Occasionally thorny job pays off in roses

I’m just not the rocking-chair and knitting needles type. At age 73, I sought employment, like thousands of other “seasoned citizens.” Heck, we’re living longer, we might as well get paid for it!

An acquaintance told me of a friend who worked as a substitute teacher. I had an ancient B.A and M.A. in Special Education, but no teaching license. I tried for the job anyway, and was accepted by the Colorado Department of Education for a three-year authorization to teach.

Me, in education? At my age? I was dizzy with gratitude. All my life I have had the utmost respect for teachers, and have noisily asserted that they should be paid at least as much as quarterbacks.

I decided to teach only at elementary schools, jumped in with both arthritic feet, and thereby turned my life completely upside down.

Those first weeks were crazy. Though I knew I would not have any problems teaching the subjects, I didn’t know where anything was in a classroom. I had to relearn printing and writing decently on a chalkboard, and follow the regular teacher’s lesson plans for the day.

There are no more accomplished masters of manipulation than a roomful of little angels with no front teeth.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”. . . usually during math quizzes.

“My head (stomach, back, knee) hurts”. . . usually during math quizzes.

“Mrs. So-and-so always lets us do that”. . . all day long.

Many kids regard a substitute teacher as a babysitter. You walk into the room, they snicker, and start planning a full day of fun and games.

Nope. I thrive on a sense of dignity and respect, and this was War.

I learned to smile and exude warmth, while telling them that if they did not do their seatwork, they would not have recess for the rest of their lives.

This is not just a job. I make a difference in the lives of children. I help to shape and prepare them to face the adult world. I model the role of older people for them.

Of course, they make a BIG difference in my life as well. I’ll be honest, they run me ragged!

But I am healthier, happier and feel “Younger than Springtime” after teaching all day. Trade that for the senior center and playing endless games of pinochle? You gotta be kidding.

We come with some of the infirmities of age, of course, which can lead to some humorous situations.

One of the ways we subtly try to find out if the students are eating properly is to ask them what they had for breakfast.

With first graders, the response is usually a deafening din of shouts, all of them trying to outdo the others. My hearing is no longer 100 percent, but certainly good enough to manage in the classroom.

A little boy at the back of the room shouted, “share a rose” to my breakfast query.

“Share a rose? It’s wonderful to give a rose to your mom, Bobby, but that’s not eating breakfast,” I said.

“Uh-uh, Ms. Silber. I said I had CHEERIOS,” came the reply.

You know something, though? Bobby did share a rose . . . with me. I get those kinds of roses all the time now. I’m in love with my job, and confident that I will still be sharing roses at age 90.

Silber is a substitute teacher in District 11 schools.

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