Tears And Inspiration: Memories of Jack Schlatter

                                                                  Tears and Inspiration:

                                   Memories of Jack Schlatter
                                               Noel Laflin

                                            November 2000                                            

Sycamore Junior High - 1966

How do you properly thank someone for being one of the greatest influences in your life?

Furthermore, how do you express gratitude for their providing just the inspiration you seek decades later?  I'd like to try. So, let me tell you a story.

I was a scared, lanky, twelve-year-old when I chose my desk in seventh-grade American History class.  I looked about the classroom - signs of all sizes adorned the four walls: "When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going!” "The Difficult We Do Immediately.  The Impossible Takes A Little Longer.”  Quotes from Anne Frank spoke of past fears and future hope.  "This is American History?" I mused.  I checked my class schedule again.

The final bell rang and latecomers raced for unoccupied desks as we awaited adult tutelage.

Suddenly the door burst open and a man, slightly disheveled in appearance, bound into our midst.  His thinning hair was askew, as was his narrow black tie.  Black suit and white dress shirt were each in need of a press & tuck, respectively.  His boyish face radiated warmth and confidence.  Mischief flickered in his eyes.  "Welcome to Sycamore Junior High School.  My name is Jack Schlatter.  Is this history or drama?"  He checked his own desk schedule, then winked.

Not that it really mattered - Jack Schlatter taught any class as if it were drama.  We took our cues from him, launched our best argument front and center, flinched as any audience would when one of our numbers perished on stage under his cross-examination.   Soon we were able to implore the words "Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death!" with great fever.   At any given moment Mr. Schlatter might break ranks and slip into the complete recitation of "Gunga Din."  Or perhaps he would rummage through the vinyl jackets and play "The Impossible Dream", some cut from the best of a Jonathan Winters comedy album or ballads by Glenn Yarlbourgh.  If any of this was scripted, I failed to see it.  Momentary inspiration seemed to be the daily cue.

When we did get back to history, the man loved to challenge our political beliefs, make us research our stands and fight for our convictions.  I, for example, came from the ranks of JFK; Jack Schlatter still thought Barry Goldwater made more sense.  Simply put, he made me think, question, defend or surrender.  As I was ready to wave the white flag he would change sides and play devil's advocate.  Re-think it through, he'd demand. "Think the impossible.  Dream the impossible.  Do the impossible!"

Jack Schlatter drew people of all ages to him - like moths to a flame.  I soon took every class he taught; speech, drama, summer school theater workshops.  I sought membership into one of the school clubs when I learned that he was the faculty advisor.  I was not alone.  On any given night one could walk down our school halls and find students, parents or faculty lingering outside his classroom spying on drama rehearsal for "Our Town," "The Miracle Worker" or "Anne Frank."  If we couldn't be part of the cast, we'd volunteer for any related job just to be around this man's energy.  He was tough but giving.  He was the most positive individual I had ever met.  When reverse mysteriously gave out on the transmission of his car, he merely said it was a reminder for him to always go forward, think ahead, never retreat, never be in a position of having to back up.  I don't think he ever fixed the car.  This eternal optimist never saw it as a problem.

Two years under his direction in plays, speech tournaments and classroom debates went by all too quickly.  At the end of my eighth-grade year he announced that he was leaving the junior high domain to move on to high school teaching.  Being in a three-year junior high system, I felt devastated, as did many others.  This wasn't fair; there was so much more to learn.  He would teach one last drama summer class. I signed up immediately. 

Those last summer weeks of 1967 flew by and our final individual dramatic piece was suddenly due.  We had to incorporate original writing accompanied to music of our choice.  So I went for the heartstrings.  My narration, in tandem with the music "Somewhere" from "West Side Story," shadow-cased a boy  (me) at the bedside of his dying mother.  As he pleads for her to hang on, declaring his undying devotion to her - she dies.  It was juvenile, I'll admit, (I was fourteen) but emotional to the hilt.  

It paid off.  As the music faded, the room lights came up and there was not a dry eye in the house.  Classmates were sniffing back tears.  I waited pensively as Mr. Schlatter  dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose.  

“You really know how to turn on the waterworks, Noel.”  With that said, he left the room.   

Class was over.  Summer was over.   My time with Jack Schlatter was also over.   I had my final "A" in drama.  I never told my mother about the assignment as I was too embarrassed to explain the lengths to which I had gone to get the grade. But, secretly, I was one proud boy.

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Thirty years went by.  Life happened.  We lost touch with one another.  

In June of 1997 I found myself in a funky mood.   A friend of mine lent me a copy of "A Second Helping of Chicken Soup For The Soul.”  Knowing my blue state he suggested I open the book and start anywhere.  It was filled with inspirational stories.   Bouncing here and there through the book I stumbled on the story "See You In The Morning" by John Wayne Schlatter.  My eyes popped.  No way, I thought, and read on.  It was indeed Mr. Schlatter's touching story of the death of his mother, a woman we had all come to know, as she had attended the opening night of every school dramatic performance.  She was fiercely proud of her kids.  At the end of his short story, I wept.  A flood of memories came back.

Through directory assistance the next day, I tracked down John Wayne Schlatter's phone number. I called, he answered and I simply said, "Hi, this is Noel Laflin."  Without pause he responded,"Noel Laflin, Sycamore Jr. High, 1965.  How the heck are ya, buddy?' 

Thunderstruck, I asked how he remembered me, not to mention the correct year and school.  He had taught thousands of kids over the years.  "You always stood out, Noel.   No mountain was too high for you. Your political views were a bit left-of-center, but hey, no one's perfect.  You were always a gentleman in your arguments.   How could I forget you?"  The hidden adolescent shined in me once more.  We spoke for another twenty minutes.  I told him the circumstances for my call and passed on my condolences.  It was a very positive and uplifting conversation.  Nothing had changed with this man.  His voice and upbeat attitude were still infectious.

I called my mom next and relayed the conversation to her.  She too had always loved and admired the man for what he had inspired in me.  She also had been a teacher of high school English, history and drama.  She directed school plays during the 1930's and 40's.  "Our Town" was always her favorite.  She and Jack Schlatter were kindred spirits linked by nostalgia and Thornton Wilder.   She loved his productions.  She, like his mother, attended every opening night, applauding our antics on-stage and off. 

Two months later my mother died.  She was eighty-two years old.

I was to speak at her funeral in our old church.  I grasped for inspiration.  I researched Emily Dickinson, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Robert Frost and the Bible.  Nothing was quite right.  I then remembered Jack's story, "See You In The Morning.”  By the time I finished reading the beautiful and touching piece, many of us were in tears.  No music faded this time.  No lighting came up.  This was no stage.  There was no grade at stake.  This was the real thing.  I could think of no better way to honor my mother, than by using Mr. Schlatter's words about his mom and her passing.    Some way we had come full circle; life imitating art and all that.  The irony and perfection of circumstance was beyond my explanation.  I was and continue to be grateful as well as mystified.

You weren't aware of this production, till now, dear teacher.  But here's my belated report.  Your words and teachings still resound.  The fourteen-year-old boy and middle-aged man have finally met.  Drama is reality after all.  Thanks for the unexpected gift.

               

                               

               Sonora High School - May 29, 2013 - A student and teacher reunion - Jack Schlatter and Noel Laflin.