These teachers changed my life

Mrs Clark and Mr Armstrong

Towards the end of my 6th grade in elementary school, I was told that a new teacher would be beginning her teaching career at the recently opened Ramsey Junior High School. Her name was Coly Clark. Her husband had been transferred from New York to be the manager of the newly open Whirlpool Factory on the Southside of Fort Smith, Arkansas—my hometown. Mrs Clark had trained as an architect and artist and would be offering a new class in design. I was encouraged by my 6th grade teacher to sign-up for this class as an elective. Forever grateful, I was enrolled in her class and remained in the class until I moved on the newly opened Southside High School. I was a “senior” for 3 years—since we were the incoming class.

Mrs Clark, while living in New York City, had contributed drawings for the Architectural Graphics Standards—a John Wiley and Sons, Inc. publication. This was the “bible” of hand drawing and detailing for architects. I devoured his manual. I simply fell in love with drawing and details. Mrs Clark was full of enthusiasm and loved teaching. She especially loved seeing students that “took a shine” to her interests. In the three years I was in her class, my drawing skills improved beyond my wildest dreams.

The story doesn't end with my graduating the 9th grade and moving to the high school (Mrs Clark remained at Ramsey Junior High.) We kept in touch, I took art classes with her during the summer and we genuinely liked each others company. I enrolled in another class with a stellar teacher in High School—Mr Armstrong. He taught architectural and mechanical drawing. He was a dedicated and superb teacher—despite not having the use of his left arm (it was paralyzed—I never learned why). If it weren’t for the “A” grades in his classes my graduating grade-point average would have suffered measurably.

By the time I reached the 11th grade, Mrs Clark let me know that she was planning a six-week course of language, art, architecture and history in Italy during the summer break between the 11th grade and 12th grade (1965.) It was going to cost more that my parents could afford. Three events happened.

First, since I was 12 years old, I worked in my father’s Texaco Service Station after school and nearly every Saturday. My dad was not one to exploit child labor. Rather, he made a bargain. He paid me the minimum wage on the condition that I save 50% of the money in my passbook savings account. As part of the bargain he said I could spend the balance in the account on whatever I chose when I turned sixteen.

Second, I did extra work beyond the service station hours like detailing cars, selling Christmas cards door-to-door (I was #1 in our city one year.) This money went straight to my passbook account.

Third, and significantly, Mrs Clark helped me with an essay—which led to my being awarded a partial scholarship by the organization sponsoring the trip.

My parents were supportive. The trip also wasn’t going to require much extra financial help from them. My dad had always assumed (he told me later in life) that I would use the money saved in my passbook account to buy a car. Despite my parents being a bit taken aback by my not wanting to buy a car—they kept their end of the bargain and I was able to go to Italy.

We flew American Airlines from St Louis to LaGuardia then to Rome. Our schedule was designed to maximize our exposure to the art, architecture, history and the language of Italy. The first 4 days of the week we had language in the morning and art and history lesson in the afternoon—focusing each week on a art and history of a different city in Italy. On Friday mornings we would be bused to the city we had just studied and spent the weekend studying its art, architecture and history. Two of the weeks were focused on Rome—the other places we studied were Perugia, Assisi, Naples (including Capri and Pompey), Florence and Venice. Needless to say, I was transformed by the experience—forever changed by the dedication of Mrs Clark.

Because of her and Mr Armstrong, I was advanced in drawing and entered the University of Arkansas School of Architecture in the fall of 1966 better prepared than most of the incoming freshman—which allowed me time to take remedial math and English—a “condition” applied to my admission.

Why remedial? The six years of Junior and Senior high, working at my dad’s service station from 4:00-6:00PM and nearly all day Saturday, was tiring. I would sometimes fall asleep in class and often did not do well on tests. The lessons learned from the work ethic and frugality of my dad has stayed with me to this day—algebra and calculus not so much. However, the “remedial” classes (suffixed X on my college transcript) were just the boost I needed—along with a superb “speed reading class.” I also had taken a typing class during one summer during high school—which has stayed with me all these years (I was the only boy in the class.) I finished college—graduating with honors.

I am forever grateful for Mrs Clark and Mr Armstrong. But the story doesn’t end here.

Coly Stroud Clark died on October 15, 1992 at the age of 88. She was a lifetime member of the Arkansas Retired Teachers Association and the National Retired Teachers Association, a member of Delta Kappa Gamma ( a professional society of women educators found in 1929 at the University of Texas) and a member of the First Methodist Church in Fort Smith, Arkansas. She is buried with her husband at the U.S. National Cemetery (where my parents are interred.)

A few years before she died, I visited her at the Methodist nursing home in Fort Smith, Arkansas. Up until she needed to be in a wheel chair, she taught art classes to the residents. We had a lively visit. As I was leaving her room. Mrs Clark signaled for me to return to her bedside. She said “Jeff, do you see that filing cabinet there?” I replied yes. She said, “Open the second drawer and take out the file with your name.” I did as she asked.

Inside the folder were newspaper clippings. These clippings related to events, honors and accomplishments I had received during the course of college and afterwards. She said that she kept a file on each student that she “took a shine to.” From time to time she would look through the files and reminisce about all of the students she helped “steer in the right direction.” She never told the students that she had done this.

As I left her for the last time, I sat in my car and cried.