Remembering a few good teachers ~ April 13, 1989

David Heiller

What makes a good teacher? I found myself asking that question this week, for a couple reasons.

One reason was Rocky Kroon’s letter to the editor, which appears on this page. Rocky doesn’t write letters to the editor every week, or every year. His words are sincere, as he tells about one good teacher, good in the classroom and in the community. Please read it.

The other reason started with an incident last week at Askov Deep Rock. A group of people were standing at the counter, passing time. George Frederiksen told Pat Mee some fire department news.

“You’d better write it down and put it in your pocket,” I joked to Pat. Pat is the kind of guy who has a pocketful of notes to help him remember. His coverall pockets sometimes bulge like a file cabinet, filled with his notes.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Pat said, as he took his pen and wrote his reminder on the back of his hand.

The school and school-yard in Brownsville 
where Mrs. Sauer taught young 
Mr. Heiller the do's and the don't-s.

“Don’t write on your hands,” I said.

“Why not?” Pat asked, looking a little surprised.

I couldn’t answer for a second. Then I remembered Mrs. Sauer. “Because you’re not supposed to. People’s hands aren’t for writing.”

I felt a little embarrassed, telling a man like Pat Mee not to write on his hands. But Mrs. Sauer’s words just came out on their own.

“I had this seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Sauer,” I explained to Pat and George and Maureen Seibert. “She taught us never to write on our hands.” I can still remember her scolding Lynn Rohrer, an eighth grader, for writing on her hands. ‘Your body is a temple. Don’t abuse it,’ Mrs. Sauer had said, or something like that. ‘You weren’t born with ink on your skin, or holding a ball point pen.’

“And she taught us that whenever a woman drops something, a man should always pick it up for her,” I went on, not caring if Pat or George or Maureen really wanted me to. “She used to stand at the front of the class and drop her pen, and all the boys would dive for it to give it to her.”

Maureen looked at me. “She really made an impression on you, didn’t she?” Maureen asked.

“Yeah, she really did,” I answered. Funny, I hadn’t thought of Mrs. Sauer in years, but just like that, on a Tuesday morning some 22 years and 250 miles later, I remembered her. Good teachers will do that, the kind Rocky Kroon writes about.

I could write a book about Mrs. Sauer. She was about 50 then, and had grown-up daughters. We used to joke that one was named Dinah. We wanted to ask what it was like to have a “Dinah Sauer” for a daughter, but we never dared. Mrs. Sauer had sharp features, a hawk-like nose, reddish hair, piercing eyes. She moved quickly, and with complete confidence.

She thought quickly too, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you things like: ‘Don’t write on your hands.’ And we listened.

One of David's
Brownsville school photos.

Mrs. Sauer would read books to us, a chapter a day from one of her favorites, like Little House on the Prairie. She made us read too, and everybody read, everybody checked out books from the library. Mrs. Sauer inspired us, and I can’t think of one student who didn’t respect her and obey her. She was that once-in-a-lifetime teacher.

But not all of Mrs. Sauer’s lessons came in the classroom. I remember one spring day that school year. The seventh and eighth grade classes had walked to Germania Hall to rehearse the graduation ceremony. On the way back, Mrs. Sauer pulled up beside me. She asked me what I wanted to do with my life.

“I want to be a truck driver,” I answered quickly.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re not meant to be a truck driver, David,” she said. “You’re going to go to college. You’ve got some special gifts, and you should use them.”

It was a clear day, and life was still fresh for a 13-year-old boy in rural Minnesota. That’s what she said. At least I think it is. It’s what I remember anyway, and that’s what good teachers are all about.’

Even if I sometimes wish I were a truck driver.