For teachers
stories start
with new classes
and fresh faces,
so in the fall
of '99 you sat
in my room,
said, "Here!" during roll,
responded to my question--
our first conversation--
"Those Hanke boys,
not brothers--Cousins."
Your first paper
about farming
and your dad.
"He talks to me
like I'm a man,
considers my views
while I weigh his
and we decide--
together.
So a young man
sits in my room,
makes a decision on
the student-selected
book he'll read
by semester's end--
Undaunted Courage,
the biography of
Meriweather Lewis.
Each day--steadily--
like a daily chore--
after you finished
a test, paper, or
reading assignment,
while others
slept or talked--
wasted
precious time--
you read about
Lewis & Clark,
dreaming--no doubt--
of being on that expedition--
Lewis & Hanke
hiking to the Pacific
across the young
beautiful lands
of unexplored America.
You finished the book,
passed my class,
graduated, farmed,
and worked at school
where you became
"young reliable,"
moving bookcases,
finding desks, and
building my boxes
for the high jump
shortly after
being asked.
During the Wahoo Track Meet
you helped Amanda
watch my kids,
Adam and Cara.
Playing hide-and-seek,
you hid them
on your shoulders
atop the ice cream machine,
and under the salad bar,
so years later
they still remember
Mitch Hanke--
"The guy who
helped us hide!"
But for me,
the most vivid memory
is of you,
sitting at your desk,
finding your spot--
reading that book.
Someday, soon,
I plan to read
Undaunted Courage--
Each Day--
like a daily chore--
and when I finish,
I'll say, "It was a good story.
I never wanted it to end.
I'll say, "I wonder what he's exploring now--
someday he'll tell me."
Then I'll keep the book on my shelf--
where good books go,
but the most important part
of any story--like the one
that started in the fall of '99
is stored inside
where the pages
are always accesible
and the sound of
the rustling paper
is always with me.