I heard the news about the recent passing of a high school friend at the age of 54 and it made me want to write about school. Or maybe it was because me, being the same age as my friend was when he died, made me consider the fragility of life and just how little time there is. Carpe diem and all.

I don’t know about you, but when I was young all I wanted was the school years to fly by as quickly as possible. And it wasn’t because I already had a plan in mind for the future. I just wanted them gone. As far as I was concerned, every day of school was just another day closer to the weekend and doing whatever I wanted to do, whatever that happened to be – going to the mall, playing Atari or Dungeons & Dragons, throwing a NeRF football around, trying to film a home movie with a Super 8 camera or shopping for comic books.

I think I speak for all of my classmates when I say that most of us never really gave much thought about, or even understood, the real impact school and teachers would have on our lives. So bear with me while I become a child again.

“Sherman, bring out the way back machine and set it to the years 1984-1987.”

I’m in high school again. You know, those crazy, teenage-fueled years of schooling we all went through. Days of trying to find out where we fit in, wondering about college and if that cute girl (or boy, if you’re so inclined) would notice, all while feeling completely inept and socially awkward. There I am, walking down the halls of Easton High School in a nifty pair of Jordache jeans while carrying my English and Science books covered in brown paper grocery bags with the names of hair metal bands scribbled all over them. Listening to Spandau Ballet blaring over the loud speakers of the school’s intercom system. Ok, it’s “True,” I made up the part about Spandau Ballet.

In all of my years at the high school, I don’t remember much about what was learned or about most of my teachers – although my friend Michele has an uncanny ability to recall exactly where I was sitting in history class in proportion to her location. Her memory is sharp, and if that’s the case we’ll have to have a long talk at the next reunion. I have a lot of questions that need answering.

Anyway, although I can’t recall much about most of them, I do remember a trio of teachers during my high school tenure that really impacted my life: Mr. Siddons, Mr. Fox and Mr. Milisits. I won’t even bother to give you their first names because to me, respectively, that’s who they’ll forever be known as. And just like my friend, all three have passed away.

Mr. Siddons was my tenth grade history teacher. His father was one of the last of the old-school door to door salesmen who had sold insurance to my grandparents. He was also my brother’s history teacher two years earlier and my sister’s two years after me. So there’s sort of a familial relationship there too.

Mr. Siddons was probably the most benign person you’d ever meet. He had a soft tone and rarely yelled. But the one trait he had that I’ll never forget was the ability to tell the lamest jokes. You know the ones I mean, something like: “Does anyone know what the father bull said to his son when he went off to college?….. Bison.” And he’d always follow up the joke with a Mr. Siddons chuckle. You could tell he must have been up all night thinking about that joke. About how he’d deliver it and how all the kids would go crazy…. alas that did not happen.

At first his shtick didn’t go over too well with me either. But by the end of that first month of class in 1984, I actually started looking forward to the little gems he’d throw out. Even though most all were met with crickets (and he must have felt like the size of an ant in a room full of elephants) he never let it get to him. He’d always chuckle, wipe his mouth and seque with, “Ok, let’s take a look at the Gulf of Tonkin”….

Strangely enough, every day after having learned about Tonkin, the Volstead Act or some war to end all wars, I remember giggling to myself reciting a joke over and over in my head as I walked out of the room. Surely, a joke I would never utter to anyone else for fear of ridicule.

During my junior and senior years I rarely got down to the part of the school where Mr. Siddons resided. But on the occasion that I did see him in the hall or in the cafeteria he would always say “Hi” and call me by name. He always remembered me, and I’d never forget him.

Let’s transfer over to Mr. Fox in the Art department. A short, grey bearded man with a limp. Mr. Fox had suffered from polio as a child and as a result, walked a bit strangely. Sadly, I’m sure he was the butt of many jokes from cruel students but I think by this point in his life he was immune to it all.

Art class was a means of escape for me. I had always loved to draw and became an aficionado for Bob Ross. I could watch that dude for hours paint a happy little tree. And while we never painted those trees in Mr. Fox’s class it was still a way for me to forget about all the problems happening in my life, at least for one period.

We all knew Mr. Fox must have been an artist himself, and one day I found out one of the things he loved to do. I walked into class to see these miniature models and dioramas of a circus he had constructed himself. Everything from the big top and center ring to the food stands he painstakingly created with his own two hands right down to the finest detail. You could see the pride in his eyes and I thought to myself, “Holy shit, this guy is GOOD!”

But the one day that really stands out for me was when we were all sitting around drawing human figures. We’d have students go up and just stand and model while the rest of us attempted to draw what we saw. I could always draw the body – even the cool detail on their Converse sneakers with rainbow shoe laces, but I could never draw the face. I had spent a long time trying and it just wasn’t happening. Mr. Fox must have seen the frustration on my own face because at one point he came over and sat across from me.

He looked at my piece and, unlike me, seemed quite impressed with it. Then he asked me why I was so frustrated about it. I told him it was because as hard as I tried I could never get the face to be anywhere close to being right. I told him I didn’t want it to be perfect, I just wanted it to look like…. well, a face. So he took a scrap of paper lying nearby and started doodling on it…all the while glancing up at me and saying things like “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jim. You know, if you really want something and are willing to put in the effort and try at it hard enough, you can make it happen.”

For those thirty seconds or so I was more doubtful than ever. Then Mr. Fox slipped the paper he was working on over to me, stood up, patted me on the back and said, “Keep up the good work, Jim.”

As he walked away I picked up the paper he had been scribbling on and looked at it. The old guy with the limp had just drawn a picture perfect image of my face. One where even the subject (in this case, yours truly) would say, “That looks just like me!”

Finally, we move on to the music department, my personal favorite. I could write a novel on my exploits here, including the day I officially became a rock star twenty years ago. Suffice to say, I credit most of my music “success” to the things I learned during the days of high school music theory and choir.

Mr. Milisits (or “M” as he was known) would conduct our high school choir. One that won many awards over the years. I’m sure for many, choir was just like art class – a way to get out of taking another boring subject. But the one thing that anyone who was in his class would tell you, even all of these years later, is that in spite of how much you may not have wanted to be there, M would have a way of making you want to sing.

I remember he would always tell us inspirational things to keep pushing us. Quotes like “You can do this,” “A new mistake shows progress,” and “Talk to me” resonated with everyone. Some of the quotes he even had plastered on the walls so everyone could read them. M just had “something” that made you want to work hard.

During my senior year, it was his teachings that made me want to play guitar in jazz band and the school play. For him to get a scrawny metal head who wanted nothing to do with ANY after school activity and would rather spend most of his free time jamming to Bon Jovi and Def Leppard to want to perform “Leader of the Pack” in the school play and “Jesus Christ, Superstar” in the Spring Concert is really saying something. That M’s got some strong kung-fu.

When it came time to perform, be it at school or when we embarked on a school trip to Canada during my senior year, it was really like “rock star” night for the choir. And well, I even got to play that black heavy metal guitar during our spring concert. One that hangs on the wall in my office right to this very day.

I could bore you for hours on how M’s classes changed me but let me just end by saying those classes are some of the best memories I have from high school.

It’s hard to believe but in just a few weeks it will be the 40th anniversary of when I started high school and first walked those hallowed halls. Days when I thought I’d never get out of there, and here I am now, four decades in the future, looking back and thinking about my classmates.

Time may not slow down but I’m grateful for the good memories and friendships that remain.