My stomach dropped as Mrs. Nelson said, “This is just a reminder that tomorrow is the Open Day!”

I hoped Mom to be free tomorrow so Dad would not have to come. What would people think of him? I put all negative thoughts aside with the determination that Mom would be able to come, and that was the end of it!

When arriving home, I walked in the kitchen and smelled fresh bread. It was one of Mom’s baking days! She greeted with her usual warmth, asking. “Well, hello there! How was your day?” “Nothing special. It was just another day,” I replied casually. Hearing this, her face showed her disappointment, but then here yes kept probing(探查) mine trying to read if I was being honest. It worked. She saw there was something on my mind. “Heidi, are you sure you have no news for me?” she continued.

I explained that tomorrow was the Open Day. And Dad was walking in the backdoor just in time to hear the news. I quickly asked Mom, “You are free, aren’t you?”

“Sorry dear, Ⅰ have made lots of arrangements for tomorrow. Maybe Dad will be willing to go.”

“Do you want me to come with you, Heidi?” Dad asked with a smile, “I would really love that!”

“Sure, Dad. That would be cool,” I said. But Dad really did not notice my lack of enthusiasm as his face brightened and he started talking about how much fun it was going to be.

I loved Dad’s optimism and enthusiasm. He had made life so exciting and adventurous for the family and I adored him for it. But would people see him the way I saw him? His thin body with practically bald(秃的) head was not exactly what my friends would consider a “cool dad”. Dad was also much older than most of my fiends’ parents. Their dads would be professional businessmen, doctors, dentists, or engineers. Dad was a draftsman(绘图员)and he worked in an office at home.

Well, whether I liked it or not, the next morning came.

When we arrived,we walked into my class.

It was in 1959, one week before my 10th birthday, my mother announced we were taking a trip to Niagara Falls when summer vacation started. Reservations had been made for a hotel and a Maid of the Mist Boat Tour trip. It all sounded incredibly good until Mom said we would drive to Canada.

Driving in the car meant I’d share the back seat with my 3-year-old sister. “Sitting in the back seat all day is dull,” I thought.

“Hey, can we take a plane there instead?” I asked between mouthfuls of hamburger and French fries.

“Sorry, honey, maybe next time,” my mother replied as she and my father exchanged glances.

“Dad, how long a ride is it to Canada?”

“It’s about nine hours, pal.”

This was an excellent chance to get one parent on my side. “That’s not fair to you, Dad. You’ll be too tired to have fun after driving so much.” I crossed my fingers. “Then you’ll have to drive all the way home too! Being on a plane would be very relaxing for you because you won’t be driving so much.”

My father smiled and patted my back. “Thanks for being so concerned, but I’ll be fine. No need to worry.” Then he looked at my mother and winked.

Parents can be so frustrating. Didn’t they get it? I’m in desperate need of a plane ride, and I need something cool to talk about with my friends when we get home. I lost control. “Sitting in the back seat of the car sucks,” I blurted out, then rapidly covered my mouth with a hand to prevent any other forbidden words from escaping.

“Jay!” My mother shouted. “Watch your mouth!”

“I don’t want to hear that type of language again,” my father said, slapping the table angrily.

“Ok, sorry, but I really wanted to go by plane.”

“This conversation’s over.” My father said. “If you have finished eating, go to your room.”

On Saturday morning, We loaded all our luggage into the car.

My father turned the key and started the engine.

Then I was surprised to see a sign that read “Airport Parking”.

4 . The older I get, the more I understand how my teachers have transformed my life.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I went to see Mr. C at Roxbury Park in Beverly Hills. His love of life has not dimmed despite the fact that his legs no longer work like they used to. He visited some of his former students while he was in town. At Beverly Hills High School, Mr. C taught ancient history, coached football and golf, and risked his life teaching driver’s training on Saturday mornings from 1964 to 1988. The gray and hobbled students lined up one after another to thank their favorite teacher. One called him a rock star. Another was grateful for helping him when he couldn’t say so. It was a beautiful tribute, especially in these times of catastrophic teacher shortages.

Spending that Sunday in the park with Mr. C was nothing short of magic. It was a reminder of all that is promising and possible in public education, including a teacher whose rare emotional honesty could be appreciated and honored decades later. It also brought to mind Maya Angelou’s saying “People will forget what you said and did, but never forget how you make them feel.” He made me and others in the park feel heard and seen.

Mr. C changed my perception of myself. Rather than seeing myself as a loser cheerleader who couldn’t compete with the smart kids, I realized how much I loved learning. His history class was so interesting. In his classes about the Persians, Greeks, and Romans, extra credits can be earned for creativity. During earthquake drills, we counted on Mr. C to scream his head off in mock terror.

It should come as little surprise that I’d value the role of teachers in my life. Both of my parents taught; so did my siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. I, too, have become a teacher and I try to follow in Mr. C’s footsteps. Some days, I fantasize what it would be like to go on a teacher tour, reaching out to my mentors to express my deep gratitude for all they’ve given me. Seeing Mr. C sparked that fantasy again. When I finally worked up my courage to thank him, knowing a floodgate of tears would open, he said to me with his typical modesty: “You were doing me more good than I was doing you.”

When I was about ten years old, my brother and I received a wonderful gift — tennis rackets and balls. We had never had the opportunity to play tennis, so this was exciting. However, there was one problem — the small town we lived in did not have a tennis court.

One Sunday morning my brother said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s take our tennis rackets and balls to the school and hit the balls against the school building.”

“Great idea! Let’s go,” I agreed, not realizing what a lesson we would learn before the experience was over.

When we got to the school ground, no one was around, so we began hitting our balls against the side of the two-story brick building.

“I’ll hit it the first time,” my brother suggested, “then you hit it the next time. We’ll hit it back and forth to each other.”

So we began taking turns hitting the ball, getting more confident with each stroke. Actually, we became pretty good at returning the ball and we were hitting the ball higher and faster each time.

Suddenly, the unthinkable happened — the ball got out of control and went crashing through one of the upstairs windows.

We looked around and no one was in sight — except there was an old man stting on a porch halfway down the block.

Quietly, I asked, “Now what should we do? Our ball is inside the school.”

“Well,” my brother responded, “no one will know whose ball it is. And no one saw us, except that old man down there. And he probably can’t see this far.”

“He probably doesn’t know who we are anyway,” I added.

“Let’s go home,” my brother suggested.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Should we tell Mom and Dad?”

“I don’t know,” my brother answered.

Then we picked up the rest of our balls and headed for home, keeping silent all the way with our heads drooping.