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| This was the photo of Rose Hamlin Tennis in her book The School That Was: A School Marm's Tale |
On an afternoon, sometime in 1990, I was
at my desk when Rose Hamlin Tennis walked into our newspaper office. I offered
her a chair opposite me. Rose, who
passed way in September of 1995, needs no introduction to many readers, but if
you are unfamiliar with her, she taught school for 35 years—from 1931 through
1967—with many of them spent at the Fowlerville High School and Junior High. I
was among her legion of former students.
I’m able to pinpoint the year she came
into the office because it was shortly after the publication of The School That Was: A School Marm’s Tale.
The book told of her early teaching career at various country schools in rural
Fowlerville and nearby Antrim Township. A slim volume, it packed a lot of
information about how those one-room neighborhood schools operated, the
routines and responsibilities of a teacher,
recess activities, the different highlights of a school year including
the Christmas pageant, and numerous anecdotes about her students and remembered
events.
It also contained several photos of the
schools and the classes she taught, plus a very informative appendix with
documents such as a Standard Teacher Contract and a Scholar’s (student’s)
Monthly Report. The book was partly a memoir,
providing background on her grandparents and parents as well as highlights of her
own childhood and partly an ode to this bygone era; a combination of nostalgia
and (like its author) a no-nonsense,
practical history lesson.
I had
just done a feature article on Rose and her book for the newspaper, helping to promote
it and also provide this biographical information. She had grown up on the
family farm at the corner of Brimley and Herrington Roads in northwest Conway
Township, the second of Bert and Emelie Brimley’s six children. She, along with
her siblings, attended Dillingham School, as had her father.
Rose graduated from Perry High School in
1930, then attended Livingston County Normal where she earned the required 25
credits that allowed her to teach for three years.
“During the three years of teaching I had
to go to a teacher’s college and earn ten more credits to continue my
certificate for three more years,” she wrote in her book, adding “I was
simultaneously working for a bachelor’s degree and permanent certificate.”
Her first year of teaching was in 1931-32
at the Beard School in southern Shiawassee County. She remained there until
1934 and over the ensuing years her schools included Croope, Fuller, Cole,
Dillingham, and finally Benjamin from 1945 thru 1948. At that point, she
decided to seek a position at the elementary school in Fowlerville. She would
go on to teach classes at the junior high and high school level.
Back
then she was known as Mrs. Hamlin. In her book she relates that her marriage to
Willard Hamlin took place in the summer of 1933, adding, “We kept our marriage
a secret until Christmas vacation. At that time, married women teachers were
not hired. We were afraid that I would be asked to resign if they knew of the
marriage before school started. We badly needed my salary of $55 per month.”
That school year was, of course, during the
worst part of the Great Depression.
I had Mrs.
Hamlin for health class in seventh grade
and again for physical science in eighth grade. This was from the fall of 1963
through the spring of 1965. Those two years, it turned out, were her last ones
at Fowlerville. She went to Perry Public Schools, taught another two years, and
then retired in June of 1967. She was widowed when I had her in school. She
subsequently married Elmer Tennis.
Mrs.
Hamlin was a strict teacher. When she walked into the room at the start of
class, if we students were jabbering away rather than studying (which was often
the case), she stood there at the doorway with a stern look. Like a light
switch being flicked off, the room went suddenly quiet.
I
recall in physical science that she threatened to flunk any of us who failed to
properly define latitude and longitude. Latitude, of course, are the lines that
run east-west around the globe, but are measured in degrees going north and
south from the equator, while longitude are the vertical north-south lines you
see on the globe, but are measured in an east-west direction, starting at the
Prime Meridian in Greenwich, England.
An east-west line measuring north-south
distances and vice versa is, for the young mind, counter intuitive. I don’t
know if she ever carried out her threat, but I made sure I remembered at least that
much for the final test.
Like
many teachers, Mrs. Hamlin was an authority figure, with the demarcation between
her and the students clearly marked. Thus, I did not see that much of her
warmth and caring nature until I’d grown older. My initial realization came
when I arrived home from Traverse City after learning that my sister had died.
Ron Dillingham, a classmate and good friend, had driven up that morning to
bring me back. Rose was coming out of our house when we pulled into driveway.
She had been one of the first persons to arrive at our home to comfort my
mother. She hugged Ron and I and told me how sorry she was about Carol’s death.
At that moment, she ceased being a stern authority figure.
Another
encounter, this time with her fun side on display, occurred at our class’s 10th
year reunion. We had a picnic at the Fowlerville Community Park, and she was
the only teacher to show up of the several who had been invited. She joined in
the reminiscing, shared the meal with us, and watched our softball game, making
sure to cheer for both teams. What I realized from both of those episodes, and
from my subsequent encounters with her, was that she still cared about us and
still wanted to be part of our lives.
During
her time at Fowlerville, Rose had been the sponsor of the high school’s National
Honor Society. In 1986 she and her husband started a scholarship with the aim
of awarding $500 each to two graduating seniors who were members of this school
service organization.
About that same time my grandmother, Ilah Mae Horton—who had been presenting the Carol
Horton Memorial Scholarship—suggested I should take over. So, during the next
several years, Rose and I shared the stage at the annual high school Honors
Night, along with the other presenters. In fact, one of Rose’s hopes, stated in
the book and in the article I did with her, was that profits from The School That Was would help endow the
scholarship fund. I suspect that her
hopes were higher than the profits, but her heart surpassed both.
After Rose
sat down on that long-ago afternoon, she handed me a letter. I read it and then she filled in the details.
The man who wrote the letter had been one of
her junior high students.
“I
remember him,” she told me “He had a rough family life. The parents didn’t have
much money. I helped him out as much as
I could. He was having problems with his teeth, and I saw to it that he went to
a dentist.”
While she didn’t say so, I gathered that
Rose had covered the bill.
“The family didn’t stay in the community
very long,” she added. “I never heard from him again until this letter.”
As I recall the letter’s contents, the man
explained that he had left Fowlerville, but continued having problems. He told her
that after growing up, he had struggled with alcohol for many years, been
divorced, and all in all had suffered a miserable life.
“I’ve straightened things out,” he added,
indicating that he was married again and had a steady job.
“I think you knew, when I was your
student, that my family life was not the best,” he said.
He recalled the kindness Rose had shown
him, taking him under her wing, probably protecting him as best she could from
the teasing and taunts of his fellow students.
The power of the letter, its purpose for
being sent, reaching as it did across the intervening years, was to tell her
something important. “Through all of those years of struggle, remembering how
you’d helped me, how you cared, kept me going,” he said. “That memory was what
I hung onto it. It’s what saved me. I wanted you to know that.”
We sat there, on each side of the desk. I
offered a comment along the line that it must be pretty gratifying to be told
this. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Rose didn’t ask me to do a news story, and
I didn’t offer.
I
wondered since then what she was thinking when she got up from the chair, still
holding the letter, and left. Was she disappointed at my tepid response? Was
she hoping I’d offer to do an article? Was she hesitant to ask because she
thought an article might seem boastful and needed my reassurance?
I’ve also wondered about my own hesitation.
Did I feel I’d already done a feature on her and that was enough? Was I busy
with other work and not eager to take on another task? Was I waiting for her to
ask?
All I know for sure, all of these years
later, is that I said nothing and let her walk away.
I’m
well aware, thanks to hindsight that I screwed up by not making a copy of the
letter, getting more information, and doing a story. I compounded the error by
not calling her when she was still alive and saying, “Remember that letter, let’s
do a story about it.”
I’ve
made my share of mistakes over the years and learned long ago that despite the regrets
and guilt, you eventually have move on. This lapse in judgment, however, has kept
nagging at my conscience, demanding a remedy.
So
here it is.
I’m pretty sure that Rose, in the years
after her retirement, received plenty of accolades from her former students. I
have no doubt that she was showered with praises of how she had shaped and
influenced them and how she had served as a role model. And I’m guessing she
was flattered by these testimonies and that they served as a source of personal
satisfaction.
In the final chapter of her book, entitled
“Legacy of a Schoolmarm”, she said as much, writing, “The greeting cards,
wedding, graduation and alumni invitations, even the casual hello, kisses and
handshakes I have received since my retirement have added to my joys of
teaching and to my enjoyment during my retirement.”
But this letter was something different. Something
more profound, more universal, and of more significance. It told of how a
teacher, by caring enough and going out of her way to help, had served as
lifeline for a young boy and continued doing so as he became a man; how the
memory had kept him afloat, given him the means and inspiration to survive
until he finally reached a safe shore.
As I now report this story, having gained
experience and possibly a little understanding, I do not believe Rose shared
this letter for personal glorification, although it must have been immensely
gratifying. My guess is that she was hesitant, maybe fearful that publicizing
the contents might seem boastful, and thus waiting to see what my thoughts
were. She may have even debated about coming to the office, but decided that
this letter offered a valuable lesson. Even in retirement, she was still a
teacher.
Had I reacted as I should have and done the
article, it would have shown the power of kindness; how--when any of us lend a
helping hand, offer an encouraging word, or show a caring concern--there’s no
telling what this might mean to the person on the receiving end of that help,
encouragement, and understanding. The article would have illustrated that what
seems a small gesture to us, might have an enormous impact on someone else,
especially a young boy or girl.
I
know the article would have said all of that (and much more) because if she
walked into the office today and showed me that letter, based on what she’d
told me and what I knew of her, that’s how I’d write it.
Rose
had been a teacher for 35 years. She was proud of her profession. In the final
chapter of her book, she expressed this conclusion: “Reflecting back on my
years of teaching, both in rural schools and later in Fowlerville elementary
and high schools, I know I would not have been happy with any other career. I
had the opportunity, working in small town schools, to become involved in the
lives of my students as many teachers cannot today.”
This letter served as a validation of her
career and how she had approached it. Students mattered to her. On a larger
scale, it reminds us of the enormous influence a teacher can have on a student.
That potential to positively impact young people was true back then, is true today.
Teachers matter.
Rose
Hamlin Tennis was an exceptional lady, an extraordinary teacher. And even
though she has been gone for over 20 years, she’s still teaching ; still
providing us with lessons of life and learning through the legacy of her book The School That Was, the memories she
left us, and now (hopefully) with the story of this letter.
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