January 18, 2016
Today my dad brought a letter to me written by my preschool
teacher, Mrs. Tacke, in 1979. He found
it and wanted me to have it. He wanted
my children to read it. On the outside
of the envelope, in Mrs. Tacke’s classic hand, was my name: Nancy Rowe.
Mrs. Tacke was one of a kind. I entered her classroom with great
hesitation. My mother had just died. I
didn’t like to take naps. I’d never gone
to preschool. I was enjoying wreaking
havoc on the house while Nanny and Papa attempted to rest in the afternoon. But
Dad took me to meet Mrs. Tacke, praying all-the-while that I would acquiesce
and settle in. I did. As she recalls, I returned the next day to say, “I’m
going to come here every day.”
The letter was a great act of kindness: full of praise and
love. That was Mrs. Tacke. As I read her words, I remembered the little girl
she described.
It is no accident this letter resurfaced just now, after all
this time.
If you pop in to my little spot in the blogosphere now and
then, you have probably noticed silence of late. I’ve not figured out how to reintroduce
myself without saying things I ought not.
Today, Mrs. Tacke gave me the words.
I’m Nancy Rowe. There is joy indescribable in finding her
again. Being her again.
It’s good to be back. Every day.
