Commentaries by Cynthia

You never know who is going to walk into a newspaper office.

I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be her -- my former eight grade English teacher – the only teacher, I might add, who never seemed to like me very much.

“Oh, Cynthia,” she gushed. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

I wanted to run and hide, but she was blocking my exit to the door. When she moved forward and gave me an unexpected hug, I didn’t know whether to cringe or relax, although I probably cringed big-time.

“So, I enjoy reading your columns,” she said. “And I hear you are a grandmother. I can’t believe it.”

‘Yes, well...” I was still reeling in shock, unable to do more than stammer like an idiot.

“You were always such a good student and you so enjoyed reading,” she said, smiling. “So I’m not surprised that you are in this line of work. Do you like it?”

“Yes, very much,” I said, all the while wondering if she sat at home and graded my columns with a red magic marker, underlining this and putting a question mark beside that. This may sound silly to you, but the woman was ruthless with me, marking down my handwritten essays because, supposedly, my A’s and O’s looked too similar. Now, was that really necessary? And did she ever compliment my writing ability? Heck, no. I didn’t get any compliments on my ‘way with words’ until I started high school.

“I’m here because I want to put something in the paper,” she said, pulling me from my reverie.

So we politely took care of business, then she went on her way. At last, I could breathe normally and relax.

Some writers, once they ‘make it’ will fondly mention a long-lost English teacher -- one who patiently and lovingly guided the author to their calling. But I, recalling the red marks on my earliest essays, will not be one of them.

For good or bad, people will never forget how you made them feel.