Even as a teacher, I sometimes forget that we’re all personalities that help raise the adults of tomorrow. It made me wonder about the many fine adults that raised me in the Brunswick school system and the impact they had.

My elementary years are fragmented flashbacks of blown up Letter People lining the high ledge in my room, running around the playground and the ritual ramp-ups for whatever holiday was coming next — paper skeletons, cardboard Santas with cotton ball beards and melted crayon Easter egg creations.

My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Davis, I remember as a taskmaster with a grandmotherly vibe. She kept me in check while reading us stories and maintaining order while waiting for lunch in the amazing Coffin School atrium corridor. We learned to play games together and worked on penmanship on three lined paper — something I’m convinced no longer happens in elementary grades.

Mrs. Kelley stands out as one of my favorites and yet I cannot, for the life of me, remember any work I did for her. She was young, kind and enthusiastic and that energy rubbed off on her students. I ran into her during the Coffin School 50th anniversary and she remembered me, which humbled me greatly.

Moving on to the junior high, and this is most disturbing to me as a middle school teacher, I only have a few memories of academic work there. I realize working with kids that age, so much focus is on social interactions and hormonal tsunamis and maybe that’s a lesson I need to put into my own practice now.

Of the few things I remember, I do recall going into junior high reading and writing on a college level. That’s what baffled me when a certain language arts teacher called me out in front of the whole class, claiming I plagiarized a haiku I had written in class. “I don’t know where you got this,” she exclaimed before the class, “but I’m going to find out!” I should have taken it as a compliment. I should have realized I wrote something that touched her on a professional level. Instead, I never wrote another poem.

To make matters worse, in the same year a different teacher told us to select a book from the library pertaining to Halloween to read and report on. I chose “The Halloween Tree” by Ray Bradbury. I was hoping for something spooky or creepy that would really deliver a chill — I was wrong. After thumbing through the pages, I asked the teacher if I could choose a different title. She nodded her head sympathetically, saying, “Sure you can. I thought this one might be a little difficult for you.” What? I had already read “Romeo and Juliet,” I think I can handle Bradbury, thank you.

Things opened up for me in high school where I felt I could more easily relate to most of my teachers. Mr. Deans, who ran the woodshop, began class by hucking scrap wood onto a running table saw blade, sending it crashing into the door at the other end of the room to show the power we were about to wield. He also had us read a newspaper article about a man who misused a Skillsaw, resulting in a kickback that severed his penis — lessons you never forget.

Mr. Bonang, still a vital part of the Brunswick community, made me truly love biology. The enthusiasm he brought into his classroom was infectious and as much of a pain I was as a kid, I knew I could count on his class to bring something fresh and new by way of dissections, testing our own blood type and curveballs, like when he boiled periwinkles in a beaker and dared us to try one.

My biggest inspiration in high school had to have been Mr. Knight. He was my college preparatory English teacher and in a time before “Dead Poets Society,” he was the embodiment of the character Mr. Keating. Mr. Knight embedded life lessons within his English assignments and brought deeper meaning to what could have been rather dry work.

Tall and gaunt, he wandered the halls singing Beatles songs to himself. Within the first week, he had learned the names of all his students and greeted them in the hallways and in the lunchroom — well, except my table. He referred to us as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I remember him burying his face in his hands as my friend Andy wrote in a brief biography how he wanted to become a nuclear engineer. Unfortunately, he spelled nuclear, nuculer, triggering Mr. Knight’s moment of despair for our collective future.

There’s a lot of talk about what’s been happening in schools and for the sake of remaining apolitical here, I tried hard to steer clear. What is clear however, is teachers are a large part of what makes us the people we become. They work long hours, taking home work over the weekends and holidays and answering phone calls and emails at all hours. They’re dedicated professionals who are always seeking to increase their understanding and improve their practice.

Most of all, they love kids. Catch teachers talking about their students and they’ll all refer to them as “my kids.” They see our children at their best and sometimes at their worst. They take the time to work with each of their kids and no matter what, cheer for their success. Finally, and this should go without having to be said, they are there to create and maintain a safe environment and culture for their kids — at any time and in any situation.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the MIdcoast and is waiting for you to turn in your homework assignment at [email protected].