Since I have “opened the door,” and mentioned Mrs. Belflower, suffice it to say she never failed to tell her incoming classes that she had been chosen “Runner Up Miss Georgia, 1949;” the year I happened to make my grand entrance into the world. While she expected each of her students to exert their best efforts, and she was empathetically overbearing in this regard, (if this is possible) she was also extraordinarily personable and caring, and was willing to give individual time to anyone who asked.

In regard to a memory I previously shared in a previous segment, my wife has told me that on the day that terrible tragedy occurred on the Summerlin campus, Mrs. Belflower ran past her, and as she passed asked, “Jean, do you have any idea what is happening?” Mary, (for that was her first name) had no doubt heard the piercing screams of students, and the initial sound of metal against metal, and was determined to help any way she could). My future wife had replied that she had no idea what was happening, and she had walked off in a different direction.

I regret not “keeping up with” Mrs. Belflower. After graduation I never spoke to her again, nor did we have any further contact. I had heard, however, that she had contracted cancer, and was terminal, and during that last season of her life I once saw her in a crowded auditorium. I was a young adult by this time, and our high school auditorium was being renamed in honor of my high school choral teacher, the late Miss Margaret Clark; (of whom I will shortly allude).

For whatever reason, though Mrs. Belflower sat within 20 feet of my own seat, I didn’t walk over and renew our acquaintance. Perhaps I was sensitive about what I could possibly say to her, considering she was close to the threshold which separated two worlds. I don’t believe she recognized me, if indeed she ever looked in my general direction. But I will always regret not approaching her, and chatting with her a moment, thanking her for the expertise and empathy she had lent a boy with more potential than he exercised, and perhaps leaving her with a well-deserved embrace.

Mrs. Belflower once required us to learn a stanza from the poem, “Thanatopsis.”

“So live that when thy summons comes to join that innumerable throng where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not like the quarry slave scourged to the dungeon, but soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust. Approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

I have never forgotten the words of that poem. And I think my dear teacher must have left this mortal sphere blessedly aware of this truth, and still whispering those poignant words.

But as Paul Harvey was prone to say,

“And now, my friends,… the rest of the story.”

Mary Duncan Belflower is interred in Wildwood Cemetery in Bartow, our hometown, and only a mile from the high school where she taught, and which she had loved so long and so well.

She deserved a more noble stone; a more memorable marker. A small granite rectangle marks her place.

MARY DUNCAN BELFLOWER

April 27, 1929  – July 12, 1980

It hardly seems enough.

She deserved some sort of epitaph, some final words, some encouragement or admonition for those she left behind.

Though in this life, I never fostered an ongoing relationship with my 9^th grade English teacher, in some sense of the word, (though she is gone now) the relationship has since been reestablished.

I visit her final resting place from time to time. I pull a few weeds and I sweep off any debris which may have accumulated there. And I say a few words.

I noticed recently that her marker had shifted a bit, since it is a few inches above ground level, and will need to be reset. Ultimately, I hope to do her that favor.

She did so much more than this for me.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots From A Life (Not Always So) Well Lived"