said I should have been more careful, or something of that nature. I do, however, recall my exact words.
“So sorry, Tom,” I snapped, slamming a book down on the kitchen table. “I wish I could be perfect like you!”
It was a meanness spoken out of my frustration with my own lack of perfection, or anything close to it. I apologized, of course. He never said he was perfect, and I never had reason to believe he thought it either. Instead he was energetic and conscientious, qualities I admired and envied, and qualities that blessed my life. The bills were always paid, the grass always mowed, golf dates with friends and promises to grandchildren always kept. I never ceased to be amazed that he could do everything he was supposed to do when he was supposed to do it and with so little effort.
Doing what I’m supposed to do when I’m supposed to do it has always taxed me. That has threatened my contentment from time to time. When I once vented something of this nature to Molly, she was incensed. She said I always graded my mound of papers on time and with great care, that I made our home a beautiful and comfortable sanctuary, and that my humor, sensitivity and kindness (the insecure memorize indirect compliments) made my children and their father whole and happy. But I know what I know: Tom made life both good and easy for me.
Sometimes I wonder which is greater, grief or fear.
eight
August 22
I did not dawdle this morning. I took a shower without incident, rushed to the mall to replace my makeup (Ginger was surprised to see me and cheered when she found one last tube of Shhh), and drove to Austin. As soon as I was settled in the Holiday Inn Express, I Googled Austin and confirmed what I had suspected: The city was not named for any of my father’s ancestors. Nevertheless, it looked like a nice city. I took a walking tour of important sites this morning and then grabbed a pretzel and a Diet Coke and spent more time on a self-guided tour, enjoying the serendipity of exploring old neighborhoods, especially the historic district with its beautiful Victorian homes.
Returning to the car, I happened to pass a school where classrooms of elementary children were emptying systematically into the playground and front lawn. I heard an alarm but saw no flames or smoke and assumed I was watching a fire drill. Strangely enough, that capped off my day. It took me back to the first time I’d laid eyes on Tom Eaton.
I had just graduated and accepted my first teaching job. Tom, assistant principal at the time, had been away working on his doctorate when I was interviewed and subsequently hired that spring, and he was gone again the opening days of school. I had not met or seen him, but he apparently had heard about me, had seen me, and even knew where my room was located.
Rumors were rampant one day in late September that there would be either a fire or a tornado drill that afternoon, and I very much wanted to impress my students and the administration with my maturity and responsibility. The three short blasts of the alarm sounded for all the world like the description of the tornado drill, so I told my students to file out of the door and into the hall and to sit in front of the lockers with their heads between their knees. They did this in record time, and I couldn’t have been more proud.
Pride left in a huff, however, when I finally noticed other students marching toward the exit at the end of the long hall and at the same time noticed the expression on the face of an extremely handsome man who had materialized, dressed professionally in khaki pants, a white long-sleeved dress shirt, and red paisley tie.
He pointed to the exit and said, “This is a fire drill, Miss Austin.”
I was mortified.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go, kids.”
The next morning as I was screeching into my room just before the bell rang, he met me outside my door, explained he was the assistant principal, and asked me to drop by his office
“So sorry, Tom,” I snapped, slamming a book down on the kitchen table. “I wish I could be perfect like you!”
It was a meanness spoken out of my frustration with my own lack of perfection, or anything close to it. I apologized, of course. He never said he was perfect, and I never had reason to believe he thought it either. Instead he was energetic and conscientious, qualities I admired and envied, and qualities that blessed my life. The bills were always paid, the grass always mowed, golf dates with friends and promises to grandchildren always kept. I never ceased to be amazed that he could do everything he was supposed to do when he was supposed to do it and with so little effort.
Doing what I’m supposed to do when I’m supposed to do it has always taxed me. That has threatened my contentment from time to time. When I once vented something of this nature to Molly, she was incensed. She said I always graded my mound of papers on time and with great care, that I made our home a beautiful and comfortable sanctuary, and that my humor, sensitivity and kindness (the insecure memorize indirect compliments) made my children and their father whole and happy. But I know what I know: Tom made life both good and easy for me.
Sometimes I wonder which is greater, grief or fear.
eight
August 22
I did not dawdle this morning. I took a shower without incident, rushed to the mall to replace my makeup (Ginger was surprised to see me and cheered when she found one last tube of Shhh), and drove to Austin. As soon as I was settled in the Holiday Inn Express, I Googled Austin and confirmed what I had suspected: The city was not named for any of my father’s ancestors. Nevertheless, it looked like a nice city. I took a walking tour of important sites this morning and then grabbed a pretzel and a Diet Coke and spent more time on a self-guided tour, enjoying the serendipity of exploring old neighborhoods, especially the historic district with its beautiful Victorian homes.
Returning to the car, I happened to pass a school where classrooms of elementary children were emptying systematically into the playground and front lawn. I heard an alarm but saw no flames or smoke and assumed I was watching a fire drill. Strangely enough, that capped off my day. It took me back to the first time I’d laid eyes on Tom Eaton.
I had just graduated and accepted my first teaching job. Tom, assistant principal at the time, had been away working on his doctorate when I was interviewed and subsequently hired that spring, and he was gone again the opening days of school. I had not met or seen him, but he apparently had heard about me, had seen me, and even knew where my room was located.
Rumors were rampant one day in late September that there would be either a fire or a tornado drill that afternoon, and I very much wanted to impress my students and the administration with my maturity and responsibility. The three short blasts of the alarm sounded for all the world like the description of the tornado drill, so I told my students to file out of the door and into the hall and to sit in front of the lockers with their heads between their knees. They did this in record time, and I couldn’t have been more proud.
Pride left in a huff, however, when I finally noticed other students marching toward the exit at the end of the long hall and at the same time noticed the expression on the face of an extremely handsome man who had materialized, dressed professionally in khaki pants, a white long-sleeved dress shirt, and red paisley tie.
He pointed to the exit and said, “This is a fire drill, Miss Austin.”
I was mortified.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go, kids.”
The next morning as I was screeching into my room just before the bell rang, he met me outside my door, explained he was the assistant principal, and asked me to drop by his office
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