28. The Most Unforgettable Character I've Met

In this short memoir (the author describes his last English teacher in high school, a man whose wide scope of knowledge, whose unique way of teaching, and above all, whose confidence in his students had fascinated the whole class. Read on to find out more about this unforgettable character.

I remember vividly that first English class in the last term of high school. We boys (there were no girls in the school) were waiting expectantly for the new teacher to appear. Before long, through the door came a tall, unimpressive-looking man of about 40. He said shyly, "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

His voice had a surprising tone of respect, almost as if he were addressing the Supreme Court instead of a group of youngsters. He wrote his name on the blackboard—Wilmer T. Stone—then sat on the front of his desk, drew one long leg up and grasped his bony knee.

"Gentlemen," he began, "we are here this semester—your last—to continue your study of English. I know we shall enjoy learning with—and from—one another. We are going to learn something about journalism and how to get out your weekly school paper. Most important, we are going to try to feel the joy of good literature. Maybe some of us will really get interested in reading and writing. Those who do, I venture to say, will lead far richer, fuller lives than they would otherwise."

He went on like that, speaking without condescension, voicing a welcome message of friendliness and understanding. An unexpected feeling of excitement stirred in me.

During the term that followed, his enthusiasm spread through us like a contagion. He would read one of Keats's poems, for instance, and then say musingly, "I wonder whether we can say that better. Let's see." Then we'd all chip in, and voices would grow high-pitched in the melee of thoughts and phrases. Soon would come a glow of wonderment was we began to discover that there was no better way of saying it. By such devices he led us to an appreciation of the beauty and perfection of language and literature.

There was little formality about our sessions, but he never had to discipline us. Since he treated us with unfailing courtesy, we couldn't very well do anything except return it; approached as adults, we could not show ourselves childish. Besides, we were much too interested and too anxious to participate in the discussion to have time for foolishness.

We would point things out to one another, each contributing an idea, a viewpoint. We examined the subject as a child studies a new toy, turning it over in our hands, peering underneath, feeling its shape and finding out what made it go.

"Don't be afraid to disagree with me," he used to say. "It shows you are thinking for yourselves, and that's what you are here for." Warming to such confidence, we felt we had to justify it by giving more than our best. And we did.

Mr. Stone abhorred sloppy speech and lazy writing. I remember a book review in which I wrote, "At the tender age of 17, he ... " Back came a sharp note: "'Tender age' was a good phrase when first used, but now it's like a worn-out sock. Mint new coins—your own coins."

Mr. Stone gave us the greatest gift a teacher can bestow—an awakening of a passion for learning. He had a way of dangling before us part of a story, a literary character or idea, until we were curious and eager for more; then he would cut himself short and say, "But I suppose you have read so-and-so." When we shook our heads, he would write the title of a book on the blackboard, then turn to us, "There are some books like this one I almost wish I had never read. Many doors to pleasure are closed to me now, but they are all open for you!"

He was a great believer in wide reading outside class. "You know," he said once, "if I had to put all my advice into a single word, it would be: browse. In any library you will find awaiting you the best that has been thought and felt and said in all the ages. Taste it, sample it. Peek into many books, read a bit here and there, range widely. Then take home and read the books that speak to you, that are suited to your interests.

"How would you like to live in another century, or another country?" he went on. "Why not for a while live in France at the time of the French Revolution?" He paused and wrote on the blackboard: A Tale of Two Cities—Dickens. "Or how would you like to take part in 14th-century battles?" He wrote: The White Company—Doyle. "Or live for a spell in the Roman Empire?" Ben-Hur—Wallace. He put the chalk down. "A man who reads lives many lives. A man who doesn't, walks this earth with a blindfold."

The end of the term came much too soon. The morning before graduation day the class suddenly and spontaneously decided to give Mr. Stone a literary send-off that afternoon—a good-bye party with poems and songs concocted for the occasion.

Bernie Stamm started a poem called "Farewell." We cudgeled our brains and each put in a line here and there. Then Herb Galen suggested a parody, and we went to work on Gilbert and Sullivan's A Policeman's Lot Is Not a Happy One, changing it to Poor Wilmer's Lot Is Not a Happy One. After we finished the verses Larry Hinds sang it in his premature baritone, and we howled in glee.

That afternoon when Mr. Stone walked slowly into Room 318 we made him take a seat in the first row. Do you remember those old-fashioned school desks that you had to inch into from the side, with a small seat and a slightly sloping top? Mr. Stone, a tall, big-boned man, sat with his gawky legs spread out into the aisles and waited to see what would happen.

One of the boys, sitting in the teacher's chair, started off with a speech; the rest of us were grouped around him. Mr. Stone sat tight-lipped, until toward the end when he slowly turned to the right and then to the left, looking at each of us in turn as if he wanted to register the picture on his mind.

When we got to the last chorus of the parody, we saw tears rolling down Mr. Stone's high cheekbones. He didn't brush them off but just blinked hard once or twice. We sang louder so that nobody would seem to be noticing. As we came to the end, every throat had a lump in it that made singing difficult.

Mr. Stone got up and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose and wiped his face. "Boys," he began, and no one even noticed that he wasn't calling us "men" any more, "we're not very good, we Americans, at expressing sentiment. But I want to tell you you have given me something I shall never forget."

As we waited, hushed, he spoke again in the gentle musing voice of the natural-born teacher. "That is one of the secrets of life—giving; and maybe it is a fitting thought to leave you with. We are truly happy only when we give. The great writers we have been studying were great because they gave of themselves fully and honestly. We are big or small according to the size of our helping hand."

He stopped and shook hands with each of us. His parting words were: "Sometimes I think teaching is a heartbreaking way of making a living." Then as he glanced down the line and saw the boys looking at him reverently, he added with a wistful smile, "But I wouldn't give it up for all the world."

Part of Wilmer Stone, I know, stays in the hearts of all of us who once faced him across the desks of Room 318.

From Reader's Digest, October, 1949.