“You don’t have to like me, you just have to learn.”
George’s eyes burned through his teacher. He looked fit to spit, but didn’t.
Instead, he went home, sat on his porch and, for the first time in years, did his lessons. He worked until evening painted the sky puple, then he went inside. He lit his only lamp and then did them again.
A decade later, George dedicated his first book, simply, “To Miss R.”
Decades later, George’s biographer found the photograph labeled, simply, “Miss Robertson’s School Room (1913).”
“What a teacher she must have been,” the biographer sighed. “He must have loved her.”