Taking the time to thank a special teacher on her special day

I often joke with my son that what he does dwarfs the accomplishments of his old man.

I tried this tact last year as he struggled in his first year out in the 'real world.' My son is a teacher. He's teaching high school English in Martinsburg, W. Va.

I think even he will admit it was a tough year. Ironically, every person I talked to about this, including lots of teachers, all said the same thing. The first year being a teacher is hell. I don't think my son would argue that point.

But I believe there are some kids in Martinsburg who are glad he made the decision to stick it out. He's back this year, and, as I had hoped, reports things are going better.

Some people are made to teach. I believe my son is one of them. His father is not. My wife is a teacher's aide. She has the patience of Job. I think she imparted that trait in her son. I know he did not get it from me. Just ask anyone in the newsroom, or the women in the Classified Department who sometimes have to cover their ears because of the latest volcanic eruption emanating from my office.

I took a different path, but ironically it has some things in common with my son's work.

There is no question in my mind that I am who I am - and do what I do - primarily because of the home I grew up in, the traits engrained in me by my mother and father, emblems they passed on lovingly to their son.

Those habits were polished by eight years under the firm tutelage of the good sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Yes, I can diagram a sentence like nobody's business. They imparted in me a love of language and writing. Formal writing. Thankfully, LOL and OMG had not yet become part of the everyday vernacular.

After eight years of parochial school, I entered the halls of a public school for the first time when I walked into Oxford Area High School and faced one of the great decisions of my life. What exactly do you wear to school? Up to that point in my life, I never bothered with such haberdashery queries. I knew precisely what I would wear: White shirt, blue slacks and blue ABVM clip-on tie, most likely with yesterday's lunch still splattered on it.

It was in those hallowed halls that I had the extreme good fortune to come under the tutelage of a great teacher. Ann Nelson taught the advanced English course for seniors. She was likely better known as the director of the school plays. She excelled at both.

Somehow, she managed to see through a kid who spent entirely too much time trying to be cool and recognized a talent he probably didn't even realize he had, or at least was too cool to admit. She even stomached the epitome of cool, his habit of arriving late for class almost every day. For some reason, she only kicked him out once, and relented the next day.

Forty years later, it's pretty simple. Every time I sit at the keyboard, a little bit of my mom and dad, those precious nuns, and Ann Nelson pours out of my fingers.

Today is her 80th birthday.

My wish is that for my son to one day look back and realize he has touched as many people as she did. She taught us well.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. Nelson.