Some time back I saw a bumper sticker that read, “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” I quietly mumbled, “Amen.”

The bumper sticker brought back memories of a host of teachers and the influence they had on my life.

I used to tease my kids that I was so smart I needed only nine weeks of kindergarten. The fact is, I’m so old that kindergarten was still a relatively new-fangled concept when I was a youngster.

My school experience began in March (many years ago) with a nine-week (all-day) kindergarten class. Our kindergarten teacher worked hard to prepare us for first grade and I learned a great deal in those nine weeks.

The two most important lessons I remember were (a) how to tie my shoes and (b) not to lie.

One day during kindergarten Show and Tell time my friend, Jerry, told us he had a brand-new baby brother. Having nothing more exciting to share, I also told everyone that I had a brand-new baby brother. I sort of did; brother Dave had been born nine months earlier which my teacher knew but which I failed to mention.

A few weeks later, after parent-teacher conferences, Mom began asking questions which led me to believe that my brother had been discussed.

Lying was a major taboo in our family, even worse than picking your nose in church. Mom’s questioning triggered that sensation of not knowing whether to bawl or go to the bathroom or both.

I don’t recall which I chose, but I do remember a stern lecture on the sin of bearing false witness.

In first grade, I learned to hate communism. On the first day of school I proudly carried to the classroom the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans writing tablet given to me by my grandmother. Our teacher announced that we were to turn over our tablets to her and that she would distribute writing paper as needed. One day, each of us would get a sheet of paper from Billy’s tablet, the next day from Susan’s tablet, and so on.

Call me selfish but the thought of sharing paper from my Roy Rogers and Dale Evans (Bullet was in the picture, too) tablet was repugnant. I devised a scheme to kidnap my tablet from the paper commune.

I lied.

I told the teacher my mother wanted me to bring my tablet home that night. She reluctantly handed over the tablet and I took it home … for good.

The seeds of capitalism had been planted. (I had apparently already forgotten the kindergarten lesson about lying.)

In second grade, I learned about body image. During the middle of the school year we moved to a nearby town. On my first day at the new school I discovered the class had two reading groups: the Elephants and the Fairies. Guess which group this chubby new kid was assigned to. I stewed about that until I realized I’d rather be an elephant.

In fifth grade, I learned that it is not wise to make an indiscrete remark while the teacher is trying to explain the sexual parts of flowers. And to this day I thank her for not telling my parents that I had learned that lesson. ‘Nuff said.

I learned something important from each of my teachers and I’m grateful for their efforts. There were several, however, who went the extra mile to teach me more than reading, writing and arithmetic (and floral genitalia.)

There was Mr. Westra, who taught me that writing is an exciting way to share with others what is on your mind and in your heart.

And there was Mrs. Riskedahl, who took the time to talk straight to an unenthusiastic student who needed a kick in the seat of his pants and who didn’t let me just “slide by” in her college prep grammar class.

And there was Mr. Orton, who took time from one of his Saturday mornings to introduce an insecure teenager to a business acquaintance who gave me my first job in radio.

After a much-deserved Christmas break, there are thousands of Iowa teachers back in the classroom this week.

They deserve more respect than they’ve been getting (especially from our state government) and better compensation for all they do.

I am forever grateful for what my teachers did for me.

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2026 by Huisman Communications.