RIVER CITY JOURNAL: AFTER 45 YEARS, YOU FINALLY GET THE HUG

Isn't it funny how you can go along in life for about half a century with a toothache here, a nice holiday dinner there and a couple of sons growing up in between, and then the woman who was your first-grade teacher nearly 45 years ago decides to give you a hug? Isn't life funny that way?

That's what happened though.

You and your wife wound up in your favorite hometown last Saturday and took your folks out to eat at a restaurant that was new to you. The Zephyr Cafe, which has been THE restaurant in town for a long time, is still in business and is only about a block from where your folks live, but, after 40 or 50 years, even the most stuck-in-the-mud diners feel like trying a new place to eat. Right?

So there you were in a place called the Santa Fe Sideboard, which turns out to be a very pleasant place interestingly located in the back of a busy convenience store. Gas and cigarettes up front. Good home cooking in back.

Your folks know an awful lot of people in your favorite hometown, and a lot of people know them. So while you were visiting and eating, a lot of people came by the table to say hello. Some of them you knew or at least remembered having known once upon a time. But there were a lot of new faces too. Like the fellow who bought your mother's car a year or so ago and has already driven it to Mexico and back four times, he said. Turns out he was delivering Bibles. That's what he said. He may or may not have known what a good Christian car he was driving. No smoking, cussing or dancing were ever allowed in that car while it was owned by your mother.

So there you were, waiting for the never-frozen chicken (the nice waitress made sure you knew that) to be fried, and in walked a small group of people. Your eyes aren't what they used to be, and they never were much to begin with, especially long distances like across a room. But you thought for a minute you saw your first-grade teacher coming into the dining area.

Everybody has had a first-grade teacher, and first-grade teachers tend to be pretty special people. But you have to understand that this first-grade teacher, YOUR first-grade teacher, was the first woman you ever fell madly, head-over-heels in love with. You were 5 at the time. She was somewhat older, of course. And, you remember, she looked like a movie star, at least the beautiful women who starred in the movies you got to see at the Saturday matinees.

Besides that, the school -- Shady Nook, a one-room school with eight grades -- was in Greenwood Valley over the hill from Kelo Valley where you lived, which meant it was uphill both ways, and it took nearly 20 years to convince your sons of that fact. Mrs. Rayfield would stop where the gravel farm road met the blacktop of the highway and give you a ride in her shiny, new Ford sedan, which was a whole lot like riding in a limousine with a movie star.

No wonder you learned to read so well.

There was Mrs. Rayfield. Her first name is Ola. (Doesn't that sound like a movie star's name to you?) But you never called her that. In spite of your affection for her, you knew at the time that "Mrs. Rayfield" was what you called your first-grade teacher, love affair or no love affair.

You still don't know what the etiquette book has to say about meeting your first-grade teacher (and old flame) after nearly 45 years. She saw you sitting there and headed your way. So you stood up as she approached the table and held out your hand. Instead of shaking it, she reached out and gave you a big, warm hug.

Finally.

You exchanged hellos. You were struck most by how much Mrs. Rayfield still looks like the Mrs. Rayfield you remember. The smile, which no doubt has charmed hundreds of students over the years, is the most memorable. Then she went over to sit with her husband and other members of her family to eat dinner.

That was it. The fried chicken came. It was good. No room for dessert, even though the waitress showed you a pie that was a beautiful concoction of chocolate and bananas and whipped cream and nuts and probably some other stuff too.

You didn't need dessert. Mrs. Rayfield's hug was enough.

Mrs. Rayfield will probably read this, sooner or later. She will either be embarrassed, or she will add this to all the years of memories filled with lots of 5-year-old boys who swooned when they walked into a first-grade classroom.

All you know is that you still know how to read, and you do a little writing every now and then. Thank you, Mrs. Rayfield, for being such a good first-grade teacher.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.