~Terry Filo was Dean of Discipline at my high school in Danbury, Connecticut. And as his title suggested, he was the go-to man when you messed up during the hours of 7:30 a.m. and 2:15 p.m.

I’d never been sent to his office myself (really), but I knew others who had. And it wasn’t pretty.

Needless to say, one of my goals in high school was to avoid this man at all costs. Unfortunately, during my senior year, I was forced to make a tough decision—Mr. Filo or American History XIV.

The fact that I willingly chose Mr. Filo is a testament to how much I hated history. Hated. It.

Some of that distaste came from the fact that we covered the same ground year after year, never making it past World War I. And Early European History? Ack, don’t get me started.

So, out of sheer desperation, I signed up for Mr. Filo’s American Scene class. It promised to cover events during the 1900’s. And how bad could the guy really be stacked against the dread of covering the original thirteen colonies for the umpteenth time?

Much to my surprise—not bad at all.

Mr. Filo didn’t teach from a text book. Rather, he researched the topics we suggested and then taught from the information he’d gathered. We learned about the Manson murders, the Lindberg kidnapping, the Kennedy assassination, and Vietnam. He was animated and funny, engaging and memorable.

Mr. Filo was perhaps one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Ever. He asked for our opinions and truly listened. He loved what he was doing and let that shine through his work, bringing history to life as if it was happening in front of our eyes.

~Art Cummings was another one of those stand-out teachers. Only he wasn’t a teacher. Not in the classroom/chalkboard sense, anyway.

Art was my first newsroom editor. I came to his paper as a wet-behind-the-ears intern. Other than a few movie reviews for my college newspaper, I didn’t know jack about journalism.

What I did have, was eagerness and a hunger to learn. Art took that and molded it, teaching me how to interview, layout a paper, track a story, and write a lead/closing that resonated long after the paper was gone.

It was his guidance and experience that has had, perhaps, the most profound impact on my life as a writer. And it came from a man who not only loved what he did, but also loved working with newbies (like me).

~Jim is a police officer with the Port Authority in New York City. The kind of guy you don’t have to spend much time with to realize he’s got a true zest for life.

Maybe it’s the sparkle in his eyes I remember from our childhood. Or maybe it’s the way he’s always ready for a friendly competition—most recently volleyball (thumped him) and an impromptu foot race (he had such an advantage).

But, regardless of the defining characteristics of his “zest,” they’re qualities you wouldn’t expect from someone who has seen what he’s seen.

Jim spent nine months on recovery duty at the World Trade Center site. It was a job he went to day in and day out, knowing he wouldn’t recover a living being. But he went. He worked. And he maintained his spirit.

And somehow he still emanates hope. Hope for a day when some of the wounds from that horrific day have healed. Hope for a day when people can, once again, visit the site and look forward.

~Nameless.

A few weeks ago I had to undergo a fairly major medical test. When they called me back into the procedure room, I got up on the table and waited quietly for the doctor to make his entrance. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t shaking. I was just sitting there, terrified.

And alone.

A nurse walked into the room, looked at me, and knew. She engaged me in conversation, pulling my mind off the inevitable and onto something less threatening. And sure enough, when the doctor walked in, I was as calm as I could be under the circumstances.

I took a deep breath, thanked her for talking, and then shed a quiet tear when she sent in a tech to be my hand-holder for the next twenty minutes (once again, she just knew).

I’m ashamed to say I was too stressed to catch her name that day. Sure, I would recognize her in a heartbeat if I saw her on the street, but I have no name with which to thank her. And I should. Because it was her instinct, her attentiveness, her quiet understanding, that made a big scary dragon seem, well, a little less scary.

For her, it was part of the job. Something she probably does countless times a day. Every day. Day in and day out. For me, it was the difference between being terrified and nervous. A difference I hope I’ll never forget.

~Teacher, editor, cop, nurse…it doesn’t matter what we do in life. What matters is how we do it.

Remember Mr. Filo?

I wrote him a letter, stuck it in an envelope, and handed it to him just before our graduation ceremony started.

It was a thank you letter. For teaching me to see with my eyes open and my heart wide. For making history fun.

I hoped he would read that letter and realize that what he did, and how he did it, wasn’t lost on us. We saw it. We felt it. We respected it. And we appreciated it.

Mr. Filo died of a sudden heart attack a week later.

But not before he’d left his mark…

On a classroom of kids who hated history as much as I did. On a classroom of kids who saw, first-hand, what a difference attitude can make.

In a job.

In learning.

In life.

~Laura