The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”
‘Teachers’
Six months ago at Veterans Gardens, the plants weren’t green enough. Weren’t full enough.
We brought in a new landscaper. An artist’s soul. We walked through the garden. He put his weathered hands deep in the dirt.
He said our garden didn’t need new plants. We needed better soil. He said it’s all about the soil. He said with great soil, plants can blossom beyond their wildest dreams.
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This morning I walked through that same garden. It’s now beaming with green, lush, full-of-life plants.
I was pulled back in time to the soil in a different garden. Grade school days.
When my parents went to year-end parent-teacher conferences at St. Francis Xavier, my brother and I preemptively layered on a thick stack of underwear under our pajamas, covering our rumps—preparing for the bad news that was sure to walk in that door.
My third-grade class? Three classrooms. Forty-six kids in each one. They hadn’t invented air conditioners yet.
My parents sat me down at home.
They told me my teacher, Mrs. Husfield, said she moved my seat across the room so I’d stop staring out the window all day long.
She told my parents she didn’t know what to do with me.
She said she was on the fence about either recommending holding me back a year—or having me skip a grade.
A few days later in class, in a quiet moment, Mrs. Husfield came up behind me at my desk.
She whispered in my ear, “You keep looking out that window. I have a feeling you’re going to find what you’re looking for.”
Never forgot that.
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My creative writing teacher in high school, John Wheeler, gave me an F on my first paper. He told me safe gets me an F in his class.
Told me to write something that looked like a mirror. Opened my eyes to the essence of creativity.
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Down the river at college at the University of Kentucky. A sophomore biology professor stood in front of our class and said he was a teacher so he could tell this one story a year.
Showed us a picture of a scab.
Told us how it worked. How you cut your arm and an army from your body somehow, some way, all gather on that very spot to do its work.
First, the army builds a tent over the scab. Then they get to work. They call in the “medics” squad in your body. They see what’s wrong, talk about it, fix it and stitch up the cut. No medicines necessary.
After they’re all done, they bring back the crew to tear down the tent over the scab.
Down comes the tent, and you’re good as new.
He said, “There, right there. There’s the wonder of life. There’s a Picasso. Right on your arm.”
He was a doorway to a lifetime gift of searching for that wonder in the boundless treasure chest of science.
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And the richest bed of soil? Right in my own childhood home, selflessly tilled by my mom and dad.
The lover and the boxer.
A dad who would look us seven kids in the eyes as we walked out the back door—and say like he was Russell Crowe in “Gladiator,” “Be a Dunne.”
And a mom who would walk me to my bike, kiss me on the head and tell me to “be kind.”
My mom said that the greatest two gifts a parent can give their child are love, and greatest of them all—respect.
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Teachers sure come in all shapes and sizes. Brothers, sisters, friends, coaches, co-workers, authors, bosses, gardeners.
The great ones steer our lives.
Just enough that we barely know it, but just enough to make all the difference.
It seems to me most teachers teach nouns.
You know, like the names on the doors and books. The main thing they make you do is memorize stuff. The better you memorize it, the better grades you get.
The great teachers teach you verbs.
To dream. To find the wonder. To open your eyes—and reach. They take a book and make it about you. Your story.
And the rare, really great ones make you discover someone in you—who you didn’t even know you were.
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If you wouldn’t mind, I hope you take a moment right now.
Thirty seconds.
I’ll start my watch.
Try to look back at those teachers—in your remarkable journey.
And give thanks for our rich, rich soil—right under our feet.
Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com or jimmydunne.substack.com.
