Third-Grade Teacher Finds Me

It's amazing how some school teachers seem to forever remember almost each and every one of their students.
Years ago, when I was in my mid-20s, I visited my old elementary school, which is about a mile from my parents' house. I was home on vacation or something.
I'm not sure why I even went up to the school. Maybe I just wanted to see if any of my old teachers were still there. Sure enough, there were.
I was in the principal's office and spotted my first-grade teacher, whom I hadn't seen in almost 20 years. Her name was Mrs. Perkins. The kids liked to call her Mrs. Percolator. I have no idea why. She was a terrific teacher.
In the principal's office, Mrs. Perkins immediately gave me that "I know you!" look. Seconds later, her face lit up. "Oh Brian! It's you!"
How in the world did she remember me? I was the poster child for average students everywhere. I was a relatively quiet, shy student, albeit one who started a chicken pox epidemic in my claass. First grade was the year I learned that my handwriting would never improve. Terrible things occurred on my Big Chief notepad.
But Mrs. Perkins remembered me somehow.
Today, I opened up my work e-mail to discover a note from my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Haynes. Here is a woman who had perhaps 1,000 students pass through her classroom, and yet somehow, through this blog, she found me.
I remember third grade as the first year I began wearing dreaded glasses to school. The frame styles would be hip today, and Buddy Holly made them look OK, but they sure weren't fashionable then. My mom gave me two choices: dorky (black) and Xtra dorky (tortoise shell). The bullies soon learned that words couldn't hurt me, and if they tried to swipe my glasses, a fistfight would ensue, regardless of the bully's size. I also got some payback to mom, who to this day still has to look at those glasses in my school pictures.
Ha ha.
I also remember being pretty good at math, but horrible in art, in the third grade. I remember Mrs. Haynes being very nice and an excellent teacher and that it was an honor to get to whack the chalk out of erasers. I remember learning how to spell "mosquito." I remember the day a girl threw up all over the classroom.
Other than that, I don't remember much of third grade.
But, somehow, Mrs. Haynes remembers me. I have no doubt she could tell all kinds of stories that I've long forgotten. She might even be able to pick me out of a police lineup. Teachers are just like that. Every kid is a page, and every school year a chapter, in the stories of their careers. I think this is kind of cool, but, seeing as Mrs. Haynes is an avid reader of my blog, it introduces a new wrinkle for me: having to better police my grammar, punctuation, spelling and the occasional naughty word.