Things Worth Remembering by Jackina Stark Page B

Maisey to swim, turning her into an expert at every stroke except the butterfly, which she hated, as did Clay. She wasn’t in the first grade before she jumped from the diving board and swam into his safe arms. And Rebecca, though often at work when we were there, equipped the pool with any kind of apparatus she thought Maisey would enjoy. For years Maisey was the sole Laswell grandchild, and Clay and Rebecca agreed with Luke: Maize was a- maz -ing.
    Jackie doesn’t call her Spoiley Girl for nothing. I doubt anyone on this earth has been loved more than my daughter.
    Clay and Rebecca take off soon after the cobbler has been eaten and properly appreciated, and not long after that, Miller and Anne get up, stretch, and say they have to be going too. “We’ve stayed up way past our bedtime and still have a drive ahead of us,” Miller says, glancing at his watch.
    Luke and I walk his parents to their car, but as soon as Miller turns on the ignition, Luke heads back to the patio to be with the kids. I stay and wave my in-laws out of the long drive and onto the highway until their car becomes only the two tiny red dots of their taillights. As I turn, intending to join the others on the patio, the wide stairs of the front porch seem to call my name, inviting me to stay awhile.
    So I plop here and stare at the lawn stretching luxuriously to the highway lying beyond it in the darkness. I almost always sit out back, but this is nice too. I have chosen steps over the chairs that Luke and I sat in last night, waiting for the kids. A chair would be too intentional, like I needed to be alone, needed to step away from trying , even if for just a moment.
    I didn’t dream Miller and Anne would stay until eleven. They probably wouldn’t have if Clay and Rebecca hadn’t stopped by.
    Clay .
    Well, one thing has not changed: I will never stop being thankful to him for introducing me to his handsome nephew. But I have more than Luke to thank him for. Six or seven months before that introduction, I had welled up with gratitude when he gave me my first teaching job. I actually sent him a thank-you note, although Paula had said that was over the top. To her thinking, my verbal thank-you had been very nearly effusive.
    I couldn’t help it. I’ve always loved this area of Indiana, one county over from where Paula grew up, and I couldn’t believe it when Dr. Clayton Laswell offered me a fourth-grade classroom, the desire of my heart. Nor could I believe he hired Paula as well to teach another fourth-grade class in the same elementary school.
    Paula and I were impressed with Clay Laswell from the moment we met him. After our interviews with the building principal and the hiring committee, I waited in his secretary’s office while Paula had her interview. When she came out of Dr. Laswell’s office, she waved a folded sheet of paper in front of her like she needed to cool off and said, “Whoa.” Passing her on the way to his office for my interview, I laughed.
    But when I walked in and he stepped around his impressive mahogany desk to shake my hand, I understood what she meant. Clayton Laswell was Robert Redford handsome. Well, that’s what he is now. Then he was Brad Pitt handsome. He was the thirty-eight-year-old brand-new superintendent of schools, offered the position, according to the scuttlebutt, because of his excellent record as assistant superintendent and his ability to work amicably with everyone: teachers, staff, students, and parents.
    But what impressed us besides his relative youth and his good looks was his enthusiasm and philosophy of leadership. He believed in giving classroom teachers as much autonomy as possible, but at the same time, he didn’t leave them, especially new teachers, to live “lives of quiet desperation.” His teachers could count on guidance and impressive resources. Listening to him talk that day, I felt like jumping up and waving pompons.
    Clay Laswell was also a good listener. He seemed to want to