Mr. Write's Page

A few days ago, I was thinking about the school teachers of my youth. I’m not sure why the subject entered my head. Maybe as you get older, your head develops a mind of its own.

Anyway, one of us noticed that my most memorable teachers were the ones most dedicated to the craft of teaching — the most passionate, the most committed, the most zealous-to-the-bone-about-teaching teachers.

Over the years, there were teachers I admired, a couple I disliked, and some who made no impression at all. Some were kindly, some were dour, some were effective, some were not.

But the teachers I respected most were those most single-mindedly devoted to their calling.

In my case, three images surface: Emily Harris, my fifth grade teacher; John Drewry, the Dean of my college journalism school; and George Reichler, who taught English and Creative Writing at my high school.

Miss Harris was the Mother Teresa of Westlawn Elementary School in Falls Church, Virginia. A spinster in her 40s, she was gentle, grandmotherly, and nurturing. She was a small woman and wore large rimless glasses. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun.

Miss Harris was patient and unflappable. She went about the business of teaching in a gentle and loving manner.

Like Gandhi, she passively subdued the unruly, clearing the way for her to teach and for us to learn.

Miss Harris’ classes were calm and orderly. Her power and control were god-like. She was awesome.

John Eldridge Drewry became the first Dean of the Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication at the University of Georgia in 1940. By the time I arrived there in 1960, Dean Drewry was a legend.

Like Miss Harris, he was a patient, unflappable, commanding presence. But while Miss Harris had the simple, down-to-earth qualities of a Mother Teresa, Dean Drewry was a regal figure. He had the patrician air of Franklin Roosevelt and the scholarly chops of J. R. R. Tolkien.

There was an aura of blue-bloodedness about him, which was entirely fitting. He was a man of cordial elegance — like David Niven, but stouter, and with a Southern accent.  I remember him for his droll wit, intelligence, eloquence, and grace.

In my four years at UGA, Dean Drewry taught six or seven of my Journalism courses. I never missed a single lecture, ever.

His presentations were seldom new. He had delivered each one many times over the years. But in so doing, he had polished and honed every sentence to perfection.

A lecture by Dean Drewry was as articulate, insightful, and inspiring as the finest sermon by the most silver-tongued preacher on his best day.

John Drewry was a scholar who believed passionately in the vocation of journalism and its obligations, societal and moral.

In contrast, George Reichler was a harried, 50-ish classroom teacher who presided over chaos and whose students gleefully lampooned him.

Mr. Reichler taught English and Creative Writing at my high school during my senior year. He was good-natured and well-intentioned, and we were genuinely fond of him. But his rumpled appearance, absentmindedness, and personal quirks made him an easy target.

“Big Rick,” as we christened him, had his cranky moments. There were occasional flashes of anger and frustration. But most of the time, he was ebullient and happy to be George Reichler.

And, in spite of his inability to rein in the usual class rebels, he radiated a passion for language that infected his students like a virus.

His love of words, the interesting ways they came together, the cleverness of certain phrases, and the ways you could intertwine them to express ideas — that fervor captured great numbers of students in every class he taught.

The way it worked was insidious. In Rick’s classes, it always began as an act of mocking the man for his pedantic ways and comical demeanor.

For example, he had the common bad habit of peppering his speech with uhs. So as a diversion, many of us kept count of the uhs. We found that he typically uttered an uh 80 to 100 times during a single class period.

That practice evolved into keeping a log of the many notable — and to us, humorous — words and phrases he used.

I have notes made in Creative Writing class on March 3, 1960, indicating that Big Rick said uh 108 times and employed these words and phrases: aspersions, erudite, cudgel my cranium, pestiferous, tempest in a teapot, unpremeditated, innuendo, vicissitudes of life, ex officio, mount the rostrum, vociferous, bereft of volume, cacophony, pious promises, and co-perpetrator.

Naturally, we kids compared notes after class. And fittingly, we searched out and shared the meaning of every word, phrase, and cliché.

A few of his students were hopeless dolts and likely dropouts, but only a few. The rest, in deriding Mr. Reichler, were led unwittingly to learn what he wanted to teach us: a love of the English language.

I would call it genius, but I’m sure Mr. Reichler had no idea it was happening.

At least, I don’t think he did.

Mr. Reichler was by far my favorite teacher that year, and I always shared stories about him with my mother. After a time, even though she had never met him, Mom came to appreciate Big Rick almost as much as I did.

It became a bonding thing for Mom and me. She always looked forward to hearing my tales of what Big Rick said or did.

Midway through my senior year, Mom came to school for an assembly, and she finally was able to meet Mr. Reichler.

I remember it distinctly, waiting to get his attention amid a swarm of students and parents, my smiling mother standing beside me.

Finally, the chance came, and I formally introduced them. Big Rick beamed, and as he shook her hand, began to regale her, in his own grandiloquent style, about my outstanding work in his classes.

Abruptly, a laugh erupted unbidden from Mom. George was startled. He paused and looked at her quizzically.

Mom coughed to stifle another eruption and said, still chuckling, “I’m so sorry. Something funny occurred to me, and I couldn’t help laughing.

“I’m so glad Rocky is doing well in class. He admires you very much.”