A Less Shiny World

There are some people in this world that everyone loves.

 

Dr. Seuss. Tom Hanks. The guy who invented the Squatty Potty.

 

And there’s Becky Teasley.

 

I went to Miss Becky’s funeral this weekend and I’m sure everyone there agreed with me. I don’t know if they all loved Dr. Seuss or Tom Hanks. And I didn’t take the time to ask everyone about their bowel habits.

 

But it was pretty obvious that everyone sitting around my table before the funeral service sharing their memories of Miss Becky truly loved her.

 

And why not? Every little Southern town has someone like Miss Becky. On the Andy Griffith Show, it was Floyd the Barber.

 

Floyd cut everyone’s hair and the people of Mayberry loved just hanging around his shop. He was a little odd. A little quirky.

 

And you were never sure what was going to come out of Floyd’s mouth next.

Maybe that’s what drew people to him. And to Miss Becky.

 

I don’t remember when I first met Miss Becky Teasley. I didn’t grow up in town so I never had her as a teacher. My kids didn’t go to Teasley’s School, the preschool she ran for many years.

 

I guess my introduction to her was when it was time for my kids to learn how to swim.

 

My lovely wife and I asked around and were told that Miss Becky could teach a rock to swim. Our kids weren’t rocks but none of them were athletes either, so she sounded like the perfect fit.

 

We dropped them off at her house in the afternoon and picked them up an hour later. I don’t know what kind of voodoo witchcraft she did back there in that old white pool she had behind her house but by the time we picked up our kids on Friday, they were ready to take on Michael Phelps in the 100-yard breaststroke.

 

Several years later, we decided to put in a pool at our house and not once did I ever worry about my kids drowning.

 

I know- that is a fool hearty thing for a parent to say but after Miss Becky taught them how to swim, they could swim. Period.

 

During the funeral service, the pastor asked people if they would like to get up and share a story or memory about Miss Becky. Everyone in that room had one and a few brave souls stood up and shared their memories.

 

One man stood behind the podium and with wet eyes shared how Miss Becky had taught him how to read.

 

There are thousands of people just like him. Little kids, in the most impressionable years of their lives, who learned to read, learned to love and respect others and learned to love their country at Miss Becky’s feet.

 

Her’s was a private school so she could do what she wanted- and felt was important. So she started every day having her young students recite the Pledge of Allegiance and singing our National Anthem.

 

As one of her students recounted this, I wondered how many people went on to become law enforcement officers or serve in the military because of the love of country and service to others they learned from Miss Becky.

 

I would venture that there were quite a lot.

 

But Miss Becky would never have taken credit for any of that. She was just doing what was right.

 

You don’t find very many people like that these days. People who put their foot down and do what’s right, even if it’s not popular.

 

That’s why when I heard she had passed away, I knew our little town would somehow become a little less shiny. A little less funny.

 

Yeah, funny.

 

In addition to being a great teacher and miraculous swimming instructor, Miss Becky had a wicked sense of humor.

 

Not everybody got it. I did.

 

It wasn’t the usual set up & punchline kind of humor. No, her humor was dry.

 

Bone dry.

 

I realized this the last time I ever saw Miss Becky. It was about a month ago in her daughter, Catherine’s shop.

 

I was waiting to get my hair cut and struck up a conversation with Miss Becky. At 89 years old, her mind and wit were as sharp as ever.

 

She told me how she had once taught school in New York City. Her mother had come to visit and dragged Miss Becky to a different Broadway musical every night.

 

After enduring a week of this, Miss Becky told her mother that she had to leave. She couldn’t keep staying up until the wee hours every night and teach the next day. Just go home.

 

She delivered this last line without the slight hint of a smirk.

 

I didn’t know if what she told me was true or not but I would never know. She never broke.

 

Not after New York. Not after teaching phonics to a few thousand screaming kids. Not after keeping a few thousand little kids from drowning.

 

She stayed strong, quirky, caring, patriotic, loving and funny until the end.

 

Miss Becky is gone.

 

And now there is one less person in the world who I like.