My Tribute to a Good Man

Way back in 1988, my family--which consisted of my then-husband and our daughter--departed Illinois for our new adventure in living in Indiana.  He had lost his principalship in the school district where we lived in Pontiac, IL, due to some totally unfair political moves that the Superintendent took to save his own skin.  (We weren't the only victims.  Two of the three principals in the district were sacrificed.)  He/We had interviewed in a number of districts in IL, most of which neither of us had ever heard of.  All of them represented a reduction in salary for him, and none of them were places I particularly wanted to live in.  And then, seemingly out of nowhere, an administrative position in Cloverdale, IN, became known to us.  Cloverdale is, perhaps, ten miles from my in-laws in Greencastle.  I figured we could do this!  What neither of us understood was that changing states meant jumping through new hoops of requirements in order to be allowed to teach in Indiana.  I'll spare you the gory details.  Just understand that my then-husband moved in with his parents so he could attend summer classes at Indiana State University in order to be qualified for things he had already been doing in Illinois.  Our daughter and I stayed behind in Illinois, charged with getting some work verifications that he needed, packing up our worldly belongings, and getting out of our house in Illinois by the time our lease expired.  While he went to school in IN, I mopped up in IL.

It turned out to be a draught year.  The summer that we moved, it was HOT.  The house that my then-husband found for us to rent was acceptable but had some problems, not the least of which was that there was no air conditioning.  I won't even go into all of the details.  I'll just tell you that I was doing all I could to set up a new home for us; deal with my daughter who was in a depressive tailspin over leaving her home and friends behind; deal with my father who was still recovering from a broken hip and still grieving over the loss of my mother, and now me; and figuring out how I could get certified to teach in Indiana after already having a "life license" in Illinois.  In short, that first year was hell.  My daughter broke her foot.  She and I both hated her teacher.  No one except the people in the church were paying attention to me...and so it went.  I stayed up endlessly every night, drinking wine and writing letters to my husband--my cries for help--only to have him trash the letters.  I don't blame him, really.  He just really wasn't into things at home.  Meg and I were holding him back from what he wanted to do for himself.  Shortly thereafter, he found another woman to love.

So...during that first year or so, I was taking college courses out of Indiana State University in order to get my teaching credentials in order.  I was on track.  And then the bottom fell out.  I became aware that my husband had strayed.  I knew it.  I had all the evidence in the world, but he refused to admit it nor would he say that he wanted a divorce.  (That's a whole other blog post.)

With my marriage falling apart right under my nose, I knew I needed a job.  It was two weeks before the beginning of the school year in 1990, but I would only be employed as a substitute teacher--certainly not enough income to support myself and my daughter after a divorce.  A Monrovia teacher who lived in Cloverdale and whose kids went to school with my daughter told me that there was a fourth grade position open in the Monroe-Gregg School District.  Call "Billy Mac" Fisher, she said.  I did, and--wonder of wonders--Bill Fisher hired me!  Bill was a local boy, and there were other applicants for that fourth grade job that were also local, but he gave the job to me.  I was ecstatic.  I would be teaching fourth grade that first year.  Truth be known, I was NOT a very good elementary school teacher, but I was ensconced in a team of three other fourth grade teachers who were the best of the best.  I learned quite a bit that year!

My classroom assignment was in a basement room of a building built in 1902.  The ceilings were low in that room.  There were real slate blackboards--I mean REAL slate blackboards on which writing could barely be seen beyond the first erasure.  It wasn't the best of situations.  Right around the corner of the classroom was the oil furnace.  One day, out of nowhere, smoke started filling my classroom from the ceiling vents.  I pressed the button to call the office:  "I am evacuating the classroom  We have smoke!"  I took the kids out.  In an instant, running down the hall toward us, fill-tilt, was Bill Fisher.  After a fairly short evaluation, it was determined that the furnace had simply "burped" and we were safe.  The smoke dissipated and we re-entered the classroom, but I will never forget seeing Bill coming on the run.

I was a non-tenured teacher in Indiana.  It was Bill Fisher's job, as my school principal, to evaluate me twice a year.  That meant he had to observe me at work in the classroom.  The first time he came to do that, I had moved one of my more petulant young men, desk and all, to the front of the classroom so I could monitor him better as I taught.  (BTW--big mistake!  Being in front of the class gave him an audience!)  Anyway, Mr. Fisher sat at my desk while I taught.  I had my back to the young man in question while I taught the lesson Bill was observing.  As I was teaching, the young student was performing for his classmates...using a pencil as if to stab me in the rear.  I didn't see it, but Bill Fisher sure did.  He came roaring out from behind my desk, exclaiming "Young Man!!"--grabbed the kid by the shoulders and yanked him out of the room and down to the office.  After the dust cleared, a tiny voice came from my students, saying, "Don't you think that was a bit harsh?"  Yeah, it probably was...but I guarantee that those kids never forgot that moment.  I know I sure didn't!  I'm not sure the kid even knew what hit him.  Justice was swift and sure!

The next year, Mr. Fisher announced that he would be retiring at the end of the year.  As his only non-tenured teacher, I became aware that he would still have to evaluate me before he could check out.  We had evaluation dates scheduled, but it seemed that something came up every time that kept him from doing the last one.  It was weighing on him.  After at least three failed attempts, I said, "Bill, why don't you write up an evaluation based on what you know about my teaching, and I'll sign it."  He did, and I did.  What he wrote was totally fair, with both praise and criticism.  It was a "gentleman's agreement" between the two of us.  We bent the rules a bit, but there was NO COLLUSION .  (Sorry.  I couldn't resist.)  Bill Fisher retired in 1991 or '92.  (I forget exactly which year.)  We got a new principal, but I missed Bill's honesty and lack of political nonsense.  His priorities were so down-to-earth.  We need more Bill Fishers in education!

Sometime after Bill retired, he and wife Martha moved to a condo just down the hill from me.
In 2007, I suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm.  I was required to stay out of school a couple of weeks after the year had started.  One day, as I sat in my little house with a scarf on my head to hide the scar on my noggin, a big ol' dinosaur of a car pulled into my driveway.  It was Bill Fisher, just stopping by to see if I was okay.  What a guy! 

Bill Fisher and his wife of 70+ years attend my church--or I attend theirs.
We ran into each other often. His son, Jeff, had been a teaching colleague of mine, and Jeff's wife, Wilma, was part of the office staff.  Stuff happens, as it inevitably does.
Wilma, who was a little slip of a thing, had a massive heart attack and was rendered unconscious.  She was kept alive, artificially, for a couple of weeks until Jeff and her kids decided to pull the plug.  They had been assured by the doctors that tiny Wilma was brain dead.  It hurt my sensibilities that someone so small could be so stricken.   I knew that Wilma was one of the reasons that Jeff stayed on the straight-and-narrow, and that without her Jeff would be in trouble.  He had seriously high blood pressure.  He was a smoker and a drinker, and generally just a good-ol'-boy without any pretense of being anything other than he was.  I really respected that about him.

When Wilma died, I ordered a Prayer Blanket for Bill and Martha because I knew they would worry about Jeff.  At the end of the church service, I found Bill doing his usher thing (cleaning out the pews before the next service), and approached him to give him the blanket.  All I said was, "I know you worry about Jeff.  I want you to know that we care."  Bill burst into tears.  That said it all.  I hugged him and left.

Not long after Wilma passed, Bill and I talked by phone.   He gave me Jeff's phone number and encouraged me to talk to Jeff.  I did.  Several times.  We actually were making plans to meet up with another retired colleague when Jeff went south.  His passing was as sudden and as unexpected as Wilma's had been.

Jeff's funeral services were to take place on the exact same day that my family and I were leaving for Illinois to take part in my sister and brother-in-law's 50th wedding anniversary. I had helped to plan the event for months.  There was no way I could miss it.  I had written a eulogy, of sorts, for Jeff.  On our way out of town, I left my offering at Bill and Martha's door, then left a message on their answering machine that it was there.  It was read by the officiant at Jeff's funeral.  A bit later, Bill asked me for a copy because he said that I had gotten the essence of his son to a "t".  I felt so honored...

And now, Bill is gone.  I am told that he was scooping out ice cream for family when he complained that he couldn't feel his feet, and then fell to the floor, unconscious.  That was Saturday evening.  The rumors went around at church on Sunday morning that Bill had had a "serious" stroke.  By Sunday evening, he was gone.

I know that I told Bill at least once what he had done for me and why I consider him my hero.
He had no clue at the time, but giving me that teaching position way back in 1990, saved me and my daughter from an otherwise unsure fate.  After his passing, I discovered that Bill was 89 years old and had been married to his beloved Martha just three months shy of 71 years.  Boggles my mind.

Bill Fisher's funeral services will be tomorrow.  You'd better bet that I will be there to pay my final respects to a man whose life changed mine.  May we meet again in Heaven, Bill.  Until then, Godspeed through the Pearly Gates...and God bless your family.   

Billy Mac Fisher was a man of values, heart, and dedication.  I love that man in the truest sense of the word.  The world will be the less without him.