The telephone rang, interrupting my brooding about the abrupt alteration in my life circumstances and whether or not I needed an anti-depressant to deal with my situation more effectively. I suspected I was depressed because I was loosing interest in working on my memoir. What worthwhile do I have to say anyway? I had wanted to write something on my blog, but couldn’t find the words or the strength. I couldn’t even post updates on my Facebook page or update friends about the latest in my daughter’s and my saga. Talking with friends took more energy than I had to spare. Watching mindless TV was about all I could handle, often falling asleep in the middle of a program.
I got up from my recliner and ambled from the meditation room to the phone in my living room. Picking up the handset, I checked the caller ID and didn’t recognize the name. It’s probably a wrong number. I clicked the talk button. “Hello.”
“Is this Linda Marshall? Did you teach at Port Clinton High School?”
My mind scrambled to make sense of this call. Yes, I had taught typing, shorthand, and office practice at Port Clinton High School in 1964-65. It was my first teaching assignment right out of college. Why would someone be asking about that long ago time in my life?
When I responded that I was that Linda Marshall, the woman on the other end of the line began to cheer. “Hallelujah, I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you for years.”
She went on to tell me the story about how she came to be a shorthand student of mine and wanted to know if I remembered her. I have to admit, I have few memories of that year in my life. I didn’t tell her this, but the humiliating memory I have retained is being given a negative evaluation by the principal in the lunchroom in front of the other teachers. I was under the impression I hadn’t done a very good job teaching there.
Her memories were vivid. She recounted dropping home economics and signing up for shorthand. She said I was so strict. My memory of the details are fuzzy here because she was pouring out her story faster than my brain could take it in. I remember hearing about two “F’s” and she was ready to drop the class. She said others had and I let them. But when she came to talk with me about it, I encouraged her to stay. I said, “You are going to get this.” She said I had been right. The next grade and those that followed were “A’s.”
She told about I threw away any typing papers that had errors erased on them. She said I explained to the students that employers would make them type letters and documents over again if they contained mistakes like these. She said the experiences she had as a secretary had proved me right again.
Then she told me about her career. Again, the details are fuzzy, but she was promoted several times and reached high administrative assistant levels working in governmental agencies.
She went on to say that I had influenced her more than anyone else, made her into the person she is today, and would not have had the career she had if not for me. She recounted the steps she had taken over the years to find me, discouraged by so many dead ends. Her class will celebrate their 50th reunion in September and there are several of my former students who want me to be there.
I sank back into my recliner, my eyes watering, as I took in this gift of grace from the Universe. I told her, “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say this today. I’m going through a rough time in my life and have been feeling depressed.”
We acknowledged that she had found me at just the right moment.
This was the best anti-depressant anyone could have given me. I could literally feel the energy of aliveness returning to my exhausted and weary body. I had made a difference in someone’s life. A false impression I had carried about myself for fifty-one years was transformed. With that, I returned to writing. I do have something worthwhile to say. Thank you, Universe. You continue to surprise me with the mysterious and awesome ways in which you work.