A Life Well Spent

Lorraine Hobbs walked through the park noting the people who passed or who played with children, who fed ducks or who picnicked. She was not there to people watch, but she found the scene comforting. Absorbed in her observation, Lorraine almost missed Principal Rosa Castañeda sitting on a bench, sketching a group of young men throwing a frisbee. Time had etched more lines on her face, and she was a little rounder than Lorraine remembered, but the discerning hazel eyes and the rigid posture remained.

“May I sit here?” Lorraine asked, nodding to the empty spot on the bench next to the older woman.

Principal Castañeda did not look up from her sketch. Instead, she drew her lips into a thin line, poked her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. The scratching of the charcoal on the sketch pad grew louder. Lorraine had never much liked sketching—she was more of a watercolor woman.

After a time, Lorraine wondered if the older woman had heard her. She was about to open her mouth to ask again, but Principal Castañeda said, “You may sit wherever you like, so long as you don’t block my light.”

“Fair enough.”

Lorraine sat and waited for Principal Castañeda to finish her sketch. The skill with which Rosa livened the page with black and gray slashes or a smudging thumb surprised her. The amount of depth and texture the former principal was able to imbue on the page with just one pigment was striking.

Lorraine remembered one of the first interactions with the principal. She was in an art class where her colorings were always met with a polite “very good, dear” or “oh, isn’t this nice” by the teacher. But not Principal Castañeda. The principal walked into the classroom, took one look at Lorraine’s sketch, smiled, and said, “This is supposed to be me, yes? An interesting first draft, niña. Keep working at it and I’m sure you will be great.”

Only a girl of nine then, Lorraine fumed. Couldn’t Principal Castañeda see how great this painting of her was? She crumpled the page and threw it away.

In the present day, the former principal asked “Is your last name still Hobbs, Lorraine?”

Shaken out of her memory and almost too surprised to answer, Lorraine eked out, “Y-yes ma’am.”

The principal’s eyebrow raised and the women made eye contact. A smirk crept onto Rosa’s tan face, mischievous and wily. “Good for you, niña. Now, what can I do for you Lorraine Hobbs, class of ’94?” She turned back to her sketch.

“Well, Mrs. Castañeda, I’m here on behalf of the school’s alumni association, actually. We’ve decided to create a new award for distinguished contributions to the academic environment. The alumni want you to be our first Lifetime Achievement Award recipient. There will be a banquet to honor you and give you an opportunity to address many of the people you’ve impacted throughout your career.”

The whole speech came out in a rush, but the words were the exact same as she’d practiced them. She gave herself a mental high-five for that, but she did notice the principal’s silence.

Principal Castañeda set the pad and charcoal pencil down gently next to herself on the bench. She turned to Lorraine, adjusting her long, red skirt. Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“Now that’s a very kind offer, young lady—and I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful, too, for the recognition, but I think I’ll pass on this award. I’ve had a beautiful career, gracias a Dios, but public speaking? Well, that’s never quite been my thing. Imagine that! Ha! A principal who hated public speaking.”

What? Lorraine thought, incredulous.

“But—” Lorraine started, but Rosa raised a charcoal dusted hand. Lorraine’s mouth snapped shut.

“I never said I wouldn’t contribute. Here, let me show you something.”

Principal Castañeda pulled a baby wipe from a sandwich bag and erased the charcoal from her hands, moving from finger to finger. Not a hint of the stuff remained. She pulled a paper towel from another sandwich bag and dried her hands with it.

“I bring this with me everywhere, you know,” Principal Castañeda said, setting the spent cleaning materials aside. The principal picked up her purse and reached inside. She lifted from it a small, black notebook, pocket-sized, hard-backed, and worn soft. Lorraine knew it instantly. That was the book.

“Go on,” Principal Castañeda said, “look through it. Here.”

Students had tried their entire careers to find out what was in the book or how to get ahold of it. Rumors floated around amongst the students—and even some teachers—that Principal Castañeda had dirt on all the teachers or that she had all the answers to the final exams in the book. Some students thought she had love letters in there. Lorraine was holding the book.

The younger woman turned each page delicately, as though the book itself would fall apart. It wouldn’t, of course——little black books such as these were crafted to last——but Lorraine couldn’t help but wonder how long Rosa had had the notebook.

It was marvelous.

Between the sturdy covers of the little black book was a whole world the students had always wondered about, but it was nothing like they imagined. Each page was different; some pages contained sketches of students or teachers or both while other pages had poems or essays written by students and transcribed in Rosa’s small, neat hand. There were ideas for school improvements with rudimentary illustrations and even polaroids of a few entire classes taped into the pages. Lorraine’s class was not one of them, she noticed.

When Lorraine finished flipping through the pages she closed the book, but Principal Castañeda informed her she was missing the best part, pointing to the back cover. In it, there was a small, flat pocket with the opening facing the pages. A dog-eared and frayed piece of paper poked out. Lorraine eased it from the pocket and unfolded it to find that the watercolor of Principal Castañeda she had painted all those years ago rested in her hands.

“I. . . I never knew,” Lorraine managed to croak. “Thank you.” Lorraine’s mind reeled. The woman had kept a painting that wasn’t finished, that wasn’t even good.

Principal Castañeda folded her hands in her lap and smiled a smile which touched her eyes. “No one knew. That was part of the point. If any of you knew which of your peers were in there—or even that students were in there at all—there would have been jealousy and competition and more demands than there were for me to show it to you all. Furthermore, in your case, I didn’t want you to get complacent. You had so much talent, niña. I do hope you’ve continued to paint.”

“I. . . I have. Yes ma’am.”

“Excellent.”

In her hands, the little black book felt heavier than Lorraine expected. It wasn’t the physical weight of the thing, however. It was the weight of the emotions and the experiences inside, the weight of a life. It was a weight Lorraine was uncomfortable holding. She tried to return the notebook to Principal Castañeda.

“Take it,” the principal said. Rosa pushed it softly, but firmly back towards Lorraine. “I taught art to the older students even while I was a principal for two reasons. The first is I’m good at it and the second is that it let me stay in-touch with the students for whom I was responsible.

“I appreciate this nice award. I really do, but that’s not why I made a life well-spent educating. No indeed.” She pointed to the book. “That is why I spent my life in that school. Now, you can take that and give it to the current principal or to the school or whomever needs to see it to remember why we teach and say it’s from me.“

Principal Castañeda took a long, deep breath and let her shoulders sag a bit.

“I’d be lying if I said I won’t miss it. I will. But I’ve led by example for longer than you’ve been alive. Let me give you all one last thing because that’s what educating is all about: giving.”

Lorraine took the notebook but couldn’t find any words. She didn’t know what to say to Principal Castañeda. She didn’t know how to tell the alumni association she’d failed to get Principal Castañeda to accept for that matter. The distress must’ve shown on her face because Principal Castañeda patted Lorraine’s hand before summoning herself to her feet. She looked around the park. “My, but it would be nice to see all those old students again. You know, Ms. Hobbs, it’s like looking at a sketch or a painting you’ve helped create, seeing your students years after they’ve left your school. If I agree to accept the award, can I do it without speaking?”

“Absolutely!”

-

Two weeks later Rosa Castañeda found herself in some banquet hall in her Sunday best. She had to look the part if she was going to accept an award.

Her seat was next to Lorraine’s and she was grateful for it. The president of the alumni association stood at the podium and prattled on about the good works of the alumni association while the other folks congratulated themselves with applause. Then he introduced Rosa with some very kind words and invited her onto the stage.

She refused to go.

Lorraine leaned over and said, “I told him you were not going to give a speech. You don’t have to go up there, Mrs. Castañeda.”

“And I won’t.”

When it became apparent to the young man——Arden, if she recalled correctly——that Rosa would not stand or speak, he flashed an embarrassed smile and scratched the back of his head.

“Right. Er, well. Ahem,” the young man said. “A group of us got together and we wanted to do something to repay you for all you’ve given to us. Your constant pushes to always improve in our own ways inspired us. Some of us have been able to bring value to so many, we thought we could pay it back to you. Bring out the check!” Another young man from the class of ’02, Rosa believed, brought one of those ridiculous, exaggeratedly large checks to the podium. The total was for twenty thousand dollars.

Rosa felt her face flush hot. She gave her most principal-like “come here” gesture to Arden. He looked shocked, but he walked over to her. I still got it, Rosa thought.

“Niño,” Rosa said, “Lorraine informed you I would not give a speech and this check will not change that. And imagine how much more good you could do with this money than giving it to me. Now you go tell all these nice people that I’m donating the entire amount to the school’s endowment and that that is where the money should have gone in the first place. What am I going to do with twenty thousand dollars? Hm?”

“Well, I supp—“

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Arden made the announcement to the alumni who applauded the gesture. The dinner was served and Rosa caught up with many former students. Many of them asked to see the notebook. When she told the first student she didn’t have it anymore, Lorraine cut in saying they’d felt bad keeping it as an organization. Lorraine handed the notebook, the collection of her 43 years teaching back to Rosa, who couldn’t help but feel relieved.

A part of her had been returned.