“Hi Michale, its Priscilla Norton. I am so delighted you’ll be storytelling at my school next week and I have a request. My mom has just returned to Alaska after living the last forty years in Bend, Oregon and would love to come and hear you. Would that be okay?
“Yes, of course!”
I got the phone call as I was preparing to travel from Seattle to Anchorage to perform in area schools, conduct a storytelling workshop for teachers and perform a public concert at the Loussac Library (the very library I was often kicked out of as a child for talking too much!)
Mrs. Norton was my third-grade teacher at Chugach Elementary school. I loved her. She was the one teacher who always let me read the stories I’d written to the whole class, share my drawings and tell stories, too. She must have known that if I didn’t express myself, I’d explode. At least that’s what it felt like to me.
When I went ice fishing for the first time in the dead of winter, she let me tell my classmates all about it for “Show & Tell.” I took them on my journey from flying in a small plane and seeing herds of caribou and moose from the air; to bating my hook as a circle of ice was being cut out of the frozen lake; to feeling the tug on my line and experiencing the wonder of catching my first ever fish. I told them about how I insisted that I bring it home 3 days later regardless of its smell and then finally being persuaded by my friend’s dad to let him fry it up over the wood stove for our dinner. I reenacted making my way to the outhouse in the middle of the night, hoping I wouldn’t be devoured by the bears that I was certain were lurking behind every tree. It was a long story. She never rushed me to finish.
It was Mrs. Norton who selected my puppet (and by default, me) to have the lead role in the Christmas Play, “The Littlest Angel” and it was my illustration that was chosen for the cover of the annual Christmas program.
The only piece of writing I have from my childhood (yellowed and laminated) is a personal note to my mom explaining why I would not be home from school on time because I would be doing my “Spring picher” over again. I signed it formally with both my first and last names and even added the words, “Your daughter” as if somehow my mother wouldn’t know.
The year? You guessed it. Third grade. No surprises. Mrs. Norton always demanded the best from her students and redoing something that didn’t quite meet her expectations was the norm for my classmates and for me. She was tough not because she was mean but because she saw the potential in every student and expected us to live up to that potential. And because of that, it is no wonder that I would decide to do a picture “over again” if I thought I could improve on what I’d done.
When I arrived at Pricilla’s school that morning, I found myself getting nervous. I had not seen Mrs. Norton for decades and now here I was, 50 years old, performing in front of my third-grade teacher! Much to my surprise I was also a little intimidated. I had to have a little heart to heart with myself.
“Michale, you’ve traveled the world, performed for thousands, millions if you count Soviet Television, delivered hundreds upon hundreds of storytelling performances, earned the title of “master storyteller.” Seriously, get ahold of yourself, girl. Calm down. You’ve got this.”
When I entered the school library I saw Mrs. Norton seated at one of the tables. She stood up. I was shocked because in third grade I was looking up at her. Now, as an adult, I was looking down at her. In third grade she had black hair. Now, in her 80’s, she had white hair. But as soon as she opened her mouth, no question about it, it was my third-grade teacher. I’d know that voice anywhere.
We hugged, talked briefly and then the children began to enter the library for the first performance. They sat on the floor in rows, with their teachers sitting on chairs along the sides.
Mrs. Norton’s plan was to spend the day and attend all four performances, each one different, designed to meet the needs and interests of the different age groups from kindergarten to 6th grade.
As I was bringing each story to life, I would periodically glance over at Mrs. Norton to get her reaction.
When I told the story of Stone Fox to the 4-6th graders about a boy who competes in a dog sled race and whose dog dies before crossing the finish line, I could see that she (along with the kids) was wiping her eyes.
When I became the witch in the Russian folktale “Baba Yaga and the Kind-hearted Little Girl saying: “Oh my, what a nice little girl. You just come over here and weave at this loom and I will go and get your needle and thread,” followed by a very long cackle, the children all laughed and so did Mrs. Norton.
When I was storytelling “Sleeping Ugly” by Jane Yolen about a princess who was beautiful on the outside but ugly on the inside and who fears a toad might jump out of her mouth after she has angered an old fairy, I reenacted that moment by opening my mouth very slowly. Not only were all the 125 children mirroring that movement but to my delight, I saw Mrs. Norton doing the same!
At the end of the day, after the last child had left, I made my way to the back of the room to Mrs. Norton.
I opened my mouth and to my surprise a little third grade voice came out. I didn’t even know I still had that little third grade voice. I heard myself saying, “Mrs. Norton, how did I do?”
I thought, good grief, Michale, look at you! You are a 50-year-old woman and you’re still seeking your third-grade teacher’s approval.
Mrs. Norton did not disappoint. She said, “Oh Michale, dear. You were wonderful!”
Gotta say. That meant everything.
I asked if I could take her to dinner that night. She said yes. I called ahead to an Italian restaurant with a very special request.
“Do you happen to have banquette seating in the restaurant? You know, that bench seating where it wraps around a corner?
“We do.”
“Can I reserve that for me and my guest?”
“Absolutely”
I would tell children later in my school performances that when they grew up and made money they could take their teachers to dinner like I did. The teachers would always smile and give a “thumbs up.” And then I would add, “And if you wait as long as I did, until they are in their 80’s, they don’t eat very much!”
Mrs. Norton and I arrived at the restaurant and as soon as we sat down she said, “Michale, dear, you are a grown woman now. Do call me Phyllis.”
I honestly tried. I formed the word. Tried to say it. But calling her by her first name just didn’t feel right. It felt too familiar, or not quite respectful, or something. She was “Mrs. Norton” my Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Norton, it would seem, she would remain.
“I really have to apologize,” she said.
“For what?”
“Well, you know how you used to spend your time, once your class lessons were done, designing clothes?”
“I do. But how do you remember that?” I asked in amazement.
“Oh, because I kept some of your drawings, actually for 40 years! I only threw them away when I was packing up to come back to Alaska from Oregon recently. If I’d had any idea I might see you again, I would have kept them and given them to you!”
“You kept my drawings? For 40 years?” I couldn’t believe it. Who does that? I hadn’t kept my drawings. My mother hadn’t kept my drawings. But my third-grade teacher had. Incredible.
“In fact,” she added, “I always thought you would grow up to be a dress designer! But I must say..I’m so glad you chose to be a storyteller. I remember all those stories you wrote as a child in my classroom. And now look at you. The children adore you and so do I!”
Loved hearing that!
The conversation grew more serious.
“Mrs. Norton, did you have any idea what was transpiring in my home life? My mom’s depression, what was going on behind closed doors?
“Michale, I knew that your mother was facing huge challenges as a single mother. She was terribly sad and I knew that she leaned on all of you children, but especially you—even as a third grader. I could see you were already carrying a heavy weight for a child, burdened with way too much responsibility. So, to balance that, in my classroom I wanted you to be a child. To laugh. To have fun. And yes, to study hard.”
“You took such an interest in each one of us. How did you do that?”
“Well, every night, before I went to sleep, I would think about one child I knew was struggling in a subject, or understanding a concept, or experiencing some emotional or behavioral issue and I would ask God to help me find a solution. And you know what? He always did. I would wake up in the morning, and there it would be. A specific idea or strategy for helping that child. “
I sat in awe of this woman who found ways to help her students before anything was known about brain/mind research, or multiple learning styles or neuroscience. No wonder she was my favorite teacher, ever.
As the evening came to a close, I said, “Mrs. Norton would you do something for me?
“Of course, dear, anything.”
“Would you read to me, like you did to our third-grade class 42 years ago?”
“Well, I’d love to but dear, I don’t have a book!”
“Oh, Mrs. Norton, I do.”
Then I took out of my bag a copy of a book that she had read to my class forty-two years before. At that time, it was a new book. It had just been published. Now, it was an old book. A classic. And the name of the book? Charlotte’s Web!
“What part do you want me to read?”, she asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Norton. Any part you want.”
She skimmed the pages and settled on the chapter where Wilbur, the pig, is being taken to the county fair. She started reading.
And here is why the banquette seating was so important. As soon as Mrs. Norton started reading, I started slowly scooting around that padded bench. Closer, and closer and closer until I was sitting right next to my third-grade teacher. And there I stayed. Listening to the sound of her voice, feeling as loved and cared for as I had in her third-grade class forty-two years before.
In that moment, I discovered something really important.
You never forget a person that you loved and you never forget the stories that they shared with you.
The last time I saw her in person, she had just celebrated her 103rd birthday. I was 71.
Mrs. Norton was now living with her daughter in Salem, Oregon. Unable to walk anymore, she held court from her bed in the converted dining room of her daughter’s home. This is where a stream of health care providers, church members, dear friends, grandchildren, great grandchildren and fans of all ages would spend a few hours each week, delighting in her humor, strengthened by her faith, and yes, periodically finding themselves being corrected on their grammar, regardless of their age or status.
I had traveled from Costa Rica to Seattle to work with clients and her daughter invited me to come down to Salem and spend a couple of days with them.
Mrs. Norton’s son Chuck was visiting from Alaska and sometimes when he would start to share a memory, she would hold up her hand and shush him. “I can hear your stories anytime,” she said. I want to hear from Michale!” And that was that. The consummate teacher, in complete command of her classroom!
I had brought handmade truffles from my favorite chocolatier in Costa Rica and was amused at how deliberate she was in deciding which one to try first. Her mental acuity was still so sharp, and her attitude toward life one of complete and utter gratitude.
I don’t know how many times I told her I loved her during those two days, but I remember it was a lot.
As I was preparing to leave, we were holding hands, her precious parchment, deeply veined hand resting in the palm of mine. Her eyes closed and she fell asleep.
And there we were.
Teacher and student.
One life already preparing to make its departure, another, committed to continuing her legacy.
My iPhone was next to me. I picked it up and captured the image of our hands…entwined.
I kissed her cheek, tears falling from my eyes, filled with such gratitude for this woman who had loved me, guided me, validated me, and given me the gift of story.
One in spirit.
Forever.
Together.
Mrs. Phyllis Norton and me.
Three years later after many FaceTime chats with Mrs. Norton in between, Priscilla called me in Costa Rica to let me know her mother had passed at age 106. She described her mother’s end of life celebration and I was delighted to discover that they had included my “Mrs. Norton story” as part of the service.
After the call, I sat for a long time just looking at that photo of our hands.
I began to reflect.
Is it any wonder that her former student, who had been so enriched by the healing power of story from her childhood, would become a storyteller, a keeper of the magic, in her adult life?
No wonder at all.
