Chapter Two of John Doe

Another week passed. Each day he got stronger but no memories returned. It had become clear that he would have to be released since he was otherwise healthy and no longer required medical care. Carol responded by taking up a collection from everyone at the hospital who had cared for him and even a few who hadn’t but knew his story. On the morning he was to be released, they presented him with a donated suitcase filled with clothes and a few essential toiletries along with an envelope that contained 47 dollars. The doctor who had heard him play the piano arranged for a room in a boarding house not far from the hospital and paid his first three months rent in advance. As they rolled him to the front door in a wheelchair he held the suitcase in his lap with a blank expression. Carol smiled at him, embraced him in a warm hug then watched him walk away in the direction of the boarding house. He didn’t look back.

John walked down Main Street slowly, his head on a swivel, startled by each sound the passing cars made. He paused at each storefront, marveling at the displays. At the first stop light he came to he saw what looked like a brand new Packard One-Twenty pull up, the color of a ripe plum. In the back seat he saw a woman with a bird hat smoking a cigarette. She made eye-contact with him for a moment and nodded her head demurely in acknowledgement. Then the light changed and the driver ground the gears as he sped away.

Carol had written the address of the boarding house on a piece of paper, folded it and slid it into his shirt pocket. John removed it and glanced at the little map that she had drawn and then up at the street sign. He had another mile or so to go so he stopped at the first bench he found outside a drug store. It felt good to get off his feet. Across the street was a small park where he noticed a man playing catch with a boy. Probably father and son, he thought. He watched him until they finally walked away hand in hand, wondering to himself who his father was and whether they had ever played catch. 

He sat on the bench for over an hour watching people walk by. The women were in a hurry, almost all of them carrying shopping bags. It seemed like all the men wore hats, worn out felt fedoras with sweat marks around the bands. The cars and trucks speeding by were loud and clouds of exhaust poured out of them like a river. John felt an overwhelming confusion with everything around him. These were regular people, a regular street and regular cars and trucks, but there was nothing familiar in any of it. These were not his people, his streets. It all seemed old and new at the same time and peculiarly alien. Finally he rose from the bench and continued his walk. The suitcase felt heavier.

The boarding house was two blocks off Main Street, a white two story salt box with a full basement that smelled like mowed grass and mildew. His room had the disadvantage of being in this windowless, moldy basement but the advantage of his own private entrance. There was a bathroom he had to share with the only other tenant below ground, a loud and gruff younger man with an Irish accent.

Welcome to the dungeon, the man yelled from the doorway of his room across the stairway. My name is Oscar. Oscar Kelly.

John didn’t feel like talking with a stranger. He wanted to get settled in his room and take a nap. But then the man walked up and extended his hand. He smelled of whisky and cigarettes. John reluctantly shook his hand. Good to meet you, Oscar.

Oscar smiled broadly revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. You got a name, friend?

John.

Last name?

Just John…

Oscar laughed. Alright then…Just John. Most of us gather in the big room upstairs around 8 ‘o’clock every evening. The old man has a radio…its a Magnavox…if you’re interested. I guess the old man told you that supper is at 6 o’clock sharp. He wasn’t kidding around. He’s strict. No drinking, no dames allowed, 11 o’clock curfew unless you’re working. If you want breakfast you better be at the table by 7 or you’ll go hungry. Food’s alright though. If he hears too much cussing around here he makes us all go to church on Sunday, so if you feel like swearing, use your whisper!

The landlord had indeed gone over the house rules in detail when John had arrived, but Oscar’s version was much more specific. When he finally left him alone John unpacked his clothes and folded them neatly in the three drawer cabinet next to the door. A framed portrait of Jesus hung crookedly on the wall over the cabinet. John straightened it. The only other furniture was a twin bed with a nightstand on one side with a Bible on top, and a small desk with a wooden chair and a very old desk lamp with a cracked yellow shade. He turned on the light and immediately turned off the single light bulb hanging by a black chord from the ceiling in the middle of the room. The light bulb was the same height as his head and the glare was blinding. He placed his empty suitcase in the small closet and laid himself out on the bed, almost instantly falling asleep. A dreamless afternoon bled into night before he woke up hungry and confused. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The basement room at the boarding house. He had slept through supper.

He stood at the sink of the bathroom throwing cold water on his face, examined himself in the mirror and recognized nothing. As he dried off his face with the communal towel he heard footsteps above his head and the dull pulse of voices. He made his way up the steep basement steps and saw a cloud of smoke coming from the living room. There were a half dozen men smoking cigarettes around the radio. Oscar saw him first, Just John! Glad you could make it. Didn’t see you at supper. You not hungry? Nobody misses a meal around here.

John entered the room without a word and found a place to sit. There was a newscast on, a man with a nasal tenor speaking gravely about events in Poland. Everyone stopped talking and leaned closer. John looked them over. Hard to tell how old they were, their faces darkened by worry. Their clothes dirty and marked by a hard life. Then he heard Oscar’s voice.

You watch what I say, that (hushed) fucking Roosevelt is gonna have us fighting them Germans by Christmas. The other men nodded in agreement. Oscar seemed to be the house mouthpiece.

No matter what a politician says, one way or another they all wind up sending boys to fight somebody else’s battles. I don’t give a flying shit about no Adolph Hitler. All I care about is finding a job.

Another man standing by the window looking out at the street whispered, Oscar, the only job you want is one where the boss let’s you drink whisky on your lunch break. All the men laughed and when John looked at Oscar he was laughing too.

Then the newscaster’s voice changed, less ominous, more playful as he announced the starting pitchers for game one of the 1939 World Series between the Yankees and the Reds coming up in two days. John felt a rush of recognition, first of the father and son in the park, then of baseball. He knew baseball in much the same way as he knew about Germany’s invasion of Poland on September 1st, 1939. He knew about the Yankees. He knew the World Series. Somehow he knew that the Yankees were about to sweep the Reds in four games. He heard the sound of his own voice asking a question of the room—Anybody here know where a man could place a wager? He had never been more sure of anything since he woke up in the hospital. It would be the Yankees in four and he needed money. Oscar spoke up.

I know a bookie who will take your money, Just John, but you don’t want to mess around with him. He runs with a rough crowd. If you want I’ll take you to him.

Just give me his address. I can find him.

Oscar smiled at John then shook his head slowly from side to side. That ain’t how it works. You’re going to need an introduction. I told you he was a tough guy. Likes to know who he’s dealing with. I’ll take you over there tomorrow.

Before he went down for the night, John opened the back door of his room that led to an unfenced backyard. There was a screen door through which drifted a pleasant breeze. He propped the door open with a shoe, latched the screen door shut and crawled into bed, weary from a day of firsts. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep was of the old house. There was a small coat closet just off the front door. The door opened and he saw arms sliding boxes out from the closet into the hallway. Towards the back of the closet there was a loose plank in the floor. The same arms reached for it and gave it a yank. It sprang open along with two more planks on either side. He leaned over and looked down into the dark space beneath the floor’s surface and saw tightly packed one hundred dollar bills inside clear plastic boxes. The arms lifted the boxes from the hole in the floor and sat them in the hallway at his feet. The plastic box was covered in dust. The top came off with a loud click and two hands began thumbing through the bands of cash, stacking and restacking. A quarter of a million dollars. John drifted off to sleep and didn’t stir until the first light of dawn shown through the screen door. He woke up thinking of baseball and money.

This time he was on time. Breakfast consisted of burned bacon, scrambled eggs and chicory coffee strong enough to chew. John devoured the plate in front of him without speaking. There were a dozen or more men at the table, all eating quickly, heads down and mute. John saw Oscar walk in the room, the only man wearing a hat, like he was in a hurry. He made eye contact with John and tilted his head towards the front door. John took a last bite, carried his plate and cup over to the sink then followed after him.

So, you want to place that bet or not?

John placed his bet with the albino bookie Oscar introduced him to in the grubby back room of a garage outside of town on route 29. The odds were 4:1 and John laid down twenty five dollars and stood around nervously while Oscar carried on a strained conversation with the strange looking man. Sounded like he may have owed him some money but not enough to make too much of a fuss over. Still, John was anxious to leave. It had been Oscar’s idea to hitch hike on account of the fact that it was free. Oscar sent out a strong aura of being totally and properly broke.

Upon their arrival back at the boarding house the landlord cut John a disapproving look, as if he was disappointed to see him with Oscar. Then he said, There’s a package for you in your room. Lady brought it by this morning just after you left.

Who was it? John asked, trying to imagine why anyone would deliver anything to him.

She didn’t say. Just asked me to see to it that you got it. She was a nurse. She had on her uniform.

John hurried down the basement steps and saw the basket sitting outside his door, covered in a black and white checkered napkin. He smelled the buttery fragrance of bread. There, under the napkin, was a freshly baked loaf of bread and a block of cheddar cheese with a folded note…Hope you are well and that you like bread and cheese.  Fondly, Carol.

The Cool Hand Luke of Kitchen Renovations

The rumor mill has it that our kitchen renovation will be finished by Friday of this week. But I put very little stock in rumors. At this point of this interminable process I have come to the place where I wake up every morning expecting the worst possible outcome. I am rarely disappointed. 

You remember when we were kids and we would play The Telephone Game? Sure you do…its when someone whispers something in someone’s ear and then that person repeats it in the next person’s ear on down the line until the message gets to the last person and it is completely unrecognizable from what it was when it started. That’s what this kitchen renovation has been like. It’s been like a master class in horrendous communication, over-promising and under-delivering, and the worst display of reading comprehension skills I have witnessed since 5th grade. Most of the communication has been handled by Pam who has functioned as the de facto, unpaid general contractor of this project! Anyone who knows Pam knows of her precise emailing skills. When she sends you an email it usually has bullet points and very clear language. She does this because she has been married to me for 41 years and knows of my tendency to skim emails and my infamous inability to follow simple directions. But no matter how clear and precise her emails have been, nobody at this kitchen renovation company knows how to read. Things came to a head late last week and I informed Pam that I would enter the fray by calling the go-to guy and have a little discussion with him about our frustrations. You see…my wife is an angel and long suffering to a fault. Sometimes she has trouble—how shall I say this—being a badass. That’s where I usually come in. Many years ago I developed the reputation of being a bit of a hothead. I was known for my world class confrontation skills. Those skills served me well during my business career but if I’m being honest I often went a little overboard. My “confrontations” often became a bit overheated. Sometimes profanity and extreme sarcasm was involved. Occasionally recipients of these “confrontations” would end up in tears. Not my finest hour. But that was years ago. I have mellowed and matured. The profanity has largely disappeared and nobody cries anymore. Still, when the call came from the project manager while I was at the Cafe at my church, I took the call in the parking lot—just in case!

To make a long story short, I presented the laundry list of mistakes and miscues made during this renovation to the guy. My tone was serious but respectful. Then I asked a simple question—“how can you possibly be proud of the work you have done on our kitchen?” 

There’s a great scene in Cool Hand Luke where the warden of the prison says…What we have here is a failure to communicate! I was reminded of that scene when the project manager says to me—“Actually, I am proud of the work we’ve done and I think we’ve done a pretty good job of communicating with you guys!” It was like the man was living in a parallel universe. It was like a Trump voter arguing with a socialist. We were just speaking a different language. I stood there in the parking lot of my church with a decision to make. I could let loose with a blast of invective that would send this kid (he’s the son of the owner) to a psychiatrist…or…I could breathe deeply, take a second to dial back my anger and proceed. “Well, my friend,” I replied. “You and I have a vastly different threshold for pride.” And no…he probably didn’t understand that either.

At the end of the day the kitchen is beautiful, despite our abysmal customer care experience. The cabinets are lovely, the granite counter top is gorgeous. But if anyone out there is considering updating their kitchen do yourself a favor and chose somebody—anybody—but Trinity Renovations!

A Little Catholic Humor on this Friday Evening

One of the great things about having adult children is the fact that you are no longer responsible for their care and feeding. However there’s another great thing about having adult children. Every now and then one of them will send you a random text out of the blue which will give birth to much hilarity. When this happens you realize that your career as a parent wasn’t entirely a hot mess of mistakes and poor judgment…that somewhere along the line you must have done something right. Take this past Wednesday night for example. There I was watching the National’s bullpen blow yet another lead when my son Patrick sent me this…

Before I could respond he says: “This will be the first time in history we’ll be able to ask: ‘Is he a Sox Pope or a Cubs Pope?’”

To which I snapped back with: “It appears he’s been a lifelong White Sox fan. One would have thought that this fact alone would have been considered disqualifying.”

Patrick then dropped the mic on me with: “Well, we are called on by Christ to love the poor and the downtrodden.”

No comeback seemed adequate to the moment. My son had bested me in a quip-fest. This is when you can bask in pride at your parenting skills, when you realize that all those thousands of dad jokes served the noble purpose of instilling a first class sarcasm instinct in your boy.

Of course, I couldn’t just leave the conversation hanging there in that condition, mocking me. Eventually I found this…

Me: “I’m thinking we should give this new Pope a break. As a lifelong White Sox fan, hasn’t the man suffered enough?”

John Doe

His only memory was of an old house, a brick Cape built by unreliable and unskilled volunteers. Just how he knew this detail of its construction, along with everything else, was a mystery. 

They found him in a ditch on a back road near Waynesboro, Virginia. He was unconscious and naked, his body covered with scratches and bruises. He had no identification. The State Police rushed him to the hospital in Charlottesville where he was treated day and night for two weeks before finally regaining consciousness. It was then that the doctors and nurses discovered that he had no memory of anything except a vivid description of the old house. They dubbed him John Doe, and every nurse on his floor soon fell in love with him, not the romantic kind but the kind of tender hearted love that rises up in the hearts of nurses for their most pitiful patients. And there was no one in the University of Virginia hospital more pitiful than John Doe.

When he first opened his eyes there was a moment of delirium, loud screams and fruitless attempts to get out of bed. When the nurses arrived in his room he seemed terrified, looking them over from head to toe, his face filled with bewilderment. He was quickly sedated and surrounded by the several doctors who had been in charge of his care, some of whom were surprised that he had woken up at all, the rest fascinated by the novelty of his case. When he slowly came out from under the sedation he was restrained and talked to gently by Carol, the night nurse who had cared for him each evening for two weeks straight and had grown fond of him.

Hello there. So glad to have you back among the living. You’ve had quite a nap, young man.

Carol had no idea whether or not John Doe was young. He had been so battered and bruised when he arrived it was hard to tell one way or the other. And since there was no identification his age was anyone’s guess. But she had noticed that he had no grey in his hair and his hands were free of callouses. So she held his smooth right hand in hers and gave it a soft squeeze and referred to him as a young man. This time he didn’t scream, didn’t try to get out of his bed, but the bewildered expression was still on his face.

Where am I? He asked just over a whisper.

The doctors leaned in as Carol answered, You are in the hospital. You’ve been here for a couple weeks now and this is the first time you’ve been awake. Can you tell me your name, honey?

John Doe looked around, noticing the team of doctors and nurses surrounding him and the leather straps securing him to the bed. Fear returned to his eyes. He looked back at Carol who was still smiling and holding his hand. She said, It’s alright. I’ve got you. What’s your name?

She saw the tears quickly forming in the corners of his eyes then stream down his cheeks…I don’t know…he said. She had been a nurse for nearly 20 years but had never been as moved by any patient as she had been when John Doe woke up all alone in the Universe.

They gave him a couple days to rest and start eating again. He had lost fifteen pounds in two weeks and was weak as water. The nurses began taking him for walks around their duty station. Each time he would stare at everything like he had never once been inside a hospital, like it was all brand new, but he never spoke a word. Just did what they asked him to do without complaint.

The nurses picked out pajamas for him to wear from the clothes closet for the indigent found on every floor. He ate everything they gave him slowly with perfect manners. He smiled at each courtesy and nodded his head in appreciation, but never spoke.

It was on the third night after he woke that he began to talk about the old house. Carol had brought him a glass of juice and he had surprised her by taking hold of her hand.

I remember an old house. I keep seeing it in my dreams. Its all I have from…before.

Carol smiled down at him, overjoyed that he had finally said something, knowing that it represented some kind of breakthrough. What kind of house?

Nothing special. Just an old brick cape. Small. Run down. There’s a porch off of one side with a hole ripped in the screen and another porch off the back. There’s a small kitchen, a bedroom and small bathroom downstairs, with two bedrooms and a big bathroom upstairs. But its in bad shape. Poor workmanship all around, like it was built by a group of building trade trainees, like apprentices maybe. 

Carol pulled up a chair and sat close to his bed, not letting go of his hand as he went on and on.

There’s a road close to the front yard. Across the street there’s a church, an old white clapboard building with a steeple. There’s a stop sign on the road by the church. I can see myself walking through the house. Its messy, dirty clothes piled up, dishes in the sink, trashcan overflowing. But nobody is home. Its just me walking through the house.

Carol picked up the notepad and pencil that was on his nightstand and began writing  down everything he said. I don’t want to miss anything, John. I’ll need to let the doctors know about this before I leave in the morning…but this is wonderful news, don’t you agree? This is the first of many memories to come. I’m sure of it!

John didn’t seem to share her optimism but wanting to be agreeable he said, Well, its something, at least. He had grown fond of her. She was especially kind. Maybe it was because she came at night and there wasn’t as much going on. Some nights he had been her only patient, or so it seemed. She paid special attention to him and his spirits always were lifted by her appearance at the door. 

Then he called her by name for the first time.

Carol, I need to ask you a question.

You can ask me anything, John.

John sat up straighter in the bed and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper…What year is this?

She was startled for a moment, raising her eyebrows trying to comprehend the extent of the man’s isolation to have to ask such a thing.

Why, its 1939 of course…September 1, as a matter of fact. You were brought in on August 14th I think. What year did you think it was?

John had leaned back down onto his pillow at her answer and turned his head towards the window. I didn’t know…that’s why I asked.

You looked surprised, that’s all.

She watched him pull up his covers and curl into a ball on his side. He was finished talking for the night. She turned out the light in his room then immediately set about fleshing out the notes she had furiously scribbled into complete sentences while it was fresh in her mind. The Doctors would want to know every detail of what was said. As she did she thought of the sound of his voice, the unfamiliar cadence, the odd lilt of his accent, one she couldn’t quite place. It figured that he wouldn’t know what year it was. He didn’t even know who he was or his name so naturally he wouldn’t know what year it was. But there was something about the way he asked the question, with so much apprehension in his manner, and then his abrupt change in mood upon receiving the answer. She thought back to the look on his face as she had taken him on his first walk down the hall and around the nurses station, the way he stared at everyone and everything with such confusion. He seemed enthralled with the most mundane things, reaching out to touch the most rudimentary items like pictures on the wall, light fixtures and the door knob to the supply closet. When he would encounter a visitor or a nurse walk by he would stop and stare them down from top to bottom, not like a drunken lecher but more like someone who hadn’t seen another human being in a long time and wanted to take it all in from hat to shoes. His behavior only served to endear him further to everyone who had contact with him. To the doctors and nurses on the fourth floor he was a lost soul who was lucky to be alive and about whom very soon a decision would have to be made. They couldn’t just keep him there indefinitely waiting on him to regain his memory or wait for someone to show out of the clear blue to claim him. But he had nothing. No money, no clothes, and no name. Where would he go?

The police had been no help. There were no missing persons claims filed that matched his physical description within 250 miles of Virginia. They had taken his fingerprints to see if they were a match for anyone in their records. Although it was a long process, so far no matches had been found. There wasn’t anything else they could do. They could send him out to Western State for evaluation, but it was basically an insane asylum and John Doe was not insane by any measurement. But as he got stronger, eventually…and very soon, they would have to release him and the thought of this kind and gentle man alone and penniless on the streets was Carol’s worse fear. 

The next day, John Doe asked the morning nurse if she could bring him a newspaper. She sent for a copy of the Daily Progress and delivered it to him with his breakfast. John unfolded it and saw the large block headline about Germany invading Poland and the outbreak of war in Europe, proof that the previous night’s conversation with Carol had not been a dream. He sat the paper aside and devoured the grits, eggs and bacon.

With each passing day his appetite improved and his body got stronger. As he adjusted to his new reality, he seemed less afraid, less hesitant to engage with those trying to help him. Each night when things slowed down Carol would pull up a chair beside his bed to share a glass of juice with him and try to get him to talk. He was always polite and appreciative of her company, but each conversation always came back around to the old house across the street from the white clapboard church. Carol would lean in and ask clarifying questions…Do you think you once lived there John?

I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. Its the only thing I remember. I know I must sound like a broken record.

Not at all. I don’t mind. One day soon other memories will start coming back to you, I’m sure of it.

I’m glad somebody is sure of something.

Carol came in one night and asked him if he would like to venture outside for the first time. She told him that it would be good for him to stretch his legs and it was lovely outside, the fresh air would do him good.

She led him to a courtyard behind the hospital which featured a Parisian water fountain that sent streams of water out of the mouths of lion heads into a pond filled with giant goldfish. She led him to a bench to let him rest. His eyes were alive with wonder at every detail of the garden, fascinated beyond understanding. Carol watched him carefully as his eyes scanned the horizon.

They never told me where they found me, as he ran his fingers gently over the iron work handle of the bench.

They didn’t? Its no secret. Did you ask them?

I’m asking you…

Carol hesitated, worrying that she might be violating some protocol of his care by answering the question. But his eyes were so filled with pleading she decided on telling him the truth.

They found you in a ditch on a backroad near Waynesboro. Its about a half hour, forty-five minutes from here. You were in pretty bad shape and you didn’t have any clothes on. You were unconscious and had lots of bruises and scratches all over your body.

His facial expressions registered no surprise. He said nothing but kept his eyes focused clearly on her.

Does anything I just said ring any bells at all?

I’m sorry…no.

She reached out for his hand. You have nothing to be sorry for. You are lucky to be alive. Obviously you suffered some incredible trauma, but these doctors are some of the best in the country and you are making wonderful progress. In no time at all your memories will come back to you and you’re going to be as good as new.

If I was found naked in a ditch, why would regaining my memories be a good thing? Can we go back now? 

Carol walked slowly by his side through the hospital doors and down the hallway until they reached the door to the chapel. It opened slowly. An old man came out holding a handkerchief to his eyes. John looked through the door and saw a stained glass window, then the bright white keys of a small spinet piano. He took a step towards the door and stood still in the doorway.

This is the chapel, John. Would you like to see it?

John walked inside without taking his gaze off the piano. The chapel was empty and dimly lit. There was a crucifix with Jesus hanging forlornly. Carol followed along quietly, tentatively. When John reached the piano he stopped and once again ran his slender fingers across the keys as if for him touching would bring knowing. Then he sat down on the padded bench, placed his hands on the keys and began to play. The sounds which he brought forth from the instrument were full of longing and beauty and Carol touched her fingers to her lips as he played, tears filling her eyes. She saw that his eyes were closed. The music continued its magical flow. The tune was familiar in a vague sort of way. She knew she had heard it before but could not remember when or recognize the name. She instantly knew that this old piano in this old prayer chapel had never been played this way with this much feeling, this much palpable anguish.

She saw the door open in the back of the chapel and recognized one of the doctors who had been brought in on John’s case. He took a few steps then stopped to listen. He stood still as a statue until the music stopped. John folded his hands in his lap, his eyes still closed and bowed his head. The doctor approached carefully, barely making a sound walking across the carpet. He stood at Carol’s side and looked down at John who seemed to be in another place.

That was Chopin, the doctor whispered. One of the Nocturnes, I can’t remember which one but by God I don’t think I’ve heard it played any better. I’m thinking that the odds are pretty good that there was a piano somewhere in that old house he keeps talking about.

A GREAT Teacher

This coming Friday will be Pam’s last day as a teacher. She was a full-time 1st grade teacher for the first five years of our marriage, then quit to raise our kids. Then 18 years ago she went back as a reading and math interventionist, working with small groups of elementary students who struggled with those two subjects and needed extra instruction. This morning on Facebook she posted her stats—kinda like the back of a baseball card!!

In celebration of Teacher Appreciation Week, and to commemorate my FINAL YEAR OF TEACHING, here are my stats:

🍎 23 Years Teaching

🏫 3 Elementary Schools 

🇺🇸 1 School District

👩🏼‍🏫 Grades taught: 1st (5 yrs), K-5 Reading Intervention (18 yrs)

🍎 Principals: 5

✈️ States Taught: VA

👧 Number of Students Impacted:  over 450

🍎 Certification: N,K-4

🎓 Highest Degree Earned: BS in Early Childhood Education 

🏆 RETIREMENT DATE:  May 9, 2025

Love it. But like all statistical summaries, it doesn’t tell the whole story. Over the past 18 years, all at River’s Edge Elementary, Pam has had the privilege of teaching students from all over the world, kids who spoke a ton of different languages, none of them English. There were kids from Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Vietnam, Russia, Ukraine, Brazil, Honduras, Syria, Egypt, the Sudan and many others. She taught Christians, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists and Muslims. There were what seemed like insurmountable obstacles in the path of learning from attention deficit problems to emotional issues, not to mention some kids who didn’t even know the letters of the alphabet when she got them. But each and every year she would somehow make measurable progress with them. She would come home each evening telling me stories about her students. Some were hilarious stories of crazy things that would happen when trying to explain American english to some second-grader from Kurdistan. Other stories were disturbing, others sad and overwhelming. But Pam always had something good to say about every kid she taught, of course—some more than others.

But the one thing that can’t be quantified with statistics is the following story. It’s what made my wife such an amazing teacher and such a valuable asset to her school.

This particular story was from several years ago. River’s Edge was overcrowded that year so Pam’s classroom was in a trailer behind the school. I showed up in the afternoon, after her last class was finished to bring her something from Starbucks. It was about 2 o’clock or so. This was back when the front office people would let me deliver treats directly to her classroom. Today—because of the horror and shame of school shootings in America—there are metal detectors everywhere and I am not allowed free access in the building. Anyway, on that day I walked back behind the school to her trailer and quietly opened the door to her classroom. It was then that I saw my wife sitting on the denim loveseat she had bought for her room as a reading sofa for her students. She would use it as a “reward” for good work, if you did well you could read on the reading sofa! There she was laid back in the loveseat next to a little boy reading a book. I could see the backs of their heads, Pam’s blond hair and the little boy’s Afro. It was a kid from the Sudan who was a hot mess, with reading, learning and family troubles. Pam often spoke of her frustration with him. But there he was, his head resting on Pam’s shoulder as she read. I stood there at the door and watched them for a minute, listening to their interaction. There were occasional giggles from the boy. I remember thinking…This is why she’s so effective as an interventionist…she loves them, and they know it. For the last 18 years, in twenty-five minute encounters, she has helped over 400 kids discover the magic of reading, changing the trajectory of their lives forever. She has also taught them that they are inherently valuable and worthy of love. I can’t think of more important work. Can You?