“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. Teaching might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.” – John Steinbeck
Life experiences leave a mark. After sixth grade, I was never the same. I can see that now a half century later.
I grew up in the country and from first grade through the sixth grade attended a small rural elementary school.
Our school was so small, the entire student population could fit in and ride on a single school bus (a big yellow 1965 Chevrolet driven by our custodian and best bus driver Mr. Chamberlain).
At the ripe age of 11 years (I was an early birthday kid so always the youngest in my class) I entered Mr. Duitscher’s storied classroom. Duitscher was hard to say – pronounced “Dew-Chur,” so we often just called him “Mr. D.” Mr. D. was our principal and feared sixth-grade teacher.
My year in his class was life changing. I sat in the first row, third seat back from the front. It was a good spot. I had a desk by the window.
Mr. D. was an interesting person with a gripping life story.
He was born in Holland, attended art school in Paris, and later taught English at the college level in the Netherlands (he was fluent in four languages – English, Dutch, German, and French).
During WWII, with a job in the government, he actively worked with the Dutch resistance, hiding Jews and fighting the Nazis. After the war, he and his wife immigrated to the U. S., arriving here with $10 to their name.
In time, he became a teacher. And he was a good one. With Mr. D., learning became an adventure and school was fun.
Our classroom was lined with shelves and full to the brim with good books.
We were free to read our fill. I devoured my favorites – “Treasure Island,” “Robinson Crusoe,” “Tom Sawyer,” “Huck Finn,” “Tarzan” and more.
Besides free-range reading, in Mr. D.’s class we got to do extra things. We learned French, created secret codes, and built intricate dioramas with modeling clay.
With colored pencils in hand, we learned to draw, copying Mr. D.’s vibrant chalk masterpieces from the board in extended art sessions each week.
We made beeswax candles, collected stamps, and absorbed the joy of learning between our regular lessons in History, English, Science, and Math (with the drudgery of long division). And we learned to write.
I didn’t know it then, but see it now.
In Mr. D.’s classroom, I became a writer – an inclination that has been dormant for much of my life, until now.
Regularly we were tasked with writing “essays.” We students were allowed to pick a topic, do our own research, and then write about it. We, of course, had no internet.
But we did have a set of sturdy encyclopedias and a plethora of books at our disposal on most every subject. After ingesting knowledge on our chosen topic, we wrote out in pen (with neat cursive handwriting) our report.
We were expected to include hand-drawn and colorful illustrations. After adding a construction paper cover, we presented our work for grading.
The highest grade you could get was a triple A (AAA).
These essays became my favorite assignments. They fed my curiosity and sparked a love for learning that has only grown since. I learned and wrote about cowboys and Indians, pirates and buried treasure, monsters, birds, snakes, pocket knives and BB guns, hot rods, baseball, and more.
There was no end to the exciting things to learn and write about.
Recently I realized I am now doing the same thing today, writing what I call “the most unusual weekly newspaper column in America.”
And it all started in sixth grade where I learned to love reading and writing and learning.
From my desk by the window, the wonder of the world opened to me that year. I saw more than what was just on the other side of the glass.
I glimpsed the adventure of a life spent learning and living in the interesting outside world. And I got to write about it.
Steinbeck was right, I think. Teaching may be the greatest of the arts, for the medium is the human mind and spirit. Teachers leave a mark. Thank God for the good ones…
© Jody Dyer 2026 typewriterweekly.com