Cook: Rose Post's words still ring true

Children across the county returned to school last week, and it’s time you heard from Rose Post.

Rose kicked off each school year by writing a column in the Post that was directed at teachers as they welcomed students to school — especially the little ones.

Long after her own children were grown, Rose still felt in her heart the powerful mix of emotions every parent goes through when first sending a little one off to school.

Rose wrote for the Post for more than half a century but, as she always explained, the bulk of this particular column is not her work. It’s a reprint. But Rose recognized the aptness of the piece. And she wrote a new introduction each year, often mentioning children she knew — grandchildren, co-workers’ children and others — who were entering school.

Last year, daughter Phyllis Post wrote that introduction because Rose could not. Rose retired in 2007, and since then Alzheimer’s disease has stolen her away — a cruel, painful loss.

Rose can no longer write, and speaking has become very difficult. But we have a treasure trove of her words in Post archives.

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As the Post’s education reporter for many years, Rose wrote countless stories about the beginning of the school year — the who, what, when and where of it all.

But she said there was more to a new school year than that.

“I always knew,” she wrote, “the real story was about your child, my child, all the little ones who were just beginning, going off to school for the first time, one at a time. And I always wanted to tell the teacher ...

“Then one day I discovered that a principal in Franklin, Ind., whose name I didn’t know, had already told the teacher exactly what I wanted to say, so I let him say it again for us.”

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Here’s what the principal wrote:

My son starts [0x1d]to school this week.

It’s all going to be strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently.

Up to now he’s been boss of the backyard. I have always been around to repair his wounds, and I’ve always been handy to sooth his feelings.

But now ...

Things are going to be different.

This morning he’s going to walk down the front steps, wave his hands and start on his great adventure that probably will include wars and tragedy and sorrow.

To live his life in the world will require faith and love and courage. So, teacher, I wish you would sort of take him by his young hand and teach him the things he will have to know.

Teach him, but gently if you can.

He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true.

Teach him that for every scoundrel, there is a hero. For every crooked politician, there is a dedicated leader. Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend. Let him learn early that the bullies are the easiest people to lick.

Teach him the wonders of books. Give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun and flowers on a green hill.

Teach him about the world of work. Teach him that it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat. Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone tells him they are wrong. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone else is getting on the bandwagon. Teach him to listen to all men, but to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and to take only the truth that comes through.

Teach him to sell his brawn and brains to the highest bidder, but never to put a price tag on his heart and soul.

Teach him to close his ears in a howling mob and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right.

Teach him gently, but don’t cuddle him, because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

This is a big order, teacher, but see what you can do. He’s such a nice little fellow, my son.

• • •

Rose and Eddie Post were blessed with five children and maintained a close-knit family.

Son Sam Post wrote a blog entry recently he called “A mother without words,” in which talks about sharing his birthday with his mother through the years.

This birthday was different.

“... I think this was the first birthday of my life that didn’t include an enthusiastic commentary from my mother about the virtue of my existence. I always found this talk rather uncomfortable, tuned out most of it, and now remember few of the details — although I remember the gist of the message quite well.

“This year, I knelt in front of her, looked up, and said, loudly, “Hi Mom! Today’s my birthday!”

“ ‘I forgot,’ she said.

“My mother had been quite a talker.

“I’ve spent much of my life waiting for her to finish talking so that I could move on to matters more important to me.

“How many times did she tell me to get a master’s degree? Hundreds. I never did. How many times did she tell me to get a job? Many. (Even though I’ve always had a job; one job was never enough for her). How many times did she tell me to stop chewing my shirt? So many. (It’s a habit. I’m chewing it now, as I type).

“How many times did she help me with my writing — offering insight and critique that only she could provide? Every time I asked.

“How many stories did she tell? That would be like counting the leaves on a tree.

“Alas, those are only memories now. She was a person who did not withhold her opinion. If she thought she knew better, she said so. Now, by not speaking, she’s teaching a different kind of lesson — probably the most valuable of them all.”

We miss you, Rose.

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Elizabeth Cook is editor of the Salisbury Post.