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Jeffrey H. Teitel The mileage from Springfield, Massachusetts to Monson, in September 1957, was just over a million miles. That first journey from home to my Monson Academy dormitory, named “Morris House,” was a literal right of passage to a four-year, preparatory school education. The lessons learned did not leap out from books and teachers, alone. I seem to recall some assorted highlights, including my camaraderie with Phil Pearl, competition on the Tennis Team, success at a West Bridgewater School for Girls social, memorization of lines and character in the school play, “Stalag 17,” major snow storms, and work as co-editor of the school newspaper. These were comforting off-sets to the dorm bully, green-tinted scrambled eggs, my scheduled “chapel talk,” final exams, the few “out-on-good-behavior" weekends each semester, and my annual visit from Mr. Streptococcus, leaving me with strep throat. This condition must have been a challenge to our school nurse, Miss Wilson, because I always remember her saying, “You better call your father.” I had many recollections of other people, including the brilliance and strict discipline of my dorm-master, Mr. Morrow, English composition with Mr. Stevenson and his Jaguar, Spanish with Mr. Hathaway and his yellow Ferrari, and the choir girls at Monson’s Congregational Church (attendance compulsory). There will always be a series of memories about one other, very distinguished person. That person has loomed and will always loom large in my life. Mr. Samuel J. Hughes has been an enduring giant in my memory. He holds the image of the finest educator I have ever had, including those at law school. He was the quintessential English teacher, par excellence. He was the main character in my mind’s movie of “Big.” If I were Catholic, I would seek his sainthood. He was a force, model, beacon and virtual title-wave of influence for everything one could enjoy from a teacher. If a student were lucky, as I was, one might experience his lasting effects outside of class, from theatrical productions, table manners, Philosophy Club, and proper decorum. I distinctly recall doing something that finally met his unequivocal approval and his response was simply, “That’s very noble of you, Teitel.” Of course, I was the same astute student that drew such comment as the one from Dr. Rogers who exclaimed, while driving by with Mrs. Rogers, ”Jeff, one day, we are all going to get together to go find your head.” I suspect that my studies took their toll on a memory that merely wanted to succeed, academically. “Honors” dropped by to visit, on occasion, despite the serious competition. While I was admitted to five of the seven colleges that I applied to, the class of ‘61 attended some very fine schools, including the Ivy League. My Spanish teacher, Mr. Hathaway, provided me with one of the most valuable academic tools of my life. Spanish, my second language, will always be entwined with life at Monson. So, consistent with the parting words of Mr. Hathaway and his inimitable sense of humor, I say, “Auf Wiedersehen.” |