By Samuel Z. Kaplan
For much of childhood, my family lived on one end of Section Road. At the other end, about a mile up, lived the Wheelers. They were the kind of people you don’t meet much anymore. They seemed to be from another era; even then.
Husband and wife were both public school teachers. I had Mrs. Wheeler for fifth grade in 1978-79. She taught all the core subjects and she wore the same style dresses every day; there was little question they were hand sewn.
Mr. Wheeler taught in the high school. Without fail, he wore short-sleeved button-down shirts year-round with dark pants. He used a pocket protector and both wore the kind of eyeglasses now considered “throwbacks,” chunky and old-fashioned.
Together, they were my favorite teachers. As a pupil, I never knew them personally. And apart from knowing where they lived and how they taught, I knew only that they had no children.
After James and Anna Wheeler died, their home and property were gifted to the township and a lovely little park now exists. It’s called “Wheeler Preserve.” A mile down, at the busy end of the same road, lives a new family in my old house.
With autumn always being reminiscent of school and the start of another year, I went recently and sat on a bench in their namesake park and leaned hard on memory. I had Mrs. Wheeler when I was younger but the memories are stronger. From multiplication tables to the states and their capitals, I remember easily. Mr. Wheeler taught Calculus but, other than the class name, I can’t recollect substance – my deficiency, not his. He also taught driver’s education. When I was 16, and for six weeks every day after school, I, along with too many others, learned the rules of the road from him. He was a fine teacher, my subsequent citations and license suspension notwithstanding. In this, blame falls where it should: squarely on me.
Memory is a curious thing. It would be overstatement to say they were instrumental in my life. While neither changed or charted my life’s course, they both left standing memories. Both seemed to be extraordinarily fine and good people. In a lifetime, you come across some like that. In a fortunate lifetime, you come across many.
I’m also supremely confident they were without memory of me. I was just another among the hundreds – surely thousands – of students they had the opportunity to instruct. They taught. I took. And some I was able to keep. That, I suppose, is how it should be when things go well: a gracious memory returns them back from decades’ distance. Call it memory’s kindness.
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