Thank You
Five years ago I taught an online writing workshop. Two of the people in the group, co-workers, came from Iowa—one wrote quite well and the other had stories to tell, but lacked the basic rudiments of writing. Initially, she felt ill at ease with a group that felt comfortable with writing—and were all college graduates.
She wrote and rewrote assignment after assignment and absorbed every suggestion. Each piece of writing improved.
A year after the workshop ended she wrote and told me that at the age of forty she was going back to college to earn a B.A. degree. A year after that she wrote to say that she selected a minor—creative writing.
Today an email arrived—she had graduated with a B.A. degree and two of her stories appeared in the college magazine. She's continuing on for a master's degree—in creative writing.
She thanked me for encouraging her—and it felt great. How often do I remember to thank someone who had helped me in the past?
When my father died the man who drove one of the cars to the cemetery told me that he had known my father.
"I attended elementary school in the Bronx and your father was the principal."
"I always wanted to thank him. I had stolen something from the local candy store and the police came to the school and were going to lead me outside to a patrol car. Your father wouldn't release me to the policeman so that all the kids could see me being led outside. He walked me out and we talked. The police didn't do anything except talk to me. Mr. Watskin made me his special helper for the rest of the year—and we talked a lot—about me, about baseball, and always about basketball. Sometimes even about school."
He continued the story telling me that his parents moved at the end of the year and later on he wanted to come back and thank my father—"You know how it is, time passes and you just don't get around to it. I drive for the funeral home and when I heard it was Mr.Watskin's funeral I had to be one of the drivers. "
She wrote and rewrote assignment after assignment and absorbed every suggestion. Each piece of writing improved.
A year after the workshop ended she wrote and told me that at the age of forty she was going back to college to earn a B.A. degree. A year after that she wrote to say that she selected a minor—creative writing.
Today an email arrived—she had graduated with a B.A. degree and two of her stories appeared in the college magazine. She's continuing on for a master's degree—in creative writing.
She thanked me for encouraging her—and it felt great. How often do I remember to thank someone who had helped me in the past?
When my father died the man who drove one of the cars to the cemetery told me that he had known my father.
"I attended elementary school in the Bronx and your father was the principal."
"I always wanted to thank him. I had stolen something from the local candy store and the police came to the school and were going to lead me outside to a patrol car. Your father wouldn't release me to the policeman so that all the kids could see me being led outside. He walked me out and we talked. The police didn't do anything except talk to me. Mr. Watskin made me his special helper for the rest of the year—and we talked a lot—about me, about baseball, and always about basketball. Sometimes even about school."
He continued the story telling me that his parents moved at the end of the year and later on he wanted to come back and thank my father—"You know how it is, time passes and you just don't get around to it. I drive for the funeral home and when I heard it was Mr.Watskin's funeral I had to be one of the drivers. "
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