Though I’m thirty years old, she still knows my name and can pick me out in the supermarket. She remembers the last time we ran into each other too.

“It was when you were here for your parents’ anniversary party.”

“Was it?” I desperately search back, barely recalling breakfast, “Must have been.”

Today, I ran into my kindergarten teacher.

It takes a moment to place the stranger, whose expression informs that we know each other. She gives me a few seconds to make the connection and as soon as I do, warmly embraces, steps back, and with the most genuine smile inquires, “Did you finish the trail?” Similar to her knowledge of our last meeting, I’m not sure how she knows about the long-distance trek (likely that eternal kindergarten teacher clairvoyance) but I’m happy to share.

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Ms. H was the best teacher any five-year-old or parent of a five-year-old could hope for. She doesn’t look much older now than twenty-five years ago when I first set foot in her classroom. I can see myself in the plastic purple rain jacket clutching Mom’s hand, scoping out the different centers, observing classmates in tears… generally stunned by the whole scene. Was I supposed to be crying too? Was this a scary thing? I would know many of the people in that room for the next twelve years of my life. The very first day of school, approximately 3,000 more to follow. Couldn’t count that high, nevermind conceptualize the fact.

Ms. H’s world consisted of distinct educational zones, an indoor play yard of learning. Upon entrance, the kitchen set stood to the left with these bizarre hardened marshmallow muffins in the cupboards. They resembled nothing of reality, which is certainly why I remember them. Blocks and puzzles occupied the front right corner, and worktables comprised the core along with Ms. H’s standing shelf, where she took attendance and taught. We loaded jackets and backpacks in the cubby room next door. Our fish lived in the main classroom with a reading table behind the tank, and across the way a less formal story area, where we’d sit on our own little slices of (keep your hands to yourself) carpet entranced by Ms. H’s character inflections. The story quadrant also housed the art table, with the unfamiliar sponge-tipped glue sticks. There was no computer.

We took turns with chores. Two fed our scaled friends, one held the flag, and another led the line. Cleanliness nearly tied godliness at Holy Sacrament, and we all cared for the space with her guidance. This fazed me little, as I manifested an early affinity for organization and obsessively sought spaces to neaten.

In Ms. H’s class, each student had a “special week,” where we learned all the essentials on one particular kid – favorite color, food, book, TV show, etc. A relative of the chosen one typically visited to guide the group in a craft project or book reading. Mom and I put on a Berenstein Bears puppet show. We mimicked the story by crafting a felt daisy backed by water bottle to spritz the class. They laughed and demanded more spritzing. Entertainment success.

Most of the time in Ms. H’s class we could hardly feel the weight of learning. (Sadly, and perhaps detrimentally so, there would be some heavier times in the 2,820 days of school following kindergarten.) We constantly moved about, changing spaces and faces, with family visitors and classroom aids. Several lessons called for scissors and glue, and some for outdoor excursions.

We had recess in the yard, and while not a single Playskool McMansion could be found, clusters of pine trees with cavernous innards served as our forts. We imagined a lot. A sprawling trunk served as the queen’s seat, and all the girls ran for it each day. I got put on the wall for stealing it once. At naptime, the rebellious ones would stand and surf on their sleeping mats while Ms. H slipped out to talk to parent or teacher. Better not get caught though, lest the silent index finger of disappointment find your direction commanding, “Down NOW,” so as not to disturb the others.

There were consequences if you did something wrong, and Ms. H ruled as a just dictator. She owned us and that was okay, because she owned from a place of love. There would be order for everyone’s good. Never disheveled or overwhelmed, Ms. H would yell, “FREEZE,” as energy escalated towards chaos, and we froze. I won a verbal gold star for freezing particularly well mid-trash toss. When we really needed to simmer, it would be heads down till only the gentle burble of the tank could be heard. Then, by Ms. H’s whispered directions, we’d slowly rise back up to a more sane level of vitality.

She had it all down.

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After sharing a bit of the last few years, I take her email. She corrects the address in the phone, “Oh nope,” in her classic nonthreatening fix-for-your-own-good tone, “That’s a small k.” Flashbacks to the inflatable letter people that hung above the reading table immediately ensue.

I wrote my first sentences there. Look what I can do now.

Ms. H carefully curated that first formal learning experience, and for that I will always be grateful. So vital are these ones in whom we place the trust to not only teach letters and numbers, but also philosophy in bite-sized nuggets – through stories and timeouts and dialogue. “How do you think Carrie felt when you stole the queen’s seat?” They don’t process in regalia each spring, but maybe they should; for is the delicate task of planting seeds of curiosity, empathy, compassion, and civility in the language of little ones worth any less than the pursuit of challenging twenty-year-olds to wake up, explore complex ideas, and think critically about the world?

Following the encounter, as I glide past myriad marinaras and salad dressings, completely sidetracked from the mission of procuring victuals, I’m faced with a conscience check of epic proportion. In the presence of this woman who has given so much, who still looks at her students with penetrating exuberance and hope, self-examination is almost instinctual. Who have I been? When have I been small? And who do I want to be?

There is something extraordinary in those who inspire these questions.