January 23, 2025
Volume 55 - No. 4
By Friedrich Gomez I was in fifth grade when I first heard my teacher talk about Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835-1910). Usually I was a clock-watcher; just waiting for the magical hour to come, so I could once-again run home. And be free again! Free from the cold discipline of school and all the tedious rule-making that went along with it.
Free from being punished by the steady drone of deadly-boring lectures from teachers who seemed older than redwoods. And who had equally-dry, wooden personalities.
He laughed a lot. And he didn’t talk at us . . . he talked with us.
tall tales and adventures along the mighty Mississippi.
One day he came dressed as Mark Twain!
School was even worse than Sunday church services where I could at least nap on my Momma’s shoulder and not be chastised for just being a little boy with a short attention span.
And he sat and spoke with a funny Midwestern accent, and told of a small boy just like me who hated school, church sermons . . . and all those unbreakable rules.
At the end of class -- one by one -- we all lined-up, and we each stopped to hug Mr. Steitzer, our new teacher.
But I was in fifth grade, and I had a brand new teacher named Mr. Fred Steitzer (real name) who seemed strangely, and genuinely, interested in us.
My whole world changed that day.
When it came my turn, I reached out with my arms fully extended and he gently leaned down to my level, like a huge powerful bear and gently hugged me.
That wasn’t my teacher talking up there in front of the class that day; making us laugh out loud, with
If I can “suspend belief” as a mere child and really cry real tears at “make-believe” movies like Dum-
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Mark Twain See Page 2