It is my most fervent hope that everyone has the chance to have at least one “Bea” in their lives.

That magical person who comes into your life — at the exact moment you need them — and transforms everything for the better. Bea was that person for me.

On the surface, she was my high school English teacher. In reality, she was the cornerstone of the foundation upon which I’ve built the amazing life I have today. This is not an overstatement.

Not quite a year ago I got the news that Bea, at age 81, had been diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer. She decided not to pursue treatment, a trajectory befitting of Bea. She was not a fluffy sugar-coating sort of person and likely arrived at a “we’ve all got to die of something” perspective fairly quickly and then just carried on with things.

As it happens, I got the message about Bea’s diagnosis while sitting in the parking lot of my gynecologist’s office. A gynecologist that I adore and have seen for over a decade in large part because she reminds me so much of Bea. They’re almost identical in appearance (likely from some not-so-distant Eastern European lineages they share), and have very similar dispositions. Straight talk, no coddling, high expectations. Admittedly, it’s a bit weird to pick one’s gynecologist because they remind you fondly of your favorite battle-axe of an English teacher, but we’ve all got our quirks!      

I’m finding it almost impossible to describe Bea in a way that those who didn’t know her would understand. From afar, she may have seemed cold, militaristic, maybe even mean. She had no time for laziness or excuses, and students who were prone to such behavior no doubt disliked her.

Her former students could probably fill a book with the words you were not allowed to use in your writings for her class… “it,” “very,” “a lot,” and “like.” I’d get essays back with big red circles around such words and comments akin to “These words are lazy. Describe what you mean.”

Bea also had no tolerance for students chewing gum. It was her hugest pet peeve. “You look like a bunch of cows chewing your cud,” she’d lament. She had an exceedingly clever punishment for the offense of chewing gum in her class.

Every day there would be a new vocabulary word written on the board that we would learn and be tested on. By the end of the semester, three walls of her classroom – floor to ceiling – would be covered in vocabulary words. If you got caught chewing gum, you had to write a “gum story” that contained every vocabulary word currently on the board. I only made that mistake once…

At her core, she was the most dedicated and passionate teacher I’ve ever had.

She poured her full self into any student that was willing to show up and do the work. She had high expectations and she fully expected you to meet them. More than that, she believed you could meet them…and, after a while, students lucky enough to be in her tutelage often came to believe in themselves too.

That was the beauty of Bea.

She made you want to be a better version of yourself. She could see the potential you had buried inside, and she would reflect it back to you in ways that were profoundly impactful.

Bea did not give away praise lightly, so when it came it felt like pure gold. She also wouldn’t let little missteps slip by, no matter who you were. I was looking for information about Bea online (of which there is none, she’s like Sasquatch!) and came across this amusing little quip from a reporter in the local paper who was lamenting the things that had gone awry with their reporting the prior week, including “Misspelled the editorial headline. Bea pointed out it’s spelled maneuver, not manuever. She was the only one who noticed.” Been there dude, I feel ya!

I’ve visited Bea many times over the 35 plus years since she was my teacher. She, together with her many dogs, lived in an old farmhouse off by itself on a windswept prairie with a huge lake on one side, and the soaring Sierra Nevada mountains on the other. Living there was not for the faint of heart, especially in the winter, but it suited her perfectly. Like her, her homestead was exceedingly unique. Rugged and tough on the outside, warm and cozy on the inside, and utterly captivating in its beauty and brilliance.

Bea recently passed away.

Over the years, and over our many visits, I have repeatedly told Bea what a difference she made in my life. When I heard the news of her diagnosis, I felt compelled to reiterate those feelings to her again.

It’s an odd thing really…to send someone a “so, I heard you’re dying” letter, but Bea would have had no interest in shying away from talking of such things.

I’ve decided to share parts of the letter I sent her here on my blog, which would likely make her cringe a little because she never wanted folks to make a fuss.

I’m primarily sharing it for my future self – as this serves as a personal journal of sorts. I’m also sharing for others that knew Bea and held her in a similar regard, as I’m guessing there is much in my story that will resonate.

For the rest of you, if you’ve been lucky enough to have your own “Bea” in your life – whether a teacher, a mentor, a friend, a relative – I’d encourage you to take the time to express to those folks what they’ve meant to you, if you can.

Bea –

I’ve just learned of your diagnosis. I’m so sorry to hear this news. I don’t know the details of your situation, but I didn’t want to let a minute go past without telling you how very much you mean to me. Next to my spectacular mother, you are one of the most impactful people in my life.

I was lost when I first met you. The summer before my sophomore year I had just moved to Bishop – a difficult place for any new kid, but downright catastrophic for someone as shy and uncertain as me. I was awash in a sea of kids that had known each other their entire lives and weren’t inclined to embrace someone new. That first year I spent a great deal of mental and emotional energy just trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible. But then you found me.

(Sidenote…I’m pretty sure you taught me to never start a sentence with the word “but,” as I just did – so I’m feeling quite self-conscious now. If this grammar rule is indeed true, I trust you’re in the mood to extend me a bit of grace. At the very least, I’m assuming you don’t have a trusty red pen at hand to circle the offense…and if you do have said pen and can’t control yourself, then please feel free to give the word a cathartic slash! I’d be honored.)

I don’t remember the details, but at some point, you started telling me that I had a talent for writing. You referred to me as your “Little Steinbeck.” Admittedly, the nickname was lost on me because I wasn’t well-read and had no idea who Steinbeck was. In all honesty, I’m still not well-read. Most of my reading involves smutty romance novels filled with half-clad Scottish highlanders and dashing pirates. Books that are not really known for their descriptive or compelling writing styles to say the least.

You gifted me not only a nickname, but a growing sense of confidence. You helped me to begin believing that I might have a talent for something and that trying desperately to blend into the wall wasn’t my only way forward. Between your writing classes and Mock Trial, I began to find my way. You knew just the right amount of pressure to put on me to make me rise to the challenge, and in so doing, build even more confidence. That growing sense of confidence in my ability as a writer (and public speaker, as you had me do closing arguments!) began spreading to other parts of my life. My remaining days in high school became some of the happiest and most memorable.

For the past several years I’ve been writing a blog to chronicle our travel adventures as well as my observations about life. While I don’t have a huge following, hundreds of people around the world read my writing with some regularity. The confidence you helped foster in me has manifested such that I can now share my words publicly, and at times quite vulnerably. I write my blog primarily for myself (as an electronic journal or chronicle of my experiences), but it has been rewarding to share my musings with others.

I’m often told by blog readers that I have a captivating way of capturing details, setting a scene, or telling a story (that Steinbeck-ian quality you identified I’m guessing?). They tell me they feel they are experiencing the sights or emotions directly, rather than remotely through something written. Every time I get such feedback I think of you, and how you put kindling on that little flame of nascent talent I had buried down deep inside of me.

Just a few days ago I wrote a blog post filled with memories of my grandmother and great-aunts. I thought of you often while writing, especially when “Bea’s vocabulary words” would bubble to the surface in my prose. Words like ‘furtively’ and ‘pilfer.’ To this day I am amazed at the sticking power of being held in the warm embrace of chalkboards covered in daily vocabulary words, a semester at a time. What a tremendous gift you gave me — for which I am thankful for each day when I play Wordle!

I only ever made the mistake of chewing gum in your class once. In hindsight, I’m so glad I did. My resulting vocabulary “gum story” was a pure joy. It was about ‘Princess Pestilence’ and the evil wizard ‘Jargon the Great.’ I lost my mother to pancreatic cancer a few years ago. One of the things she gave me before she passed was a highly organized and meticulously labeled box of memorabilia. When I removed the lid I found — sitting in pride of place on the top — the printed copy of Princess Pestilence, complete with your handwritten comments.

My mother saved that story not because it was a brilliant piece of writing (although it was entertaining), but because it was emblematic of a turning point in my life when I finally found the confidence to have fun and find joy in a part of myself. She knew that you were the impetus behind that transformation and always had a deep appreciation for the positive influence you were in my life. In many ways you helped me grow and blossom in ways she couldn’t. It’s one thing for your mother to believe in you, but an entirely different matter for someone else to do that.

I carry you and your influences with me each day. You not only taught me how to express myself through writing, but you taught me how to believe in myself. You helped me see that I had something more to offer and share with the world. You showed me that when you expect the best from someone, they will often rise to the challenge (because yes…you were a hard grader, and I was desperate to make you proud!).

I deeply cherish the time I spent in your care, and our friendship that followed. My visits to see you in your lovely home on the lake will always be cherished. I hope that you now find yourself there, surrounded by loved ones (including the four-legged variety) as you set out on this final journey. I hope that any pain is manageable, that you are finding comfort in memories of a life well-lived, and that you and your loved ones experience profound moments of love and laughter at this time.

I love you so very much and will cherish you forever and always.           

Michele