Annie Martin must have been a beautiful young woman because, even in the eyes of the callow teen-ager I was, she was a beautiful old woman.

Thursday, July 12, 2001

Annie Martin must have been a beautiful young woman because, even in the eyes of the callow teen-ager I was, she was a beautiful old woman.

She taught English to the juniors and seniors in high school. One year she taught English literature, the next she taught English composition. Anyone planning to go on to college took both classes. So juniors and seniors were in the same class on alternate years.

Miss Martin had a gentle way about her. Once when we were studying Alfred Noyes’ &uot;The Highwayman,&uot; an effeminate young man reading the poem stopped cold at the phrase &uot;though hell itself should bar the way,&uot; apparently too pure to utter the word &uot;hell.&uot;

&uot;Hell,&uot; said Miss Martin fiercely, &uot;Hell, hell, hell. What is the matter with you, boy? Never heard of the place? Well better give it some thought. In my mind anyone who ruins a beautiful poem by pussyfooting around a word he doesn’t think a poet should used is bound for hell and the sooner the better.&uot;

The rumor was that in her youth Miss Martin had wanted to be an actress, but that her stern Presbyterian father forbade it. As part of the English literature year of her class we studied Macbeth. It is a play that has been called a study in fear. Miss Martin gave it its full value.

In the years following my graduation from high school I have seen the play both on screen and stage. I had read it before we studied it. Perhaps it was because I’d never really heard it before Miss Martin read it I’d never realized what a frightening play it was.

If Miss Martin’s father really did keep her from becoming an actress he did a truly wicked thing. She had a gift for making words come alive.

I enjoyed the literature class. The composition class was pure broth of hell. It was one subject that had never given me any difficulty. With Miss Martin for a teacher all that changed Every paper I handed in came back to me with red and blue pencil marks slashed across it.

There were nasty little comments, too. &uot;Try not to be so flowery.&uot; &uot;Everything you’ve written here you could have written in half the words. She used to read some of my compositions in class and seemed to approve, but she didn’t. I loved words, particularly long, three-syllable words. These Miss Martin pounced on with fiendish delight. &uot;The King James version of the Bible does well with words of one syllable. Why can’t you?&uot;

We were a close-knit class. We compared notes. I had classmates whose writing was too boring, in my estimation, too even be read. When Miss Martin put notes on their compositions she usually wrote something like, &uot;Neatly done.&uot; &uot;Clearly written.&uot; &uot;Keep up the good work.&uot;

There was only one conclusion to be reached. Miss Martin hated me.

I was advised to go after school and find out why and make my peace with her. The opinion expressed was that if I didn’t I was going to flunk the class and not graduate. I wasn’t very good at making conversation with teachers, but the alternative seemed so fraught with horror that I could see I had no choice.

Miss Martin was at her desk when I entered her room after the closing of the school day. I can’t remember what exactly I said to her. Nothing heroic I’m sure. I did say that I’d always had A’s in composition before.

&uot;The A will be on your report card,&uot; she said. &uot;If that’s all that’s worrying you.&uot;

At that point I suddenly lost my inhibitions and became extremely passionate about the whole thing. I was able to express what I felt about the horrid things she was always writing on my papers. I pointed out the lovely things she wrote on the papers of some of my friends. She opened her eyes very wide and said. &uot;They’re probably going to be selling potatoes for a living and their writing is quite satisfactory for their future. You may not know it, but sooner or later you’re going to be writing for a living and I want to make sure you do it well.&uot;

By this time in my life I’d pretty much given up my dream of being a detective, but whatever I did for a living I was sure it wouldn’t be anything as boring as writing.

Miss Martin was a great one for encouraging students to memorize. &uot;Make it your own,&uot; she would say. &uot;When you find a line or verse that stirs you, make it your own.&uot;

Now at the close of our interview she asked me to sit down at my desk and brought me an old, old book that was falling apart. She opened the book to a certain sentence.

&uot;Copy this in your notebook,&uot; she said. &uot;Make it your own and whenever you are writing anything no matter what it is remember this.&uot;

I did make it my own and I perfectly remember that sentence: &uot;Never say ‘the gentleman was conveyed to his residence in an intoxicated condition,’ when what you mean is, ‘the guy was dragged home drunk.&uot;

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.