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The Basket Lady - A Story of Teaching
Magical things happen when we least expect them. Sometimes they sit in our minds and twinkle for several years before we recognize them as magic at all. They are carried on a silent breeze and linger in the corners of our imagination. They inspire our dreams. They implore our senses. They fill our spirits with wonder. That’s what the Basket Lady did for me.
The basket Lady came not so gently one day into our home in 1956. Winters in Iowa are cold, snowy and slippery. As my father held the back door of our house, a slight, gray hared lady entered. She slid across the tiled entrance with an unusual flair and landed by the edge of the soft green carpet. Upon containing my laughter, I ducked from this strange, brown basket that came spiraling through the air. It landed on its side as did the lady. My father helped her up and made sure everything was in its right place. Her hat was tipped slightly, but her arms, legs and other necessities appeared to be intact.
“Help with the basket, will you please, Kathie,” came the voice of my father.
“Sure daddy,” I responded, “but what is all of this?”
“Kathie, just put it back in the basket. I’m sure that Mrs. Armontrout will show you later.”
“Do you promise?” I asked with a question in my voice as I looked up at the quaint little lady with the strange name.
“Yes, I do,” said she as she placed her feathered hat on the table and adjusted her glasses that had been tilted from the fall. “I have lots of favorite things in there. We’ll take a look after your parents have left.”
When you’re five years old you don’t want your parents to leave for the evening. Baby-sitters could never be fun and I was usually in for a long, boring time whenever one appeared. Tonight felt different. I couldn’t wait.
“Good-bye,” said my mother as she gently kissed my sister, Julie, and me on the cheeks. “Now the two of you be good and go right to bed when Mrs. Armontrout tells you to.”
Armontrout, I thought, as I heard the door close behind my parents, I think that we ate something like that the other night, but I couldn’t be sure. It was a funny name, but somehow it fit. She had wispy, gray hair that didn’t seem to have any real pattern to it. I loved to comb other people’s hair so maybe she’d let me do that later, I thought as I studied her upswept locks.
“Come on over and sit here beside me,” said the little lady as she patted either side of herself on the couch. “I’ve got some special things to share with the two of you.”
My older, more cautious sister was not in any hurry. She lingered from across the room and sat on the corner of the floral couch in an unapproachable manner.
“Like me, Julie. Sit closer.”
Julie inched her way over on the couch. It wasn’t easy for her. As the evening progressed, Mrs. Armontrout became the frosting in our sandwich cookie; two girls with a sweet surprise in the center.
“It’s very full,” I observed as I helped Mrs. Armontrout lift the basket to her lap.
“Full of my favorites.”
“Your favorites. What are favorites?” The pitch of my voice rose as the question flew from my mouth.
“Favorites are things that are special to you. They put smiles in your heart, dreams in your mind and laughter on your lips. Favorites open doors and carry you to far away fantasies.”
I did a double take of Mrs. Armontrout as Julie’s eyes shifted quickly from side-to-side. Was this lady for real and if so what was she talking about.
“I always pick favorites,” explained Mrs. Armontrout. “They make me feel so good. Then when I share them and give my ideas away, they make me feel even better.”
I was a little confused about what Mrs. Armontrout had told us but I found myself lingering on her every word. There were sparkles that seemed to radiate from her eyes and dance around my head with the gracefulness of a butterfly after a fresh spring rain.
All that evening and many more which were to follow, my sister and I would sit by the sides of Mrs. Armontrout. Like bookends, Julie and I confined knowledge she shared. We delighted in stories of her favorite thimble, pencil, map and key. We were enthralled by her sewing cards and puzzles and her favorite books were soon to become my favorites too. We heard stories of Mrs. Armontrout’s favorite foods and her favorite places to eat them. She even had a favorite dish for her rhubarb and one for her corn meal mush.
Soon Mrs. Armontrout’s frizzled hair was no longer noticed nor did her name sound so peculiar to me anymore. My imagination had been set free and it filled my senses with belonging and purpose. The Basket Lady had given me something in later years I realized I could never buy. She had instilled in both my sister and myself a legacy of uncommon wealth. She had challenged my imagination and had opened the doors to values, beliefs and visions.
I don’t know whatever happened to the Basket Lady. She stopped coming to baby-sit as my interests grew along with my adolescents. But I believe, with all my heart, that Mrs. Armontrout is in a special place and that she watches me with my children and the students I teach as I share favorites of my own.
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