Michael's Brooklyn Memoir: One Good Teacher Makes All the Difference

Michael Nolan returns with this installment of his Brooklyn memoir.

For me it was Miss Melsha, my 4th grade teacher at PS 99 who taught me my enduring love of trees and maps. Out the window from our classroom, on the other side of the schoolyard fence, stood a row of stately Lombardy Poplars. Poplar's Latin name is "Alamo" from which we derive the place names of Los Alamos or Alameda, a grove of poplar trees. Credit here to Mr. Humbert, my French-Canadian Latin teacher at Midwood High School from whom ("preposition takes the objective case") I learned English grammar, etymology, plus a passion for palindromes, crossword puzzles, Anagrams, Scrabble, and writing.

In Miss Melsha's class, we made spatter-prints of leaves collected on field trips in the neighborhood: a leaf pinned down on construction paper, a bottomless cigar box with screen mesh placed on top, green India ink spattered across the screen with a toothbrush, then lift the box and the leaf, and voila a lovely outline of the leaf.

In front of my house was a Norway Maple which I could climb by age 10. We made "pug-noses" from the winged seeds. Mother Nature pre-scored an easy break point containing the sticky white glue to attach the decorative up-turned wing on your nose. Across the street was a tall Sycamore, identified by its broad leaf, chipped bark, and "itchy ball" seeds, which we would mischievously drop down the backs of our buddies. These were tree applications not taught by Miss Melsha but learned through the inherited folklore of East 10th Street.

In geography homework, I remember diligently drawing (not tracing) the Hawaiian Islands by hand while looking at an Atlas. I suppose I could have chosen Wyoming, but savored a challenge. I spent hours drawing the boroughs of New York City until I figured out how the index finger of northern Manhattan fit under The Bronx at Spuyten Duyvel. What a fine feeling of accomplishment. I marked the location of the Polo Grounds at Coogan's Bluff on the Harlem River where my beloved Willie Mays played centerfield for the New York Giants.

Two days ago, I was in my backyard digging up the remaining bulbous root of a dying black cherry tree (Prunus serotina) as my booming pine (Pinus ponderosa) claimed unrivaled prominence in the garden. Thank you, Miss Melsha. "Ave" Mr. Humbert!