The Most Important Event Of My Life, by Paul Shirley

My father noticed my mother on the first day of class.

He was sitting at a cheap desk next to a cheaper podium at the front of a classroom meant for forty.

She was wearing a gray flannel skirt and a white blouse. She was laughing as she walked into his classroom.

Her best friend, Joanie, had just finished the story of a late-night encounter with her resident advisor.  Joanie had locked herself out of her room in the dorm where she and my mother lived.  Eager to help the cute girl at his door, the resident advisor had locked himself out of his own room when he’d come outside to listen to Joanie explain her problem.

Joanie had reached the story’s climax, which involved the sweet but awkward RA asking her to lunch after both had secured keys to their rooms, just as the girls reached the door of my father’s classroom.

My father thought my mother’s laugh was beautiful.

Developmental Psychology 214 was the first class my father had ever taught, and he invested hours in trying to make the material interesting.   He was terrified that someone would think him unprepared.  But while my father was absorbed by what he was teaching, he wasn’t deaf.  He heard the whispers, after class,  “He’s good-looking, but he seems so old.  I wonder why he’s only getting his Ph. D. now.”

My father was only getting his Ph. D. now because, before college, he had spent six years in the Air Force.  He’d divined from a radio broadcast that his draft number would be a bad one so, before his card could reach him in the mail, he’d joined up.  After stops at US air bases – McConnell and Offutt for him – he’d been shipped to Germany to learn how to develop the pictures taken by the men who flew the recon planes.  He’d avoided Vietnam, which troubled him sometimes.

He knew what the giggles were about.  But they were of no concern.  His job was to get through two more semesters as a teaching assistant.  Then he’d be done with his doctorate, and he would be off to Stanford, or Duke, or Michigan, to get in line for a professorship.

My mother thought he would make a fine professor.  His lectures were clear and delivered with confidence.  He spoke well, and his eyes danced with intelligence while they moved around the room, seeking out the unconvinced sheep in his flock.  Even the notes he left on her papers were exhaustive.  My mother didn’t know that this last characteristic was a red herring; not everyone in class received such detailed analysis of their work.

I found this passage particularly moving. An arrow led to the section in question.

You have a great way of expressing exactly what you mean. More arrows, leading to one, two, three different circled paragraphs.

I’d like to hear more about this, but I think you did an outstanding job of leaving me in just that condition – wanting more. A large circle, containing both his red, scraggled handwriting and the offending – or rather – inspiring sentence.

In early November, just after Halloween – my mother had dressed up like the nurse she was studying to be – she compared her papers to Joanie’s.

The notes on Joanie’s papers were shorter, more to the point.

Good.

Better.

This could use some work.

Even the arrows on Joanie’s papers were sloppier, less precise.  They looked like they’d been drawn without any regard to where they might go.

As late fall rainstorms became early winter snow flurries, my mother began giving extra thought to how she looked on days when she had Developmental Psychology.  Joanie noticed the third time my mother took longer than usual to get ready.

“You’re wearing makeup,” she said, cocking an eyebrow.

My mother blushed.  “I know.  I mean, of course I know – I’m the one who put it on.”  She slapped her friend on the shoulder.  “It’s okay to look nice once in awhile.”

Joanie grinned.  “Of course it is.  I’m just wondering what the reason is.”

With only a few sessions of class left, furtive glances became held gazes.  My mother found herself worrying that the semester would end too soon.

She confided in Joanie during a study session on the library’s third floor.

“I don’t know what to do.  I think he likes me.  But he’s my teacher.”

Joanie rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, and he’s so old.”

My mother looked up from the book that was failing to hold her attention.  She frowned at her friend.

“I don’t care.  He’s good-looking and he’s smart.  That’s a pretty good start.”

Joanie, saying nothing, put her hands up, as if defending herself from attack.

My mother wore the gray flannel skirt to the last day of class.  This time, she added a black jacket; it was mid-December, after all.  The night before, in a phone call with Joanie, they’d decided that there was no question – no doubt – that he’d finally ask her out.  It was only a matter of how.

Class promised to be short.  Snow was blowing against the windows that looked out over a brown lawn, and my father had little to do other than to hand back the class’s final project.

When he was finished passing out the papers, he said, “Well, thanks for having me as your teacher.  I hope you learned a little about developmental psychology.  If you need to reach me, you can always come to my office at…”

He reached for the chalk in the tray at the bottom of the mostly-erased black board and wrote,

243 Beardsley Hall

He turned back to his class and continued.  “So, have a great Christmas.”

He put his hands together, as if participating in the world’s slowest applause, and strode to his desk.  He’d barely looked at my mother during his final, brief soliloquy.  Even then, he’d spent the same time on her eyes as he had on everyone else’s.

My mother made a point to be slow getting out of the room.  She watched as a girl named Cynthia asked a question about her paper.  Satisfied with the answer my father gave, Cynthia held out her hand, shook my father’s and walked out the classroom door, head held high.

My mother and Joanie were the only two students left in the room.  Her back to my father, my mother’s eyes widened for Joanie’s benefit.

“What?” Joanie said.

My mother moved her head forward, her eyes darting toward the door.

“Oh, I get it,“ Joanie said.  “Okay, see you outside.”

Joanie gathered her books and left, winking at my mother as she did so.

My father looked up from his desk.  He smiled at my mother.

My mother lifted her paper, put it on top of the book she needed for her next class, and walked to the front of the room.

“Mr. Shirley, it was nice to have you as a teacher.”

My father smiled from his seat.

“Why thank you, Miss Shook.  You did an excellent job this semester.”

He looked down at the mess of papers under his elbows before continuing.

“Tell me, would you be interested in…”

He paused.  My mother waited, her mouth dry.

“…the field of psychology?  Because you’d be very good.”

My mother gathered her wits.

“Well, no,” she said.  Then, her voice louder, she went on.

“No, I don’t think I would.  I’m going to be a nurse.”

My father considered what my mother had said.

“A nurse.  Interesting.”

He looked lost in thought.  When he recovered, he said,  “Okay then, I’d better be going.  Nice to have met you.”

My mother’s eyes screamed.  But her voice said, only, “It was nice to meet you too.”

She turned toward the door, her face aflame.  Just as she reached the exit, my father called out.

“Oh, and, Miss Shook?”

My mother turned, hoping that her blushing face wouldn’t be noticeable.

“Nice work on your final paper.”

He smiled once more.

My mother faked a smile of her own before closing the door.

Joanie was waiting in the hall.

“What’d he say?!”

“Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.”  My mother closed her eyes and pinched her nose with her free hand.  “I’m so dumb.  Let’s go to the library.  I have to study for my next test.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joanie said, throwing an arm around my mother’s shoulders.

As my mother forced out, “I won’t,” she peeled open the front of her final project.  While Joanie babbled about the people she might see while at home for Christmas, my mother read what was written in red ink at the top of the first page of her final paper.

Jane Shook, this is fine work.  You’re getting an A, of course.

And then, a red arrow led to the bottom of the page, where the writing continued.

Now, on a more personal note…  I’ve wanted to ask you out since the first moment I saw you.  But I didn’t think it would be honorable to say anything to that effect while you were my student.  (To be honest, I also didn’t think I would keep my job if anyone found out.)

But you’re not my student anymore.  Which is why I want, desperately, to know if you would meet me at the Student Union at noon on Saturday.  I’ll be there waiting.

–   Ken (Your EX-teacher.)

My mother smiled.

Joanie noticed.  She stopped talking about Christmas vacation and glanced at my mother.  “What’s going on?”

My mother looked at Joanie, closing the booklet as she did.

“Oh nothing.  It’s just a note from my next boyfriend.”

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