Starting from a young age, I was in a classroom. Not so much as a student, more as a teacher's assistant. Sure, I went to school just like the other kids, but I had teacher workday duty when the rest of my friends were at home watching the Dukes of Hazzard. From a very young age, I learned that teachers bust their humps and bring work home and worry about their students long after the dismissal bell rings. As I progressed in school myself, my involvement in other school functions grew. I began tutoring. Turns out I was pretty good at it. Summers found me volunteering in classrooms of schools nearby, helping English language learners learn basic vocabulary and skills in kindergarten.
When my path to a life of leisure as a forester, riding around in a pickup truck on backcountry roads, measuring trees and such, ended because of some difficulty with entry-level science classes, it was little wonder that I found myself at Norman Hall, surrounded by pretty coeds obsessed with bulletin boards and rubber cement. Again, turns out I'm pretty good at it.Yet again, I figured out why. It's genetic. Mom just won teacher of the year...again. I've said it before, and it bears repeating. If I'm only half the teacher that my mother is, I'll still be one hell of an educator.