Last week a co-worker came down with the flu. She’s been with us almost a couple years now. Was a middle school teacher before that. 

She was out only one day when she messaged us to let us know that her husband had tested positive for the flu, too. 

As did their one-year-old. 

All three of ‘em, down for the count right before the holidays.  

Found myself thinking about them on my long Wednesday commute, when a warm memory popped into my head (I find that sometimes my memories eavesdrop on my thoughts). 

From kindergarten through third grade, I went to Areford Elementary. It was a neighborhood school (which were more common back then), just a few blocks from my house. We all got to walk to school. 

For second-grade I had the most awesome teacher, Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Mention her name to my kids, and they will roll their eyes and say, “The bee’s knees.” 

Which is what I always say when I mention Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Seriously, to my second grade self, she was the bee’s knees.

I remember she had the most beautiful handwriting. 

To this day I can still conjure both the image and sounds of her writing our spelling words on the chalk board (with the good teacher’s chalk). It was all so mesmerizing to me. She’d write all the numbers on the board first. Oh, the way she’d swoop her 2s. (swoon). When she’d get to double digits, she’d start putting periods after the numbers. I would so look forward to the percussive punctuation of her chalk stabbing periods on the board. Twelve was my favorite … you’d get a swoop with a stab chaser (ha). 

It’s funny, the things we remember.   

After second grade they switched some of the teacher assignments, so I got to have Mrs. Schifbauer for third grade, too. It was like winning the teacher lottery. 

The specific memory that visited me on my commute was the time in third grade when my friend Jerry got really sick and had to miss school.  I remember it was wintertime. I don’t remember the specific circumstances of Jerry’s illness, just that he missed a bunch of days in a row.

And that Mrs. Schifbauer did the most remarkable thing.

She had our entire class grab our winter coats, and proceeded to shepherd us outside. Along with Mrs. Fisher (the other third grade teacher), she walked us down Eggleston Street, where we made the left onto 7th, and then the right onto Connor, where Jerry lived. Had one of us climb the steps onto Jerry’s big porch and knock on the front door. I remember Mrs. Rehanek (who, for the record, made the most awesome cherry floats in the history of the universe) coming to the door, seeing us all, and then ducking back in to summon Jerry. 

I don’t remember specifically what happened from there … if Mrs. Schifbauer said anything, or had us say or do anything.  I only remember that she just wanted Jerry to know how much we all missed him … and that we couldn’t wait for him to feel well enough to come back to school. 

If it wasn’t for a vague remembrance I have of a photo that Mrs. Rehanek took from the porch that day … I’m not sure I would even trust my memory. 

I mean, can you imagine such a thing happening today? 

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Recently, I learned that the Italian verb “to remember” is ricordare, (similar to the Spanish recordar). The etymology is Latin — Re meaning ‘to go backwards,’ and cordis meaning ‘heart.’ 

Or put another way … ‘to go through the heart again.’ 

Isn’t that just the loveliest thing? 

Why am I telling you this? 

Because when the memory of Mrs. Schifbauer and her kindness went through my heart again on my Wednesday commute … I actually imagined such a thing happening today.

And thought of a couple teachers who might also appreciate such imagining. 

One of ’em … Jerry.

Who I haven’t seen or talked to in maybe 30 years. He’s a teacher in Maryland these days. 

I messaged him and asked him to fact-check my remembering. 

He hit me back almost immediately. 

Yep. 

Matter of fact … 

“I think I have a photo somewhere. I can text it to you if you wanna see the pic.” 

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Went out for lunch Wednesday. It was a good day for soup, so I chose a deli not far from work, where they make it from scratch. 

On a whim, on my way out I asked the person behind the counter if their to go soups come hot or cold. 

Both, he said. 

Ordered a cold quart of chicken noodle to go. 

For a certain former teacher I know. 

Who’s been home from work with the flu all week with her husband and baby boy. 

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Found myself driving to her house after work. 

Pulled outside.

Put on my winter coat.

Marched up the steps. 

And though I was by myself, I wasn’t alone. 

Jamie was there. Tonya and Tracy, too. Ricky and Danny. Scott poking his head between Jodi and Gretchen. Amy, Joy and Susan. Blaine and his kind smile way in the back.

All of us.

And a smiling Mrs. Schifbauer standing next to Mrs. Fisher. 

The bees knees I’m tellin’ ya.  

I didn’t ring the bell, though. 

Just left the soup. 

Along with a note recounting all of the above.

Shot Sydney a text as I was driving way, letting her know I’d put something on her porch. 

And that we all missed her … and that we couldn’t wait for her to feel well enough to come back to the office. 

Told her it was from Mrs. Schifbauer’s third grade class.