Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Mole had been spring-cleaning his little home, and his back was itching.
To be accurate, his back was aching; but I was reading aloud from a book that was on the curriculum for twelve year olds, and I was five. Burdening poor Mole with an itch was my only error.
Two teachers- one of whom was the headmistress- paid attention while I obliged them with a private reading from the first pages of Kenneth Graham's seminal countryside adventure. The pair lauded my efforts and whispered to one another about, I imagine, all the possibilities.
Just when I had become thoroughly absorbed in the antics of Toad and his furry friends, the bell signalled that it was time to pack up. The book was closed; the teachers went home. I too went on my way. Not another word was ever said about the matter of my ability to read well; it did not survive beyond the novelty of one sparkling moment.
Teaching is not an undertaking that fits neatly between the bell chimes of a work day: in this my tutors erred.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 6:43 PM