Los Gatos Weekly-Times

Did all those years matter? More than you know

By Lain Chroust Ehmann

I am getting old. Maybe I should've picked up on this a little sooner, like at my 10th high school reunion. Or when the checker at Safeway started calling me "ma'am." But it took an afternoon of watching my former high school teachers take a step back from the front lines of education to make me realize that I'm no longer a spring chicken.

Teachers of mine have retired before but never en masse, as they did at the "Team LGHS" retirement barbecue on the front lawn of the high school May 31.

During my time at Los Gatos High School I crossed paths with no fewer than seven of the retirees. And every one of them made an unceasing impression on my life.

They impacted me more by the example they set as people than by any nugget of information they managed to impart into my thick adolescent skull. Long after I have forgotten the intricacies of irregular Spanish verbs, long after Mark Antony's oration from Julius Caesar has left my brain, I will remember their kindness.

I'll remember Mr. Bostwick standing unflinching in the summer heat as we screwed up yet another of his carefully choreographed field shows. I will hear Mr. Cody's voice echo through my brain, lilting Robert Burns' "My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose," making the words come alive for a group of bored sophomores.

I'll recall how the trio of Mr. Simonson, Mr. Simon and Mrs. Hughes never--no matter how outlandish our schemes--poured cold water on our big-as-the-sky student council plans. They offered what guidance we would accept and then stood back to watch us stumble or fly on our own. I will remember piles of paperwork left untouched on their desks as they met yet another untimely interruption with a smile.

I will remember Mrs. Bell standing in front of a classroom of lackadaisical teenagers, telling a student for the umpteenth time to "ponga el chicle en el cesto," a phrase I still recall every time I dump a wad of bubble gum in the garbage can.

I will see Mrs. Bingman standing at the side of the pool, explaining once more the timing of the strokes for the butterfly.

What was even more important than the subjects they taught was their dedication to the task at hand. No one would have known from observation that they'd been answering the same questions, discussing the same books or listening to the same Broadway song played hopelessly out of synch for years upon years. They brought to their jobs a love of teaching that transcended repetition. And what dedication couldn't make up for, their acting abilities hid.

I no longer hold any illusion that I made much of an impression on any of my instructors. But I, like all young people, used to think that I was the center of the universe, that surely these teachers would remember me long after my footsteps rang through other schools' halls and carried me to other adventures.

When I run into one of my former teachers, I don't expect them to recognize me. I give them my name immediately and hope that will help the synapses connect. I figure that over the course of their teaching careers, they've each seen more than 5,000 students sit in front of them, wearing the same know-it-all expressions of apathy. Some of these kids were smarter than I was, some worked harder, some cared more. But I am positive that each one received the same degree of dedication and love--yes, love--from these teachers.

I imagine that at retirement time it's common to reflect on the years you've worked and ponder over the job you've done. In this case, they may be asking themselves, "Did anyone listen to me? Did anyone care?" And, most importantly, "Did I make a difference?" Well, here's one former student telling you, all of you, that I may not have listened as often as you would have liked. I may not have cared as much as I should have. But yes, you made a difference. You may not remember my name when you see my face, but I still consider myself one of your kids.

Lain Chroust Ehmann is a Los Gatos resident. Members of "Team LGHS" are Ted Simonson, 47 years; Al Simon, 37; Patti Hughes, 29; Jack Cody, 46, Florence Bell, 37, Judy Bingman, 35, Bert Donlon, 35; Paul Bostwick, 34; Jan Willoughby, 10.

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