Mrs., Mrs. Jones you made me love the "Story Teller"

When I was in the third grade our teacher, Mrs. Jones, would have all of us pre-Ridlin kids sit at our desks after lunch and remain quiet as she would read us stories. Stories of girls that avoided baths long enough, that potatoes would eventually grow in her ears. Stories of Pirates and Buccaneers that raveged small port towns and wayward ships. Stories of a half wolf, half dog named, Buck, who headed for the Yukon gold rush leaving the confines of San Fransisco behind. Stories of a young boy floating the Mississppi with a runaway slave named,Jim. Stories upon stories she would read.

I really don't know if it was the stories she read to us every day after lunch recess or her beauty that intrigued me of the story tellers. She was younger then most teachers in our country school. She was a tall thin woman with long straight silky black hair, full lips, gentle chin, green eyes and her calm demeanor. She was from a valley town outside of our world, she had refined features that were atypical of the folks from our town. She had married one of the local boys and found her gentle personality living among people quite her opposite, teaching children who were naturally reared to replace their parent's positions in a logging community. Children whose parent's were ignorant of culture, opposed to abstract thought, and skeptical of anything that wasn't of their rural lives.

Mrs. Jones was my first crush. I loved listening to her read the stories from around the world, the stories of whimsical adventures, stories that opened a world outside of ours. I would sit admiringly, watching her gracefully move through the classroom, working with each student on topics of math, English, history, and whatever else was the ciriculum of a third grader in the 1960s. I also fell in love with reading and writing because of Mrs. Jones. I became enamered with the story teller because of her.

Mrs. Jones became the standard I measured female beauty, the art of story telling and my love for most things in my life. She was my first measuring stick if you will. I have always preferred the person who could introduce me to others through their ability to tell a story and to paint the world with their words.

Since those days in the third grade I have discovered many story tellers and many forms of telling stories. I have devoured John Steinbeck's discriptions of the struggling lower class Americans during the mid-1900s, Stephen King's talent to describe the human condition through macabre events, and the peculiar people and human feelings Jim Croce sang about in his songs. I have experienced many other story tellers I have added to my personal list but for some silly reason I always remember Mrs. Jones when I hear a Jim Croce song.

I have no idea where Mrs. Jones is these days or if she is even still alive but I know where to find Jim Croce.

I hope you enjoy this song.