Many and One

In Turn

My mother was a teacher. 4th grade mostly. A good teacher. In my biased opinion,  the best ever. For that is what she aspired to be since graduating from Northfork High in West Virginia, and going on to Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky.

There she met my father, attending on the GI Bill

after WW2, sitting in the semi circle, soon to marry by her sophomore year, to become a future preachers wife.

But she never gave up teaching. Every place the preacher was assigned, she was quick in June, the moving month for Methodist ministers, to get on with some school, with precious little time to set up her room by August.

And so she taught, and every where she went, former students would see her, and tell her, she was their favorite teacher. She even, up until her death in October of 2017, was corresponding with a student from her very first class in Kentucky.

She made an impact on so many. 

Enter her son John. He struggled between everyone saying he should become a preacher like his father or a teacher as his mother. He attended Asbury his junior year, with thoughts of graduating and going on to Asbury Seminary across from the semi circle, even finding someone like his mother to hold hands with and take along the journey.

But it wasn’t to be. An F in Spanish crushed his hopes and he returned to Florida, to work at the local hospital in Williston in maintenance and lament. 

It was his father who suggested, why not attend Florida Southern, a Methodist affiliated school, and we can get a discount. So in the summer of ‘77, the preacher-teacher attended summer school, repeating his junior year, his failed class Spanish, making a C.

By now, the artist decided he would teach. He enrolled in the teacher program. In his senior year he was assigned to the new Lake Gibson Junior High for his internship in Art.

His mentor was a Jewish man, quite hostile to Christianity. His students in turn were hostile to art and him. The classes were mostly glorified study halls with breaking up fights. 

When it came time for John to take over his classes, Weinstein was glad just for the respite.

John made a valiant effort. But he determined he was never going to teach again. At least junior high.

And he didn’t. He later turned down his first offer after graduating to teach Art in Monticello, his old best friends dad, Mr Bishop, being the superintendent. 

He got into retail instead. 

Years passed.

One day a letter came. It was from a young man in Daytona named Greg. Turns out Greg was the quiet boy in one of his classes at Lake Gibson, who did so well, especially the stained glass project.

He thanked John and told him he was the best teacher he had in his entire school years.

He wasn’t a preacher.

He wasn’t a teacher.

But he reached one.