Cherishing mentors we meet on our journey

A nun in parochial school pretty much told me I could write this column.

I’m not talking about this specific column. She didn’t say, “Years from now you’ll remember me and write about me. Be kind.”

She didn’t even tell me, generally speaking, that I should write columns for a living. I was only in sixth grade at the time and it still was a bit early to be giving me career advice.

What she did was assign those in my English class to write an essay over a weekend. It could be serious or funny, fictional or true, about friends and family or people we hardly even knew.

I unabashedly ripped off James Thurber’s title “The Night The Bed Fell,” and wrote my own hopefully humorous words beneath it. The following week, after using our work, the nun asked me if I would – along with a handful of other pupils – read my work in front of the class.

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