Miss Nancie

     Standing in the arcane basement of our neighboring town church, I stared across at every girl in my preschool class. Their dresses all incorporated some configuration of ruffled lace trim, and I took note of who made the better choices. Music played. And as parents leaned on columns dotted with Scotch-taped paper hearts, the boys asked the girls to dance. It was an exercise in chivalry insisted upon by my first teacher, Miss Nancie. She was good.

     To call The Three Little Bears Nursery School the Harvard of midcoast Maine pre-k programs would be to understate the reputation it has earned in my psyche.

     Nestled unassumingly on a quiet neighborhood street, it was the house that Miss Nancie built. Belonging to that special class of women referred to only as “Miss” followed by their first name, I revered her more as a grande dame of character development than a preschool teacher. Witnessing her ability to herd toddlers into routines of cubbies and snack time and rest and play was my first true lesson in choreography.

     As I recall, she ran the school with a soft halo following her at all times. Other kids saw that, right?

     A stately older man would appear at irregular intervals to greet Miss Nancie, dressed in overalls and clearly returning from a long day’s work on a farm. (His eyes looked remarkably similar to those of Santa Claus, who also visited our class once a year during the holiday.) Long after my graduation, I was informed that he was, in fact, her husband with whom she lived next door. That still didn’t sit quite right with me.

     Goddesses don’t need husbands.

     My memories of preschool are likely as accurate as the artfully questionable renderings of my family in stick figures. But if these images aren’t true, why do they still bring tears to my eyes?

     I yearn to weep for those who stroll past Miss Nancie today in her local mall, unaware that they are walking next to a woman with impact beyond measure. I find comfort in imagining her enjoying restful winters in the warm air of Florida, gazing out her window and taking note of every palm leaf, each one of us, her children, swaying in the wind with light dancing on our faces.