I don’t spend a lot of time stumbling around in my past. Land mines lie scattered just below the surface, threatening to blow up my psyche if triggered.

But I’m smart enough to know I wouldn’t be here had I not first been there. The giants who helped shape, mold, sand, and color my being over the past three quarters of a century include characters whose stamp left an indelible imprint. One of those was a force of nature who taught my high school English classes.

Mary Robel liked her Camels unfiltered, her Coca-Cola chilled in the 6.5-ounce green glass bottles God intended, and her races segregated. Arriving on this planet 47 years after the end of the Civil War, she grew up in a community where wounds from that conflict still festered. The South might not rise again, but I never knew her to stand for the playing of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Maybe the best way I can describe her presence is to say she filled her space. Her classroom was in the “new” wing, and she moved from the teachers’ lounge in the wooden-floored older building with a strong sense of purpose when it was time, bright-red lipstick freshly applied. Her deliberate stride called to mind that of a general approaching the parade ground, always firmly gripping the double handles of her soft-bottomed tapestry satchel; to call it a purse would have been an insult.

I never saw her thick gray hair worn any way other than upswept in a French twist. It suited her somehow: all business, nothing left astray. Gray glasses defining her steel-blue eyes took the color theme further.

My classmates and I knew little about her personal life, though we were always intensely curious. Once someone brought in a high school yearbook with a photo of her as a student. We stared in awe at her youth and beauty, feeling as if we were trespassing on forbidden ground. It was hard to make the connection between the decades-old photo and the teacher we encountered every day. Time, tobacco, and something rumored stronger than Mississippi sweet tea had left their impact.

In my 10th-grade year, this maven gave me an understanding of English grammar that ensured my later studies in that arena were mostly reminders. She fanned whatever spark of potential she saw in me, pulling me aside quietly as a junior and telling me it was time to start working on college scholarships.

As our class of 40 began our senior year, Mary Robel rolled out what became her biggest gift. In addition to her general lesson plans, she expected us to turn in a 3-page essay each Monday and recite before the class an assigned poem each Friday. In this environment I learned to get comfortable with words and to rewrite a piece until it flowed without a hitch across a reader’s comprehension. If my leading thesis wasn’t clear, I learned to recognize that quickly and fix it. If my paper headed toward sappy, I could reframe or choose a more appropriate topic. In short, I learned to write by writing.

The gift of editing my own work, and later the work of colleagues and clients, became as natural as breathing. And the recitation thing? Speaking before classmates continually as a 17-year-old set the stage for presentations to workshop and convention audiences years later.

People move in and out of our lives as purpose dictates. Some plant, some water, some weed, some bring to fruition. Today I hear in my memory the firm clack of no-nonsense heels tapping out a determined cadence on the concrete, and I nod and smile and silently give thanks.

After receiving a PhD in English at Ole Miss in 1977, Faye moved to Texas, where she met and married Walt, her IT guru, cruise partner, and barista. She is the mother of four children – Aimee, Carla, Steven, and Caryn – and the grandmother of Lexi, Sarah, William, and Rahel.

After serving as a copy editor at “American Way” and “Southwest Spirit” magazines while her children were young, she began a 20-year career with United Way of Tarrant County, planning and implementing community projects, while serving 26 years as a local school board member.

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