The Incomparable Mr. Hill
To begin with, let me just say that Mr. Hill was one of the two or three teachers at Fairbury High School who scared me. The main reason I was scared of him was because he liked to put students on the spot, suddenly, without warning. I was still pretty shy at that point, so I was worried that I would be his next victim. For the most part, my concerns were unfounded, but it took decades until I was able to say that Mr. Hill was one of the best teachers I ever had.
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Mr. Hill's class met in the southwest corner room on the third floor, on the far right side of this photo. |
Mr. Hill taught Senior Honors English. Students were assigned to his class based on grades and recommendations from other teachers. I knew most of my classmates quite well, since we had taken numerous other classes together since Junior High. Most of my best friends were in the same class, so that fact alone helped calm my fears.
Mr. Hill was one of those teachers who seemed to be full of energy, and always ready to share a story with the class. I suspect he was encouraged to choose his own curriculum, because I've never heard of another High School English class that taught the same material. We may have read a novel or two--I simply don't remember--but most of his units were unique and riveting.
I remember studying Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, which were written in the Middle Ages, in the 1300s, to be precise. We learned that Medieval English was quite different from the spoken and written language of the 20th century. The spelling was not standardized, and some words made no sense to us at all. Nevertheless, Mr. Hill insisted that we translate the prologue of the Tales, and practice reading it aloud in unison, with a lilting tone. It must have made an impression on me, because I can still hear the first words:"Whan that Aprile..." (Whahn that Ah-Preeel') and I certainly remember that it means "When that April..." The prologue goes on to describe how the April showers cause the flowers to grow, and how people begin to go on pilgrimages when winter gives way to warmer spring weather.
I loved our unit on dialects. Thanks to television and the Internet, American dialects aren't nearly as prominent now as they were, even 50-some years ago. These days, we rarely hear a true southern drawl, or the clipped Yankee accents of the New England states. When I was in High School, though, our country's dialectal differences were much more noticeable. I was fascinated to hear the speech of some out-of-state Junior College students who were recruited by Mr. Hill to come and demonstrate their regional speech for us. I remember learning how to use the appropriate phonetic markings to transcribe the words that our guests spoke for us. Did you know that Mary, merry, and marry are pronounced in three different ways in some parts of our nation? Or, at least, they used to be.
Speed reading was my least favorite unit of study in Mr. Hill's class. It wasn't really a unit, since Mr. Hill liked to pull it out for a few days whenever we finished another unit, or if we had a substitute teacher for the day. I was a voracious reader then, often reading three or four novels a week, even during the school year. I liked to savor the books I read, so I had no use for speed reading, or so I thought.
The speed reading course was kept in a file box, and was individualized for each student. We worked at our own pace, reading a paragraph on a card as fast as we could--it may have been timed--and then taking a brief quiz to see how much information we retained. The whole point was to learn how to skim the reading material, picking out the key words and phrases so we could understand the main points of the selection. I didn't realize how much that speed reading course improved my reading skills until I needed to read long, boring articles when I was in college. Thank you, Mr. Hill!
I seem to remember writing short research papers in Mr. Hill's class, complete with notecards and bibliographies, so we would be prepared to write college papers. And, I distinctly recall learning how to write creatively, Mr. Hill's way. I hadn't had much exposure to creative writing before I took that English class, because writing at school wasn't emphasized nearly as much as it is now. Even if they knew how to type, most kids didn't have typewriters available at home, so any writing we did was executed in cursive long-hand, in ink, on lined notebook paper. (Thankfully, today's computers have made writing so much easier for everyone.)
We spent a significant amount of time on Mr. Hill's creative writing unit. I don't think we ever wrote real stories, but we each wrote a paragraph or two every day for several weeks. Mr. Hill didn't make too many corrections on my papers, since I was pretty good with grammar and syntax, even then. But his definition of creative writing meant that we needed to use descriptive adjectives, lots of them, to produce a form of effusive writing that I can only describe as "flowery." It wasn't my style at all, but I inserted adjectives all over the place to please Mr. Hill and get the grade I wanted.
The only time Mr. Hill ever singled me out was during the last week of school, when I thought I had escaped that dreaded fate. We were having a class discussion about everyone's plans after graduation, when Mr. Hill called my name and asked me, point blank, why I had turned down a full-ride scholarship to the University of Nebraska. After a split second of panic, I was able to explain that I had already decided to attend Concordia Teachers College in Seward, less than 60 miles north of Fairbury, and that I had good scholarships there, as well. I don't think Mr. Hill understood my reasoning, and he certainly made it clear that he didn't approve. I knew then, as I know now, that I would have been out of my element as a freshman on such a large campus; but a couple of years later, when I was taking some classes at the University, my parents and I wished I still had some of that scholarship money available.
Mr. Hill's only daughter, Therese, was in that class with me, and went on to become a secondary English teacher, just like her dad. If she was even half the educator her dad was, her students were blessed to have her as their teacher.
Sometimes it takes a lifetime to appreciate the people God has placed in our way.
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