Today I remember my 7th-grade home economics teacher, Mrs. Quiggle. Marge Quiggle. She was already old when she was my teacher. I didn’t speak much English then, but I suppose one does not need to be fluent to sew a sundress or make a baked Alaska.
A couple of months ago I started sewing again, and I thought about Mrs. Quiggle a lot—how she made me press open every seam before moving on.
Then there was Mr. Anderson, my 8th-grade social studies teacher. I had a crush on him. I don’t know why—he wasn’t particularly handsome. I worked extra hard on a book report about Nigeria, hoping to impress him. Before I moved away (from Minnesota to Oregon), he gave me a photo of him standing next to his wife.