It was a desire to be like my brother that led me to you, but I also like to think it was something greater, something deeper at work and at play than the desire for a little sister to emulate her big brother.
I admired you at first for reasons that weren't my own - the fact that your class seemed to be one of the few that held Zach's attention spoke volumes to me at a time when he was known to fall asleep in the most challenging of classes. The way he spoke about you in a manner of wonder and respect spoke to me, too. There was never a question in our home of what language elective I would choose when the time came. It was Mr. Fuller and Latin I, of course.
It didn't take long for me to come to admire you for my own reasons, though I suspect they mirrored my brothers all along.
Walking into your classroom felt like walking into the class of my literal dreams, where you could barely move through the rows for the books lining the edges of the room took over most usable square footage. The smell of old books brings me back to your room and those fifty or so minutes Monday - Friday spent engaged, learning and wondering and soaking up all that your class had to teach us, which went far beyond the ancient Romans and the basics of a language many liked to say was "dead" (your frequent passion filled rants about this topic were always my favorite, and is something I exclaim to this day: "Latin isn't dead!").
I always wondered why you weren't teaching at a university somewhere, and I always followed that thought up with an immediate "Thank goodness he isn't. I like him right here in Bellville." Of all the stories you told, I'm not sure, or more likely my memory is failing me these ten + years later, how you came to be in Bellville exactly, but I know the town and the students were infinitely better off for it, the two Morris children included, if not right near the top of that list. I'm thankful for your steadfast presence in those noisy halls of the high school, for your classroom that felt like an escape from the modern world and a throwback to a slower, more nostalgic time. Your wisdom that you imparted on those lucky enough to call you their teacher made all of us better pupils and human beings, and I can still see and feel the gentle nods and smiles of your approval and reassurance. Thank you for comforting me in those hard days after Zach died, in the quiet yet firm way only you could. Thank you for listening to the confusion of a lost young girl, for helping to see her through the pain and the melancholy. I can't thank you enough, and I love you.