I was hard pressed to come up with a significant story about an elementary teacher of mine. I remember a little bit about each one, but nothing really significant about any. One was sweet, one was miserable, one didn't let us go out and play, one was extremely old and had shoes under her desk, one taught us songs, one roughed up the "bad" kid. Mrs. Cuddy wasn't even my homeroom teacher, she was my math teacher in 4th grade.
I never was any good in math and I remember one day going into her class and finding out that we were having a test that I hadn't studied for. I was panic-stricken. I felt all dire and freaked and faint so I told Mrs. Cuddy a lie. I said I felt sick to my stomach. She told me to go lay down in the teacher's lounge across the hall, which I did. I remember the room, wooden and empty. Laying there was awful too, probably more awful than taking the test. Once there though, alone and "sick" it seemed there wasn't anything I could do but continue with the act. Mrs. Cuddy was a great gal. She was bright and friendly. Later I'd find out she was a Christian.
We had common friends and I didn't even know it. My friend Janyne's family was friends with her. At Janyne's baby shower, when I was 28 years old, I spoke with Mrs. Cuddy. Claudia now. I told her that I've always carried some guilt about that day, that I wasn't really sick, just freaked out and upset. She smiled in a way that told me she wasn't fazed, nor was she surprised. She said, oh, I probably knew it at the time, but you were a good kid having a bad day so I let it go. I guess looking back I'd say that Mrs. Cuddy was one of the most generous teachers I'd ever had.
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