Elementary
  
  
 Smells of chalk and Elmer’s glue and hot lunch
 linger. Thunk of rubber balls on asphalt.
 On Valentine’s Day, the delicious crunch
 of sugar cookies with pink sprinkles. Salt
  
 made icy sidewalks safe. Our third-grade class
 transformed cardboard into a Zulu hut,
 covering the roof and sides with bright grass
 made from crepe paper, green and tawny, cut
  
 with Mrs. Munford’s sharp, black-handled shears.
 When we were good, we could spend time inside,
 use flashlights to read African books. Fears
 were smaller then. Or maybe not. I cried
  
 when I sounded out pollution, then learned that our air,
land, and water were sick; might die under our bad care.
  
 Leslie Schultz 

In third grade, I was lucky enough to fall in love with my teacher, Mrs. Munford. She was wise, and generously proportioned, and truly saw the best in each of her students. She taught us about China and Africa; and the turbulent history of The Stout-Hearted Seven, an authentic account of orphans alone navigating the Oregon Trail; about blood cells and constellations, and gerbils, and how seeds sprout; about multiplication tables, and arrays, and short division; and about the power of listening to whatever interests you.

When I started looking this morning, I could not locate any photos of me from that year–though in my school record book, artistically covered by my mother, there are photos for the flanking years.

Yet, I know I changed and learned a lot about myself during those nine months at Cedar Hills Elementary School. It was in second grade (across the hall) that I became mesmerized by rhyme, but it was in Mrs. Munford’s class that I started, all on my own, to write poems. I would think them up, write them down, copy them with my very best handwriting, and then illustrate them on ruled paper at home. The next day, I would turn them into my teacher, who always, always encouraged these extracurricular forays despite the many elementary mistakes I made. Mrs. Munford knew about potential and how to foster it in us. Toward the end of that year, I turned them into my first book.

Inside, I found that one of my first verses was dedicated to Mrs. Munford. I wish I could curl up, just for a few moments, again in that cardboard hut. And I wish she could read today’s new poem for her.        LESLIE