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..."

I tried rational tactics, I tried emotional ones--nothing worked. I told her it was almost Christmas time. She didn't listen. She was wearing the plastic Santa Claus head with the pull-jerk red light nose that she wore every day from December first until vacation. It mocked me as I pleaded with her to change her mind, or at least change my grade. But she was adamant. So was I. Finally it was a battle between me, with the guidance office on my side, and Miss Davis, with God on hers. The outcome: she changed my grade with merciless composure and swore, "This will be on your conscience, not mine."

She was right.

The day before Christmas vacation arrived, we had a party in Latin class and played Roman charades. Miss Davis had worn her sorority pin. A sign of a holiday, it was a bangle that covered the entire upper left ventral portion of her anatomy--it looked like a war decoration. She was in a fine humor, giggling and talking about her father who had died in the nineteen twenties.

But it was difficult for me to join in the festivities. I knew that she resented leading "Adeste Fidelis." I had been glee at the changing of my grade; now I was not smug. She really hated me. And I could blame her. But I hadn't expected it to go to far.

I gave my report on the Roman celebrate of the winter solstice, Saturnalia. It had be a riotous pagan affair, and I described fully. Miss Davis enjoyed it, I could tell. If she still didn't like me.

I gave her a Christmas present. A pair Hanes support hose. The kind with season She was pleased, but she still didn't like it.

Latin class was over. She stiffly wished Happy Holidays, and Felix Annus Bonus knew that we had not made everlasting per or even called a holiday truce.

Since this is supposedly a fable now is time to wax philosophical and draw political ramifications from this story, plaining how this all ties in to putting Christ back in Christmas, and crush Nixon's empire. But I think all that is fectly clear. What isn't so clear is war happened to Miss Davis.

The school system has now been renovate Miss Davis and her date stamp and glass on-a-chain have not been able to adjusted busing, racially-mixed classrooms, accelerated language programs. The system needed her to leave; she was a relic over different style of education. Last year she teaching; her mother is now in Rosew Home for the Aged. The cornerstones Southern public school education crumbling, and it's high time. But I wish knew where to find her. I would liked apoligize for my obnoxious senior behavior, and say hello, since it is Christmas and to thank her. She provided the entertainment I got in high school.