By Jim Nichols

Perhaps at least once a year during my own school years we had a student teacher. I did not really understand it, but apparently these were college students training to be classroom teachers. This was somewhat of a “practice teaching” activity in which the student teacher observed the regular teacher for an extended time and gradually was given more of their own responsibility for the class. By the end of the multiple weeks, the student teacher would be alone with us; I suspect this was a stressful experience for the student teacher.

I liked this situation. The student teachers were almost always younger and more energetic than the regular teacher. They seemed to be more excited in class and were more animated, even if they did seem to make some mistakes occasionally. I regret now that I cannot remember each of my student teachers, although one is at the top of my memory. I do not remember his name, so I will simply refer to him as Mr. Jones. In retrospect, Mr. Jones taught me the assigned lessons, but his very presence taught me even more.

There were several unusual things about Mr. Jones. One was that he was a man; I had never had a teacher who was male. Second, he was not practicing to be a regular classroom teacher but was a practice music teacher. These teachers would move from classroom to classroom daily for short periods of music instruction and fun.

Most of the regular music teachers played the piano and the piano was pushed from one classroom to the next. Students (usually boys) from the room just finishing would push it. You could tell it was about music time in your room because you could hear the heavy wooden piano rolling down the hall. It was somewhat of an honor to be one of the piano pushers.

Our school, Hickory Grove Elementary, had a fire alarm system that was activated by small glass-covered buttons on the hallway walls. “In the event of a fire” someone needed to smash the glass cover and the alarm would sound. One day the boys pushing the piano in the hall accidentally got angled incorrectly and pushed it into the alarm. The sound was deafening and the students and teachers in the school dutifully marched down the halls and outside, just as we practiced monthly during fire drills. I may or may not have been one of boys pushing the piano that day and there were unreliable hints that we had done it purposefully.

Besides being a man and a music teacher, the other two other unusual and instructive characteristics of Mr. Jones were that he played the trumpet and that he was blind.

If those two descriptors cause wonderment, you can imagine how we ten-year-olds could not understand how that was possible. In what became major growth steps for each of us however, we learned unique methods of having music class and about people different from us.

Ordinarily, when students have a question or need aid, they raise their hand. Mr. Jones could not see us raising our hands, so we were given the amazing permission of shouting out our name to get attention. This was rather noisy and seemingly disorganized, but he seemed to be able to narrow his hearing and would recognize some specific student and allow that student to speak. It was remarkable. For instance, in my case he would hear my name and turn toward me with his unusual looking eyes and say, “Jimmy has a question. What is your question, Jimmy?” I do not remember any instance during which the class seemed out of control.

We did not see his trumpet-playing ability until mid-semester. Once again, this was a unique experience for us students. Not only are trumpets loud and played only in the band hall or outside, just playing one in the class seemed to be against the rules somehow. It was not that way with Mr. Jones.

Perhaps it does not take a lot to impress and instruct a ten-year-old, but that semester with Mr. Jones was sufficient to put him near the top of my “memorable teachers” list. I suspect you have a short list of your own.

Jim Nichols is a retired Abilene Christian University biology professor and current hospital chaplain