Here's another teacher memory from Tales Out of School written by Chuck Tatham. It is dedicated to all former class clowns and to the teachers who taught them!
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The Awakening Hormone Crowd

I’d like to tell you about a teacher who changed my life. The effect on my life was not immediate, but I have thought about it often.

Back in the early grades, I was a veritable loudmouth. This is not to say that I am any less long-winded now, but I really did enjoy listening to myself talk back in Grades 5 and 6. By the time I reached Grade 7, I was a candidate for "Class Clown of Canada" and I had almost no regard for any of the activities or lessons I was supposed to be quietly absorbing.

My marks were consistently excellent and I was frequently bored. I had a fine group of buddies who would pick up the verbal slack whenever I got hoarse. All things considered, I was in an enviable position. I assumed that Grade 7 would be a logical progression from Grade 6, the only possible changes being that the quality of the comedy would improve, and the audience (my amused classmates) would be even more captivated than in previous years.

My Grade & teacher was a woman named Jane Tweedale. She was around twenty-five, an attractive, soft-spoken person, whose feminine curves were not lost on those of us in the “awakening hormone” crowd. Her manner, right from the opening seconds of that first day in September, was one of tolerance and understanding. In hindsight, I sincerely believe that she considered us to be mature, sensitive people with a genuine interest in learning.

That was, for lack of a better phrase, an error in judgment. I was an ungodly terror, and by the third week of school, I was spending upwards of two hours a day slumped in the hallway, concocting new and more terrible plans to be unleashed the next time poor Miss Tweedale was foolish enough to allow me entrance to the classroom. Regular visits to the principal proved remarkably ineffective (although I developed a decent rapport with his kind secretary), and Grade 7 accelerated me into a series of detentions, reprimands and more essentially pointless discipline.

And now, with the passing of time, I’ve forgotten exactly what I said and did. All the wisecracks and flying erasers and paper aircraft have blurred into one crazy, distant memory, and they now seem pretty unimportant. What does remain important – no essential – is my memory of Miss Tweedale and how she treated me.

Unlike many other teachers, she understood my intelligence and my need for attention, and while (at the time in her budding career) she might have effectively extinguished my lust for classroom chaos, she never really lost her temper with me. I would remember the way she would look at me as I cocked my arm to fling yet another piece of chalk — an expression of despair and incredulity — and I always felt, well, a bit guilty. I’m not sure if it really was guilt (it’s not easy for a twelve-year-old to appreciate the true value of heartfelt guilt), but I recall a sense of great affection for Miss Tweedale, affection I maintain to this day. She didn’t want to holler at me; she didn’t want to exert authority over me; she just wanted me to shut the hell up!

Tragically, I never did. Nonetheless, after I left Grade 7, it became obvious to me –and the younger kids behind me at school – that Miss Tweedale had lost some of her lenience, and maybe some of her innocence after that year. When I returned for Grade 8, I was no longer in her class, but it was apparent that her tolerance for havoc had lessened appreciably. And that’s not to say that I, in any great way drove her to assume this somewhat less sympathetic attitude. Lord, I hope I’m not responsible, but it sure looked as if she was a bit more of a teacher and a bit less of a well, of an older sister.

I’ve never told Miss Tweedale these thoughts, and I probably never will, but somewhere I’m sure she’s teaching, and I’m equally sure she’s more than capable of handling whatever nonsense today’s prepubescent egomaniacs have for her.

I do remember, one day, however, a few years ago when I was home from university and there was a knock at the door. My father answered it, but I was sitting in the kitchen and could clearly see who it was that was calling. It was Miss Tweedale. I don’t remember the exact specifics of her visit (she sang in the church choir with my mother; maybe she needed an extra hymn book), but I do recall looking at her and feeling nothing but unadulterated affection. She smiled at me and nodded hello, but it was probably difficult for her running into College Avenue Public School’s answer to Lee Harvey Oswald.

Then she left. I haven’t seen her since, but she is with me, in a strange sort of way every day of my life. Now when I encounter someone whose behavior offends me, whose lack of interest distresses me, whose apparent contempt for a topic near and dear to my heart makes me want to lean over and throttle them, I think of Miss Tweedale, and the way she used to look at me. And when that happens, I become unbelievably understanding. Thank you, Jane Tweedale.