I've been thinking a lot about my former teachers lately. Maybe it was the quip that my colleague at the High School made about my corduroy sports coat and our former German teacher, Gordon. Or maybe it was this blog post I found today. Regardless, those thoughts led to me find the eulogy I wrote for my good friend Ron T., my former Chemistry teacher in HS. I wanted to post the eulogy again because I've been thinking so much about what matters, what counts, and how we can ever freaking know such information with any accuracy.
Off and on since I graduated HS back in 1986, I
would stop in to see Ron. I used to drop by his house on my way to
and from my father’s, or, more recently, about once or twice a year my family
and I would try to get to see Ron and just talk and enjoy some of the simple
food he would make with vegetables from his garden. No matter when I
would stop by, he'd always great me with a smile and welcomed look of surprise.
"Well, Gary..." I can't think of any time, not even
in class, when it wasn't so. His demeanor rarely changed and you always
had a sense that he felt it a pleasure to have you visit. He was, more
than anything, a genuine spirit, unassuming in his countenance and personality,
who taught his students as much by what he did as by what he said.
One summer, before I was married, Rob H. and
I helped Ron paint the clapboard siding of a barn and twin home he owned as a
rental property in East Greenville. High on the ladders, all of us
working side-by-side, Ron would tell stories and his gentle humor made the days
pass quickly. As we grew tired, we would take a break, and Ron would
produce his lunch, a lettuce sandwich--just two pieces of pumpernickel bread
with some fresh lettuce between the slices. To two boys who grew up in
the great consumer morass that was American culture of the 70s and 80s, you can
imagine how we might have perceived his meal. But, simple as his food
choices were, there always existed some flavor up-front. The caraway of
the rye seeds in the pumpernickel, or the dill he mixed into a homemade soup he
once served when Heather and I stopped by one night. Truth be told,
I have never met anyone whose appetite so closely matched his
personality.
Just so, Ron was a simple man, but never
dull. He filled his life with a love for his heritage and treasured
nothing so much as sharing with people. When we were still in HS, Ron
invited some of us up to his home to view his Pennsylvania Dutch Christmas
Putz, a unique collection of animals, buildings, and all manner of figurines
which, when setup like a model train display, produced a fascinating landscape
for the wonderment of children. This collection was his from his
childhood, and he kept it with the same precision and organization that guided
everything he did in his life…so far as I could tell. As he grew older,
he donated his Christmas Putz to the Schwenkfelder Heritage society in Red Hill
so that children would evermore be able to marvel at what children past used to
occupy their play.
Other times, I remember Ron inviting his students
to make candy during the holidays. Ron possessed a collection of molds
into which, with the right guidance, we learned to pour a hot, colored, sugary
mixture. I believe we would add to this a lollypop stick and when the mixture
cooled and the candy was removed, one held in her hand a miniature delight—a
clear, yellow, green, or red sweet that shined like a Christmas light but
tasted much better.
My family and I visited Ron in late August of
2011, and then again in November after learning he had renal cancer. He
was tired, but his kind wit had not abandoned him. We spoke of school,
photography, and somewhat of his illness. We knew the cancer had spread
and that there might not be many more chances for us to visit, and so we made
plans to visit with him on December 26th. But my
daughter had come down with a stomach virus. I called Ron to reschedule
but we were not able to get up to see him. He suffered a setback on the
Thursday before New Years and was never able to recover.
If this be eulogy, then let it be this--a eulogy
that reminds us all of our teachers and of this important truth: We can
never tell where their influence stops. Whether I remember how to
balance out an oxidation reduction reaction (if that’s even what you do with
them) is not nearly so important in my life as that Ron T. cared…that,
for the most part, all my teachers cared, that they shared their lives with me,
and that I learned, whether intentionally or not, a good deal about how to be a
decent, intelligent, and caring human being.
