I received a message on Facebook not long ago. Bill Fogarty
contacted me with information that his class was holding a reunion and that I
was invited. Just being thought of was enough, but this class is a special one;
it’s the first one I taught. Yep, the class of 1975 is getting together to
reminisce and renew old friendships. To be honest, I’m a bit nervous about the
whole thing.
In August of 1974, I received a phone call from Knox County
Schools telling me I should be at Doyle High School for an interview. It was
another one of those times when God takes care when I can’t do it myself. I
showed up for the meeting with the principal, Billy K. Nicely. The man
intimidated me mightily, even though he stood only about 5’5”. You see, Mr.
Nicely had been my high school principal, and on more than one occasion, I fell
out of favor with him during those years. To my astonishment, I was talking
with the man about a job as a teacher. He hired me, and for the first year,
every time he called my name over the intercom, I panicked at the thought of
going to the office for a paddling.
On that first day, I was all nerves. My classes included
senior English. The students that sat in my classroom were no more than four
years younger than I, and one, Bill Fogarty, was 19, the same age as the girl I
was dating and would later marry. Some of the teaching genes passed on by
Mother helped me get by. The rest of the time, I simply bluffed my way through.
Oh, I knew the material, but I wondered how much kids who were almost my age
would listen to me.
That first year, I served as a chaperone on a band trip to
Kingsport. V.C. Adcock asked me to help, and it served as a good way for me to
be a team player. I made friends with teachers Bob Shoemaker, Jim Pryor, Jim
Talent, Bobby Campbell, and Frank Kennedy. Fellow English teacher John Gilbert
and I carpooled toward the end of the year, and we sang John Denver songs
coming home from school. Linda Lyle was a rookie that year as well, and we
became friends and colleagues. It was a good faculty that year, and I felt
blessed to be a part of the DHS family.
That December, I was to marry Amy in Cookeville. My classes
sent me off with parties and presents. Back in those days, I smoked, and one
group bought me a carton of cigarettes. Another class presented me with two
pints of pure-grain alcohol. The third class embarrassed me with items that I
cannot mention in this column without blushing.
The evening of my wedding, things were hectic. The church
was crowded, but I spied something especially heart-warming. On the last pew in
the middle section of the church, three of my students sat. Mike Lowe, Randy
Massey, and Cindy Fleming had driven 100 miles to Cookeville to be there. After
all these years, I still consider that one of the kindest things any students
have ever done.
In January, my life was once again filled with chaos. Amy
and I lived in married student housing on Sutherland Avenue, she attended UT
and worked part time, and I was driving to Doyle and learning how to be a
teacher. All the while, those students kept me going with typical teenaged
things. We laughed, argued, and debated enough to keep class interesting much
of the time.
Now, forty years later, I’m old, or at least I feel that
way. This invitation to reunite has added just a bit of excitement in life. The
anticipation of the event is mixed with nerves. Hey, I’ve not seen most of
these folks since they were 18 years old. Now they’re 58 or more. I hope they have
aged more gracefully than I have. I also hope that name tags are passed out so
that I don’t have to put a teenaged faces and names to people who are now
closing in on social security checks. By the time the evening finishes, I’m sure an assortment of emotions
will have come and gone. What I know most of all is that I am honored to have
been asked to attend this reunion of the graduating class of my teaching
career. It’s nice to be remembered—good or bad.
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