I loved her; that's basically what I remember about the class. Ms. Bertie Cason was my high school English teacher, mine along with everyone else in the 12th grade. I have vague memories of memorizing and reciting a poem before the class, giving a book report, and writing a paper once, but that's about all I recall. However, my recollections of the person Ms. Cason are crystal clear. She had a head of ruffled white hair, carelessly thrown-together, nondescript dresses and jackets, and well-worn flats. I got the idea that appearance was not high on her list of priorities. She walked with a purposeful gait down the hall occasionally, but she stayed in her classroom for the most part, only leaving when required. She was ensconced at her desk when I saw her. Sometimes, she stood at the lecture and hunkered over the top and talked quietly. No one, not anybody, not a solitary soul gave her a problem. I considered her a sage, the caretaker of the universal secrets, an engaging mystery, an enigma. She was a liberated woman before her time. She would peer out the window during class, still sitting at her desk, and say things that at the time I considered to be riddles. She made comments about the weather and the behavior of students. She intrigued me. I admired her independence, her one-of-a-kind spirit, and her eccentric manner in the classroom. She somehow modeled the skill of critical thinking. I was too dim to know that, but I think that was the attraction. When I returned to that very classroom 30 years later as, you guessed it, an English teacher, the spirit of Ms. Bertie Cason welcomed me, and I think I heard that husky laugh from somewhere in the corner. Vacant now, her home still stands on Highway 9, a reminder of a rich life that impacted so many. She certainly made a difference in mine.
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