The Short Pencil Is the Sharp One

They got me started

From the start I had a special feeling for this thing called teaching. Much of it comes from my early exposure to good teachers. I had many.

In my elementary years my aunt, Thelma Hunsinger, encouraged a somewhat naughty nephew to study well, work hard and try to keep a lid on great enthusiasm that often went astray. At school and at home she was an early influence.

Mrs. Levan caught my attention in grade four. She was a soft, easygoing lady who managed to extract good things from us. I liked to be near her as she made us feel comfortable with learning.

Miss. Souders taught fifth grade. She was the stern one. A large woman in stature she also had a demeanor that caused us to expect an explosion at any time. I knew better. My father would take me fishing with her brother Sterling. We would often meet her at his home. Occasionally my family would join hers for an evening meal. She was a nice lady at all times. She just gave us this feeling that reeked of: You had better behave or else.

One day I kicked a football through her classroom window. As a punishment I had to stay with her each afternoon until she was ready to walk home. I then had to walk to my front door with her. I was mortified. I thought I would die. The walk was all of one half block. I lived through it. I learned from it. I later felt fondly toward this good lady.

Mr. Elwin Poinsard labored long and hard to get the basics of mathematics into a non-mathematic persona. Although I joke that my math is so bad that I take my shoe off when I reach eleven I can manage to function with comfort in most everyday math chores. I still, however, get hung up on balancing a checkbook.

Miss Starling Bull was our high school principal and English teacher. A diminutive soul this dear lady usually dressed in black causing me to state that she had the size of a starling and the disposition of a bull. She had to with a group of guys like me running around in her school.

I did grasp the function of grammar, enjoyed literature and went through college largely on the efforts she exerted on me. I got to thank her several years ago at an alumni gathering in my hometown.

Mr. Robert Nash was another English teacher who worked his magic on us. I always felt comfortable with his quiet gentlemanly manner. He instilled confidence, served as a role model and expected us to do our best. I saw nothing wrong with that. In more ways than I may recognize I patterned some of what I do after Mr. Nash.

Miss Helen Sobak was our Social Studies teacher. She would have been a great drill instructor. She drilled us constantly with facts, figures and interesting stories about the world around us. She promised us that: Someday you will be on a quiz show and will thank me for teaching you all this. I find that she was right. As I watch Jeopardy I answer questions that I have no immediate recollection of. It must be that my memory is drawing upon data stored from the 50’s. She knew that all the time!

Mr. Paul Stenko was our Health and Physical Ed teacher. A giant of a man, he played professional football in the 40’s for the Chicago Bears under the name of Paul Sten. He was a warehouse of information to a bunch of innocent young men who were eager to learn. He had a commanding way, a confident mannerism and a sympathetic ear.

He was also our football coach. I never played football because it conflicted with soccer. I was a senior when football arrived and was unwilling to learn a new sport in my senior year. It was a choice that affects my life to this day. I have little knowledge of, and therefore little interest in, football.

What I remember most about this man was that he was a moral man. Honesty, integrity and hard work were his guidelines. We learned that by association as much as by lecture. He was a good example.

Mr. Chester Doyle was my shop teacher. For a kid who liked to play with machines and materials his room was the place to be. He knew that. He encouraged me to work on things. He allowed me to sail into unknown waters of skill because he sensed that I would sail there anyhow. His lessons kept me on course as I looked into new things. My inquisitive nature prevails to this day. I still have to find out WHY something works. In must confess, however, to being a bit brain-dead when electronics and computers are the subject. Much of what I do today is either directly, or indirectly, related to my days in that basement shop that was almost my second home.

Mrs. Edna McBride is the dear lady mentioned earlier. Without her efforts I would not be sitting here typing this story. I am constantly mindful, and thankful, of the fact that I took typing.

I enrolled in typing with the most serious of intents. I had a study hall first period and was not happy with it. Suddenly I realized that all the girls were taking typing. I talked with Art Naugle and John Ryman and we promptly enrolled. I sure am glad that I had more luck with typing than I did with the girls.

Mr. Charles Cooper was our Assistant Principal. The thing I remember most about him was that he was the one I had to meet with when I did something wrong. I didn’t like that. I did like Mr. Cooper. One day I punched Larry Knorr in the face over some girl. I ran across the playground, through my grandmother’s property, across the street and up on my front porch. I thought that I was safe. My mother met me there with the news that I would have to go back as Mr. Cooper wanted to see me. My aunt Thelma taught first grade within easy view of the playground. She had seen the entire thing and tipped my mother as to what was happening. It was tough on me. I guess it really was good for me as I managed to turn out OK. I never did find out where that telephone was.

One evening I got into a confrontation with a neighbor boy at the dance because I had taken his girlfriend to the dance. We met in the hallway outside Mr. Cooper’s office. This guy grabbed me, pushed me into a locker and tore my varsity club sweater. The grab was no problem. The push was no problem. The tear on the sweater was. I worked long and hard to win that sweater. That was it!

BAM! I hit him, driving him right through the Assistant Principal’s office door. Glass flew all over, my assailant landed squarely on Mr. Cooper who was taking a nap as the dance was going smoothly and he had had a rough day. It suddenly got rougher. Fortunately for all concerned there was no damage beyond the sweater, the door and a bit of pride. Things were resolved in the now open office and we all (the girl, my assailant and me) walked home together.

Mr. Larry Nace was our Geography teacher. He had a most unusual manner of teaching. He would sit in his chair; prop up his feet and talk, all the while tapping on his shoe with a flyswatter. I never did figure out why he did that. Perhaps it was to instill fear into us. It did. Perhaps it was to keep our attention. It did. Perhaps it was just a nervous habit.

In any case he managed to encourage us to learn of the world about us. He died too early. I often imagine what he would have thought if he could have seen the marvelous things that our world has revealed since those days so long ago.

What these people did for me cannot be measured. I really feel that they are a large part of why I was able to succeed. Desire, determination and hard work were major players but the love of teaching exhibited by these good people stuck deeply into my being. My thanks to all who influenced a young man so long ago.

It has been a grand ride.

Almost from the start I felt that I was going to have a grand time with this thing called teaching. I liked people. I enjoyed talking although I was shy until my college days. I felt confident with my knowledge of my chosen subject and was determined to daily make an effort to get better in some way. I went into the challenge with the idea that this would be my life’s work. I never deviated from that and prepared myself well for whatever I had to do to make that happen.

My first job was at Eastern York High School. It was a beautiful school along the Susquehanna River in York County, PA. Spread out on a hillside overlooking the river the building looked like the wings on a Stealth fighter plane. It was a pretty setting for a school. I was hired to teach Graphic Arts (print shop) and Mechanical Drawing. At the ripe old age of 22 I was ready to take on the world, and the student population. Student teaching had provided me with a semester of experience that whetted my appetite for sharing knowledge with young people. My cooperating teacher, Dick Murr, was an old master at the craft and he was willing to share his skills with me.

As I launched myself into the atmosphere of a junior/senior high school I never lacked for excitement, enthusiasm, support from my fellow teachers and encouragement from my principal. For a small town country boy this was heady action. I loved it. Before too long I had found my place in the order of life there and went about my job like I knew exactly what I was doing. I did. I also had a lot to learn.

During my first week on the job I manufactured a paddle. This was not a canoe paddle. It was a people paddle. Corporal punishment was a fact of life back then. I had been taught to start out tough. You could always lighten up later once the standard had been set and everyone knew where you stood. It was good advise.

This was a neat paddle. It was walnut and had the basic shape of a cricket bat. It was about a yard long. It was wide at the bottom half, tapering upward to a thinner handle. I had drilled holes neatly through the lower part to allow for increased velocity. I then finished it with many coats of varnish and hung it above my blackboard on a leather thong.

Somewhere in the first few weeks a student, long forgotten, decided to step far out of bounds. His offense fell within the guidelines for paddling. He stepped forward. I administered the punishment within the guidelines. He returned to his seat. I placed the paddle back on its hook. Life went on as usual. I stayed there for 4 years. I never used it again. I had made my point. Not a soul ever came close to that type of behavior in my room again. I moved to the Red Lion school district in my 5th. year. One of the students remarked in class one day that: You were the guy at Eastern who had the fancy paddle. Who says that reputations do not precede us?

My first school district was in the heart of the Pennsylvania Dutch region of my state. The conservative Dutchman was a no-nonsense sort of individual who worked hard, was deeply religious and held high values for family in all things. School was admired and supported. You did well in school because Papa expected it. I was soon to learn another form of discipline. Little Jacob Stoltzfus, did something that disturbed me. Jacob that was not acceptable. Please go sit in the back of the room until after class. I will deal with you then.

Mr. Murr had taught me that time bought you some space to rationally decide what to do. It also gave the offender time to think out the misdeed. It was one of the best things that I ever learned about discipline. Some would call it patience. I thought that it was a wise solution as I felt that quick reactions were not as good as deliberate responses. By the end of the period little Jacob was in tears. Not a word had been said. Not a strike had been delivered. His crying almost interrupted the lesson. When the bell rang I went back to where he was seated.

What is wrong Jacob? I asked. Oh Mr. Moorhead, please don’t call my father. I will do anything to keep him from knowing. You can paddle me. You can keep me after school. You can make me clean the room. I just don’t want my father to know. Without any overt action on my part Jacob’s own conscience had corrected his behavior. He knew that he was wrong. He was repentant. He was willing to make things right. I thought it over. What should I do?

Absolutely nothing was my choice. Jacob had punished himself more than I ever could have. He had adjusted his motives, his desires and his presentation internally. Anything that I could have done would have spoiled a trust that was about to develop. I said: Jacob why don’t you dry your eyes, wipe your nose, go outside my room to cool off and catch your bus home. That is what he did. From that day on I had a devoted student, a trouble free young person and someone who grew to admire teachers and the role of the school. I will never know if he ever told his father about that day. There are different solutions for different people in different circumstances. Only a fool puts everyone into the same box.

Children love to test teachers. They never use paper tests but they carry on the exercise daily. I was to pass their ultimate test one day in the drawing room. I had been walking around checking on the architectural drawings that my students were making. Everyone was in good shape so I returned to my table. I had one of those high wooden stools that sat behind every drafting table. I preferred that to my desk over in the corner. As I returned to my table I noticed a large thumbtack that had been placed point up in the middle of my stool. What should I do with this challenge? I prided myself at being alert, quick to interpret and usually on top of things. Could I let them know that I knew what was up? Of course not!

How could I play this? I could simply put the tack back into its container. Not good! In their minds I would have chickened out. No score! I could call it to their attention. They would like my recognition but then I would have to spoil the mood of the day with a reprimand that would not bring out the culprit. I knew that all too well by now. No score here either! I chose instead to anatomically place myself so that the tack drove helplessly into the space where your butt splits naturally. I made the perfect shot. I never felt the tack for a second. You should have seen their eyes! As the class wore on I never left my stool. I even wiggled around a lot to draw their attention to me. When they had questions I made them carry their drawing boards up to my desk. I never did that previously. It was too inconvenient for them. On that day things had to be different. I never cracked a smile or let them know that I knew anything about that tack. I remained seated when the bell rang and they passed out to their next class.

Later that day a fellow teacher came to see me. What did you do with a tack? These kids think that you are one tough character. They told me that you sat on a tack for 40 minutes this morning. Is that true? When I told him the story he broke out laughing. Boy did you win them over with that one. I wish that I had thought of it myself. Little did I realize just how much