The news this week of the death of Christine Robinson, brought tears to my eyes. And yet, truth be told, I hardly knew her. So, why then, would the death of this eccentric English teacher at a prestigious East Coast prep school have left me spinning in a kind of hazy grief?
Close friends of mine may not recall her name but they'd certainly recognize her anecdote for hers is one of the most colorful in my bag.
I had the privilege of having her as my 11th grade English teacher, fall semester. I may have started that sentence differently, swapping out "pleasure" for "privilege" but the truth is, sitting through an 8AM class with Miss Robinson (as she was then called) who was decidedly not a morning person was anything but pleasurable.
Most mornings she'd skulk into the classroom, find a place at the Harkness table and immediately rest her weary head on the wood surface until she was absolutely certain that all 12 of us had taken our seats and any remaining excuse for delay had evaporated.
Then, slowly, she'd lift her head, glance around and begin with a question about the reading. I remember little of what we read that semester. But I do remember this.