How a simple ornament can honor those no longer with us and help us relive special memories.
Photos Courtesy of Nelson Harris
In my box of ornaments, there lies one that never reached its destination. It’s not ornate, just a colorful Santa glued to a piece of wood. Santa grips a brown bag of toys in one hand and a candy cane in the other.
I purchased it decades ago with the intention of giving it to my first-grade teacher. I was several years beyond first grade, but I had an affinity for my first-grade teacher that took me back often to Raleigh Court Elementary School.
I entered the first grade in August 1971, having circulated through half-day kindergarten twice. There were 24 of us assigned to that last room on the back wing of the L-shaped elementary school. At the head of the class was Miss Hale, Mary Gwendolyn Hale to be exact.
Tall and slender, Miss Hale occupied the classroom with a poised exactness that was old-school but warm. While I cannot recall all that happened that year, I do know this: Miss Hale was special to me, for I had certain challenges that needed a steady, remedying hand.
The first month of school I cried every day, desperately wanting to stay at home. My mom would do everything she could to calm the morning storm.
Nothing worked. Thus, every day Miss Hale’s class would ritually commence with my sobbing at the door, begging to go home. Gently, Miss Hale would escort me to my seat and calmly move into her lesson.
When it came time for art, I could not cut with the scissors. They were all right-handed and I used my left. During the next art lesson, Miss Hale walked by my desk and placed there a brand new pair of silver scissors with “Lefty” inscribed on the side that she had purchased. They were mine to keep, and I still have them.
I could not get my “d’s” and “b’s” correct. Miss Hale would glance over my shoulder and whisper, “No, no, baby. The ‘d’ looks like this.”
Then she would take my pencil, apply the eraser and make the correction. Her wrist, laden with multiple gold bracelets, would shake and click as she erased, and she wore a sweet perfume that would encircle you. Having your paper corrected by Miss Hale was a regal experience.
I was much too shy to read above a whisper. So one day Miss Hale asked me to stay after school and wash the chalkboard. While washing down the board, Miss Hale handed me a book and asked me to sit with her and read. I did. And from that moment, I spent almost every day after school reading to Miss Hale.
“Oh, my baby is such a good reader,” she’d say. “Baby” was a term of endearment bestowed lavishly upon all her students, a way of claiming us as her own.
I left first grade, but I never left Miss Hale nor her me. During my six years at Raleigh Court, I regularly visited her classroom.
Years later, I would drop by, albeit with less regularity, but with an undiminished sense of appreciation and admiration for a woman who still, no matter my age, called me her “baby.” It was on such a visit that the Christmas ornament was to be delivered, but apparently that year something interrupted my delivery.
I kept in touch with Miss Hale through college and into adulthood, phoning her on occasion and even making a surprise visit or two in her retirement at her home. We’d call or exchange a card at Christmas. Miss Hale was the first message on my answering machine when I came home from my election night celebration as mayor.
“I’m calling to congratulate my baby,” she said.
The last time I spoke with Miss Hale was by phone this past summer from her room at a nursing facility in West Haven, Conn. At the time, I did not realize it would be our final conversation. Miss Hale passed away September 1. The family honored me by asking me to speak at her service.
Miss Hale taught school in Roanoke for 43 years. Hundreds of her “babies” passed through her classroom and were the better for it. But as for me, there was something special. An African-American teacher and a white first-grade student in the birthing years of Roanoke’s school integration forged a friendship based on small kindnesses, lovingly given and long appreciated.
I must confess I am glad the Santa ornament never made its way to Miss Hale, for it now remains with me as a reminder of her.
And so every Christmas – the season of giving and receiving gifts – I am grateful to Miss Mary Gwendolyn Hale, my teacher and friend, for the gift she was to me.
About the Writer:
Nelson Harris is a former mayor of Roanoke and author of a dozen books on the region’s history. He is the minister at Heights Community Church in Roanoke and a past president of the Historical Society of Western Virginia.
