(A chapter from Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories)
Everyone needs a Josine McGreevey in his or her life. A person who helps draw out the best that you can be and helps you realize that you have a responsibility to share your gifts and talents with others. A mentor. An encourager. A conscience. A motivator. A friend.
Mrs. McGreevey taught English at Lawler High (and then in the consolidated Turkey Valley High School) beginning in the 1950s for more years than I can remember. To this day I am not sure whether I adored her because I had a natural leaning toward writing and speaking—or if she is the reason that both skills have had such an integral part of both my personal and professional lives.
We just knew her as Mrs. Mac. At one time or another you were destined to be one of her students. The best word that I could use to describe her is dignified. She carried herself in an elegant manner that commanded respect and had high expectations of each person who walked into one of her classes.
The McGreeveys for many years lived in a home a few houses south of the now dismantled school building. Her husband Edward was principal of Lawler High and their sons and daughter were all exceptional athletes through the years. Their youngest son Tom was my classmate and the best all around player on our baseball, basketball and football teams.
Taking an honest look back at my life, I have to face the reality that those high school years were filled with insecurity and doubt. It seemed to me that my peers were more gifted and had a chance of enjoying a prosperous life than would ever be within my grasp. And I was a worrier. In my mind—if something could go wrong it would go wrong. I had no real expectation of attending college and had no idea what would happen when high school graduation occurred.
But Mrs. Mac—Josine Martin McGreevey—helped change all of that. I had her first in my freshman year and from that day on never missed an opportunity to be in one of her classes or class plays. She recognized my interest in and love of writing. She encouraged me to speak publicly at every opportunity despite the fear and trembling that occurred when I did so. She created a safe place that gave me the courage for the first time to write about the pain and shame of my dad’s suicide. I knew that she would be kind—and she was. What I did not expect is that it would be the beginning of my ability to express myself from the deepest part of my soul with words on paper. I could write what I could not say, and Mrs. McGreevey continued to foster this skill that I had kept hidden prior to meeting her.
I recall a conversation with her one day after becoming editor of the school newspaper in my senior year.
“What are your plans after graduation, Bill?”
“Well, I’m not sure. College is not in the cards,” I replied. “There is no money for me to go. But if there was—I’d like to become an English teacher just like you.”
“Oh dear. Don’t do that. There is no money in it and you spend half your life correcting papers.”
That’s all there was to that brief talk but I didn’t believe a word that she said. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say what we’ve heard in a cliché, “Her actions spoke so loudly that I couldn’t hear a word she said.”
It’s another long story about how I eventually DID make it through college. But I did become the English teacher in 1968 at St. Edmond High in Fort Dodge, Iowa that she cautioned me not to become. Those turned out to be the most rewarding ten years of my working career and I have her to thank for it. And one thing happened for which I have been eternally grateful—many times through the years I took the time to drop her a note or stopped in to say hello when back in the area and tell her what an important effect she had on my life.
Mrs. Mac is always on my mind when writing or public speaking. I ask myself, what would she think of it if she was in the audience or reading what I had written? In my mind—she set the standard that I sought to reach. Would the reader or listener be better off for having been in contact with me?
So it was like getting kicked in the stomach one day when my brother Pat was sitting on my deck in Fort Dodge and asked me casually, “Oh, did I tell you that Josine McGreevey died?”
All I could say was, “When?”
“Oh, a couple of months ago, I guess.”
I knew that she had been ill and had been retired for many years, but at the moment all of what she had meant to me flooded over me and the sense of loss was palpable. I had to excuse myself for a bit to regain my composure.
And later that night I did exactly what Mrs. Mac would have expected of me. I sat down and wrote a letter to her son Tom expressing my sorrow at her death. I wonder what type of grade she would have given me on my note.
Bill Sheridan
8106 Brookview Drive
Urbandale, IA 50322
William_sheridan1@msn.com
www.sheridanwrites.com