THANKS COMES A LITTLE BIT LATE FOR TEACHERS

When I was a boy, I walked to school, I tell my kids on the off-chance they're listening to something other than a Walkman. Sometimes, I had to walk in the snow. I give almost a pioneer flavor to the story, just as my parents did for me.

It's all true, you know. There were no buses for me. Of course, during the course of several moves during my elementary years, I never lived more than a few blocks from the school I attended. In one house, I could see my first grade classroom from the living room window, and my mom watched me walk to school, door to door, while she drank coffee on the front porch.

Still, it is rather obligatory that parents raise an eyebrow at the next generation's school days. It's some sort of law of nature, as if every child of every period of history has educational advantages and every one of their parents did homework on a tablet of granite.

Inconsistent with that is the vague if popular impression that things were better then than now, that schools today idle in mediocrity, that teachers today get lost in their own narcissism and that students today lack values or desire to learn.

We said, "No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks."

In the current in-your-face, show-no-mercy, show-no-respect climate, where urban street music booms at menacing volume from a small-town letter winner's car stereo, one might expect: "No more rules, we're all crooks, storm the halls and kill the cooks."

Generally, the feeling is things are going to hell at a brisk pace.

I'm not buying into that. This brand of alarmism (nor the politics induced by some educators' desire to make schools the stage for a sexual agenda or historical rewriting) doesn't move me from a basic belief that most teachers today are outstanding at what they do.

In circumstances that are more trying than ever, good teachers do what they've always done: nurture the young people in their charge, accentuate the positive, care deeply, spread knowledge and bust their tails regardless of when bells ring.

My credentials on this subject bear noting. My wife is an outstanding, committed teacher. For two years, I was, to put it kindly, an ineffective teacher. So I know the difference.

I walked my younger children to their classrooms this week, the first day of a new school year. Amid the new clothes, the sneakers that had seen no concrete or sandlots games, the bookbags that had yet to take four quarters of snags and pounding, and the young faces wired with both enthusiasm and nerves ... here were the love and concern and good graces of a virtuous profession.

My experience was at one school. Granted, it was not P.S. 15 downtown in some megalopolis, but I think these scenes are played out a lot more than people realize.

And if teachers supply the professionalism, children furnish their one abundant and valuable asset: trust. It's a relationship that lasts more than the year the kids sit in a classroom. Thinking of this, I was surprised how easily I recalled my first six teachers ... an indication, I suspect, of their impact on my life.

First, there was Miss Magruder. (Married or not, these women were always called "Miss," perhaps due to childish misunderstanding of such titles, or maybe that was just a southern style.) Miss Magruder was ancient and kindly, a true believer in her life's calling.

My clearest memory of Miss Magruder's class, and perhaps evidence of her sweet nature, was of a surly substitute we had for two weeks during an illness. This woman was a snarling sort who had the whole class cowering by the end of this fortnight.

Next came Miss White, whom I believe was a friend of my mother and took me on, rather embarrassingly, as a teacher's pet. In this capacity, I was sent on an errand one day into the bowels of the school building, where cafeteria food was stored. Here, I encountered the largest cans of beans (green, lima and pork and ...) known to man; I never viewed lunch room food the same after that.

Miss White, uncharacteristically ill at ease one November afternoon, also broke it to the class about President Kennedy and Dallas.

Mr. Selby taught third grade and was school principal, double duty that served him badly since his teaching reputation was of being strict beyond need. A fierce five o'clock shadow didn't help him any, though I found him to be a nice man. Still, I never crossed him.

Miss Carroll came next, and my most memorable moment in her class was of a spelling bee in which she asked me to spell "greenhouse." With my hearing and enunciation gifts being none too great, and perhaps thinking of a Barbie gift my sister had received, I pronounced and spelled "dream house." After some discussion by the judges, it was ruled I had totally flubbed my opportunity for spelling bee glory and, humiliated by the snickers of classmates, I was told to sit down.

With such memories, it's a wonder I haven't gone into a bell tower with a sniper's rifle.

Fifth grade was a little better. My teacher most of the year was Miss Noe, a young woman with a passion for art. As a reward for making the honor roll, you were required to sit with her over the course of a recess while she sketched your face in pastels. I have the drawing still. In the spring of that year, Miss Noe left to have a baby and was replaced by Miss Baker, who is in my memory now as only blond and pretty.

Miss Dambach taught sixth grade, a terrific teacher who once told my mother I hung around with troublemakers. The mother of strapping boys herself, Miss Dambach let us bring a television to class the afternoon the Cardinals beat the Red Sox for the World Series title.

Nearly three decades removed from these special people, I am these days more appreciative than ever for what they did. It strikes me, as another school year begins, that thanks shouldn't be so long in coming.