I remember Mrs. Morton, the no-nonsense grammarian who taught our eighthgrade English class how to diagram sentences. I loved the process, unlike my peers.

In fairness, though, we’re talking about West Virginia in the mid-’50s, not a scholarly place during not a scholarly time. And we’re talking about scruffy teenagers, hormonal milkshakes more concerned with piercing pimples than parsing sentences.

I remember Miss Pettigrew, a Dickensian character with a long pointed nose, a curly mop of hair and horned-rimmed glasses. She embarrassed me one day by asking if she could read my paper aloud to the 10thgrade class. Beet-red and mortified, I mumbled, “okay.” But I was flattered that somebody who loved literature so much thought that I might have something to say.

I remember Miss Merrill, a red-haired Maggie Smith clone, raised eyebrows and all. One day, she walked into the class and said, “Take out a pencil and several sheets of paper. Now, write for the next 45 minutes.” When we asked, “But write about what?,” she said, “Write anything. Just write.” Wow. So terrifying, yet so exhilarating, so freeing.

I remember Ed Pols, my brilliant Bowdoin philosophy professor. This erudite man taught me how to write by teaching me how to think. Years later I bumped into Ed at the Bowdoin bookstore. I said, “You probably don’t remember me.” He said, “Yes, I do. You were a very good student.” Never has a compliment meant so much to me, given the source.

I remember Verne Edwards, an outstanding journalism professor at Ohio Wesleyan University. Although I was serving as the director of admissions, I managed to take Verne’s course on Magazine Article Writing one summer. This seasoned professional required every student to write three real articles and submit them to real magazines. I was fortunate enough to get a piece accepted by Parade magazine titled, “The College You Want May Be Looking for You.” What a confidence boost for this novice writer!

Finally, I remember my former boss and mentor, Dick Moll, the creative genius who helped elevate Bowdoin’s national stature during his time as the college’s director of admissions in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Dick campaigned hard for coeducation at Bowdoin, and also succeeded in attracting the first significant delegation of African- American students. And he knew how and when to take risks.

As an example, he implemented the college’s optional SAT policy in an era when most admissions deans followed a predictable, go-bythe numbers mantra. As a result, applications soared and the college became more, not less, selective. And Dick began acceptance letters with the decidedly unstuffy words, ‘You’re in!,” and he included a personalized P.S. at the end of every letter.

There you have it, my alltime, all-star teachers list. To be sure, I had some real losers along the way. My eighth-grade shop teacher constantly threatened to paddle miscreants and sometimes followed through with a long thick paddle, creating a climate of fear. (I snared a “D” in that course.) And my freshman English teacher at Bowdoin wrote “F” in red ink on my first two papers with nary another comment. (He was gone in a year.)

Anyway, who’s on your allstar teachers list? And why does it matter?

It matters because we live in an era when teachers face ever-increasing external pressures: Helicopter parents who insist that their kids deserve “A’s” in every course, for effort alone if nothing else; a teach-to-thetest culture, which puts “results” over creativity, numbers over nuances; kids with short-attention spans, thanks to high-tech’s addictive allure; mounds of paperwork to fill out in order to obey bureaucratic regulations and help administrators justify their jobs; and pandering politicians who rail against public schools in the mistaken belief that taxes could not possibly pay for anything of value (except, perhaps, the military and police departments).

Speaking of the military … I’m all for the practice of saying to veterans, “Thank you for your service.” They deserve our support and thanks. But is it not equally patriotic to say to a teacher, “Thank you for your service.”? After all, if we don’t have enlightened, free-thinking citizens, then what kind of society are our soldiers fighting to protect.

So … think about the teachers who helped shaped your life. And take the time to thank them, even if they’re gone.

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David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary or suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.