As the receptionist of Independent School District 206, my mother was first voice, first impression to the learning institution of Alexandria, and one might say even the town. She knew everyone’s extensions on the switchboard. She knew their voices. Their quirks. Whether you were a new teacher fresh from university eagerly looking for housing, or an impatient parent angrily wondering why a little snow could possibly close the schools, or a student asking if the buses were going to be an hour late, what time would that be exactly — she was the first responder. Watching her, this, for years, of course I was impressed. And the fact that she did it with such style, made me admire her all the more. 

As I began to learn cursive writing, I knew my world would open. For me, it meant I could write letters. My mother told me that when I had conquered the curves, we could take some of that hard earned ISD 206 money and buy stationery and stamps. I took home the three-lined paper from Washington Elementary and practiced each night. It was during a conference day. Instead of staying home alone, I sat in the velvet chair next to her desk. She opened the drawer to get a pen. I knew it was a pen, because she had that confidence — no need for a pencil and an eraser. She told me to come around to her side of the desk. The drawer still open, she pointed to the small green tin. Open it, she said. It was filled with stamps and loose change. I didn’t care about the money of course. All I could see were those beautiful stamps. And she was in charge of them — of the world that awaited me.  The light shone a little brighter through the plate glass windows of the superintendent’s office, and rested over my mother’s head. 

Through the years we would share more secret drawers, mostly of the heart. I was always surprised when she told me that she wanted to be brave, to be strong. Of course my brain understood. But my heart never saw anything differently . For me she always shone in the light of the stamp box. She held the gentle power to open my world, and release me into it. I walk in that light still. Some days I am tripped and misled by the curves, but the light, the light never dims.