I saw it in a little shop while on vacation in Icy Strait Point, Alaska – five years ago – and I had to have it. It was a hand-carved figurine. Specifically, a little marble walrus with tusks and all. For such a small item it seemed a tad expensive – about $50. But hey, it was hand-carved. And cute.
But that’s not why I bought the walrus. My purchase was far more reminiscent than that. As soon as I saw this little fella it took me back to my childhood – fifth grade, exactly. I remember that in fifth grade – and in sixth grade too, because I had the same teachers – when the class would congregate we would not refer to this time as “gathering time” or “group time.” No, class gatherings were known as “Walrus Time.”
Why was it called Walrus Time? Alice in Wonderland inspired the name. Namely, it came from Lewis Carroll’s epic book Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There. Remember Walrus, and the Carpenter, and those poor unfortunate oysters? The one famous stanza in the poem goes like this:
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things.
Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –
Of cabbages – and kings –
And why the sea is boiling hot –
And whether pigs have wings.”
For those unfamiliar with the story, Walrus and Carpenter turned out to be antagonists instead of friends, having tricked a mess of oysters into becoming their next meal. But that’s beside the point. The stanza by itself hints at the value of good conversation.
Hence, the time to talk, the time to discuss, the time to laugh, the time to scold (this one reserved for the teachers, of course) or the time to share all fell within the confines of “Walrus Time.”
Actually, memories of Walrus Time in of itself do not make me sentimental. It’s the memories of who was there. That would be my favorite teacher, who we called Ms. Karen.
She would be my teacher for two years, during fifth and sixth grade. She was young – only a mere 30 years old or so when I entered into the fifth grade. And she was a woman who was genuinely – if not painfully – human. She was passionate and compassionate, yet fallible and flawed. Her temper was fierce. More than once she scared me with her rage in the classroom. Her emotions often overwhelmed her to the point of tears – particularly when her students disappointed her or fell short of expectations. Perhaps her standards for us were so high because she cared so deeply. I do believe her mission in life was to make sure that we all reached our fullest potential, or at least had the best life possible.
While her moods were intense, the endless devotion she demonstrated to her profession and to her students was enough for me to look past the occasional outbursts. After all, I was one of those students who reaped the benefits.
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| Ms. Karen and me, around 1976. By the way, I still have the shirt! |
Her encouragement led me to become involved in the community children’s theater. Her “you can do it” attitude gave me the confidence to explore my own creativity through writing stories and poetry. And it was her belief in me that ultimately made me the county spelling bee champ. The spelling bee, in particular, was a multi-year effort. The first year I finished fourth; the second year I finished third; and the third year – my eighth grade year – I emerged victorious.
I remember that night. Ms. Karen was no longer my teacher and had not been for almost two years. But she was there that night – there to watch me finish what I had started. How fulfilled I felt! I had worked so hard for so long and finally achieved my goal. And Ms. Karen was so proud of me. Did I do it for me? Yes. But I did it for her, too.
Sometimes I wondered if maybe in some small way Ms. Karen would push her students so that she could live vicariously through them. I did not know the details of her life, but I did know that her life had not been without pain. I vaguely remember her alluding to difficult times when she was young, one being that her father was an alcoholic. I really didn’t know much more than that. But it was enough for me to sense that in some ways she may have been a tragic figure. Or maybe she was just a survivor who had missed life opportunities due to her own unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps her students’ achievements became her own. I’m sure that’s a small consolation for lost opportunities.
One year was particularly painful for her. She was no longer my teacher, but I still greatly valued her counsel. In December 1977 I went to visit Ms. Karen in the hospital. She was sick, but I wasn’t quite sure what ailed her. It was a Saturday afternoon. I was in the process of preparing an essay for a contest sponsored by the local Daughters of the American Revolution. I wanted to visit my favorite teacher, but also I wanted to bounce some ideas off of her about my essay. When I entered the room I found her with the nurse, visibly upset and tears streaming down her face. What was wrong, I wondered. Whatever it was it didn’t matter, as her spirits quickly elevated once I got there. It wasn’t long before she was spouting so many ideas off for my essay, so fast, that I could barely write them down!
I won the essay contest. And she went to another hospital. It was a special hospital several hours away. By this time her condition had been diagnosed. Today it is referred to as bipolar disorder. At that time people called it manic depression.
Fortunately, treatment seemed to be effective and lithium stabilized her moods. She continued teaching and we stayed close. Through my high school years we would see each other on occasion, maybe do lunch or dinner. A few times after I started driving I would just show up unannounced at her house. She would welcome me and we would chat into the night. As Walrus would put it, we “would talk of many things.” Maybe not shoes or ships or sealing wax. But instead of our futures, and of relationships. And many other things. I even recall her describing her world of bipolar when she detailed some of the delusions she had when she was sick.
On the day I received my letter of acceptance into college, I went straight to McDonald’s – where I knew she would be working at her second job – to show her the letter. And that summer after I graduated I worked with her at McDonald’s.
And then I went away to college. That’s when we lost touch. Shortly after I graduated college, I bumped into her during one of my visits home. She hugged me tight and whispered into my ear, “Call me.” I told her I would.
But I didn’t. Yet I thought about her. And one day a feeling came over me that I should write her a letter – one that expressed how much she meant to me. I wanted to let her know how much of an impact she had made in my life. Yes, I was going to write her that letter. Sometime. At some point, I thought, I would get around to it.
But I never got around to writing that letter. And not long after I found out that I would never have that chance. Some 20 years or so ago, during a routine telephone conversation my mother broke the news to me. Ms. Karen was dead. It was an overdose. Was it accidental? Was it intentional? I don’t know. I don’t care. But oh, how I wish I would have written that letter.
When I lost my job a few months back, I remember that the things that gave me the most strength to get through that first week were the heartfelt notes that I received from my coworkers. Such small gestures, yet so powerful.
Karen deserved that powerful gesture from me. If she was in pain, perhaps I could have eased it. At the very least, I could have touched her with my words for just a few minutes. I just wanted her to know that her life had been worth it, because she had made a difference in at least one person’s life – mine. But she didn’t hear that from me, because I didn’t have the time.
As I near the age that she was when she passed away, I find myself reflecting more about her, the relationship we had and the impact she made in my life. And I think often about the letter I never wrote, the closure I never got. I don’t know whether she was buried or cremated. I never saw her obituary. And I really have very little that shows that she ever existed or was part of my life. A couple of class pictures. A very grainy black and white photo of the two of us on a field trip. A couple of “good luck” bookmarks that she gave me prior to my spelling bees. And a Webster’s word guide – one that she gave me after my first spelling bee, with my name engraved on it. On the inside front page is written a simple sentiment – “I love you. Ms. Karen. March 17, 1977.”
And then there’s the little marble Walrus. She didn’t give it to me, but it sits on my desk. And every time I look at the little guy I think of her and pleasant memories of Walrus Times past. In what has been a time of transition for me, I wish Karen was here now to tell me “You can do it.” When I look at the Walrus, I feel that in some transcendental way she is with me, cheering me on, boosting my confidence and assuring me that success is mine for the taking.
Karen, I never had the chance to say goodbye. But please know that I say hello to you every day. Though you have been gone for so long, you remain in my heart and will forever. Someday when I reach the hereafter we’ll get together, you and I, and we’ll catch up. We will chat like we once did, into the night.
And it will be Walrus Time once again.
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