There are teachers and there are teachers. They come in all sizes and ages. I had one in Junior High School that I will never forget. To save her family embarrassment, I won't mention her name.

She was old, really old. Of course, that was the opinion of an eighth-grader. I don't remember ever seeing her smile. Her teaching style left a lot to be desired. I didn't help the situation either. School was always easy for me as anyone who knows me can attest. I am easily bored. That is a dangerous combination. I tried to stay under her radar.

Her classroom was larger than all the others, more the size of a study hall. There were so many students in this class that some of us had to sit at tables along one wall. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured. I wouldn't get in any trouble back there. Yeah, right! She spent more time screaming what a terrible bunch of misfits we were than teaching. Assigning every exercise at the end of each chapter for homework, I developed a real dislike for the aged instructor. Eighth-graders are not known for being fond of homework or for being yelled at.

Picture this: When we arrive for class, she would be sitting at her desk just inside the door. Now picture her sitting there with the wastebasket between her knees, pencil and class record book in hand. We were to hand her our completed homework assignment and wait while she checked it for completeness. She didn't care whether or not it was all correct; just that every exercise was done. THEN she dumped our hard work into the wastebasket. We were to proceed to our seats, sit down and be quiet.

Do kids still memorize poetry? It was part of school work when I went to school. Being the trouble-maker that I was, I decided to memorize the longest poem in the book. It was “The Skeleton in Armor.” I still remember the opening line: “Speak! Speak! Thou frightful guest. Now in rude armor dressed, why dost thou haunt me?” or something like that. The epic poem goes on for many pages. When my turn to recite came, I stood in front of the class. Standing erect, with my hands clasped behind my back and looking at the ceiling, I slowly enunciated each word carefully, taking time to prolong the recitation. After several stanzas, she yelled for me to sit down. That was fine. I hadn't memorized the entire poem anyway.

Another time, when she was berating us, I inadvertently giggled. I couldn't help it. She looked so ridiculous standing there screaming at us with her face all puffed up. “GO TO THE OFFICE!” she screamed. I picked up my books and headed downstairs. There, I informed the secretary why I was there. I was to sit on one of the chairs just outside the office door until just before class let out. She signed my slip and sent me back to class. The teacher thought I had been properly chastised. Not really. But I did get a respite from her miserable teaching.