Like a Ghost

By: Daniel E. Kramer

I never knew who he was. He died young. Mr. McCauley, my teacher, my mentor, my friend. It happened some time back in the early 90’s. Maybe it was 1991 or 1992, I can’t quite remember. I tried to look it up, tried to see if I spelled his name correctly, tried to remember his first name, sought to think back and remember. I cannot recall, though. Something is blocking his memory, there is something that is concealing the information about him. I feel a need to look him up and find out who he was.

I had him for both 4th and 5th grades. For both of those years, we had a mixed class, a combo of two grades, and I remember the fantastic value of being with the older kids. He taught us like we were adults, taught us to be respectful and considerate, but playful and humorous. He indulged us in the great works, took time out of every day to make one of us recite a portion from the Merchant of Venice. Yes, we listened to classical music all day long; all day, everyday. I remember him saying that it was proven to improve performance and brain function, that even cows produced more milk while listening to Bach, Chopin, Vivaldi or Beethoven.

He was a trickster, he wasn’t mean spirited, but liked to fool around. A little fake barf on someone’s desk, or pretending that someone was in trouble when they weren’t. I remember him taking some of the kids aside to talk with them, the ones that were a little too loud or wild, and always having a deep care for them.  I couldn’t see why he would have done that then, but I can now. He knew they needed more attention, not less.

He lives in a vivid part of my mind. One day he was there, and one day he was gone. It makes me feel deeply sad and troubled even to this day. How can someone be there, and then vanish into thin air? I don’t remember his funeral, which is strange. I am sure I went.

My parents came to talk to me around five o’clock in the afternoon on that day I remember my father saying, “Son we have some bad news to talk with you about.” At first I was a little confused, then dumb-founded, then complete and profound shock came over me. I doubt I cried; too fresh, too unreal, and too impossible that such an immortal figure had perished. He went home early from school that day, said he wasn’t feeling well, laid down for a rest, and never got back up.

Looking back now, if I could have had one last chance to say something to him it would have been this:

“Thank you. Thank you for everything you taught me, thank you for being interested, for being different, for being in love with art, science, poetry, music, and the world. Thank you for not being normal, or standardized. Thank you for teaching us outside of the books that were given to you, outside of the methods imposed on you by our society. You will be in my memory forever; you will be someone that I will someday write about, you will be someone that I will one day learn more about, you will live on in my mind and I will always love you for being who you were to all of us.”

Now as I sit here with a tear rolling down my face, a sore throat, a saddened heart over the tragedy of this great mentor’s death it makes more sense now. Funny how death is possessive, it was his death to have, his alone. We never knew why it had to happen, and we never will. Why such a thing happens doesn’t really matter in the end, only the part leading up to it. For it is that part that leads up to the end that can define something greater, give significance, dawn magnitude, and immortalize importance. Some call it a legacy. I think of it as a genuine and pure sense of gratitude that is rooted in appreciation, a memory that puts a smile on ones face, and a feeling that brings us back to imagine what once was.

I remember that he used to grab his earlobe and hold it. When he did that it meant it was time for everyone to stop talking. He would stand to wait for silence to come over the room, slowly. Never will I forget the look of that one student, the last student to be talking, as they realized what was going on, that their voice was the sole voice still spilling out into the air. All the while Mr. McCauley calmly looking at them with his face slightly reddened, somewhat angry, but mostly loving. I wonder who the last student was to observe that, to have had that honor bestowed upon them? Maybe it was me, maybe it was someone else. I guess I will never know, but certainly that would be a gift of a memory to behold.

With all my love and appreciation, I want to thank you Mr. McCauley for being. Thank you for once being.