A Christmas Fable:

Once upon a time in Tennessee I had a high school Latin teacher: Miss Martha Shelton Davis. We used to be terribly clever and call her Mattie behind her back. Like the rest of my classmates, I hated her daily for four straight years.

Tall, gawky, and spinsterly, she was of indeterminate age. She had taught the parents of some of my classmates, and had traveled solo to Europe before the stock market crash. She had been built in as the cornerstone of the high school when it opened in 1948 and never left. All we knew about her was that she lived with her mother, who must have been over 100, and had signed her contract with the Board of Education before they had written in a mandatory retirement age.

When I was in junior high, she was the terror of my existence. I saw her in winter with her hand-knit beanie cum pastee sparkles on the front. I saw her in spring when the beanie changed into a circa aught six auto veil. She minced from Falcon to classroom, classroom to Falcon. I never saw her go to the ladies room, the cafeteria, or the teachers' lounge. She ate lunch at her desk in pristine splendour and delicately licked her Harpy-like fingers after she concluded her meal. I used to watch her through the window in the door during junior high, giggling with my best friend, enthralled. She terrified me.

Then I was in ninth grade and allowed to penetrate the sanctum of Miss Davis's room. Decorated in archaic Romanesque, it featured four rows, divided two and two. The boys sat in the left two rows in alphabetical order; the girls on the right. Above the chalk-board was a handprinted sign: "Time will pass, will you?"

Latin books from the thirties lined the walls and sample test questions from the Kansas State Normal School adorned the bulletin board. To succeed in Latin required no intellectual curiosity but rather an ability to appreciate Miss Davis's sermons, and a working knowledge of the art of sycophancy.

For three years I successfully curried her favor--it was the only way to function. I memorized all the assigned passages, never chewed gum, and wore skirts no shorter than two inches above the knee. I knew she liked me best because she let me fill her water glass. I asked myself the question that Hebe must have asked perennially, "Do I dare fix her drink?"

But always a prudent coward, I decided not to, and so, lived the life of a grade-grubber for the duration of my tenure. I attended Junior Classical League meetings religiously, defended the benefits of Latin publicly to all in-coming freshmen, and every year led the songs at the Latin Banquet, held in the school library on the Ides of March, togas and stolas required.

The showdown came senior year. A budding radical, I now defied the school authorities and wore blue jeans to school. I skipped classes, hoping my National Merit status would provide immunity from disciplinary action. Then in a fit of hubris, I got mononucleosis and was out of school for three weeks. Miss Davis approved neither of my absence nor the disease. I knew the Lares and Penates were against me: Sure enough, when time came for grades, retribution rained down upon my head. I was mortified.

My pride was hurt. I had wagered one semester of blue jeans against three years of unctiousness, and the unctiousness had lost. I had bet my boyfriend that I would get a good grade in Latin despite my militancy and now I would have to pay up. I had lost. Never mind about not getting into the college of my choice--I had lost my pride and my delusion that Miss Davis could be pushed around.

I spoke to the guidance counselor, who spoke to Miss Davis, who called me in and lectured me. In a style of dialogue known only to high school Latin teachers and their fawning students, we talked.

"No, now Ellen, I'm not gonna what?...Listen to you, that's right. You just haven't tried your what?"

"Hardest, Miss Davis, but..."

"No, now don't make what?"

"Excuses. Please Miss Davis..."