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I never really got to know Miss Preston.
It’s a token of the cruelty of children, even smart children,
that my fellow students sometimes referred to her as “Blanche,
the Happy
Hippo,” focusing rather on her dumpy, middle-aged appearance
than on anything of enduring significance.
My
Pappy told
a story that may do her a bit more justice. Seems she and Pappy were
seated together at some banquet table, engaged in the distinctive chat
of fellow English teachers, and he moved courteously to refill her
water glass. Distracted, however, he poured the water into a glass that
already contained an inch of milk. Detecting his error, he was of course
embarrassed, but she smoothed the situation with a smile:
“That’s all right, Duane: we”ll just pretend
it’s tea!” I was sorry to learn, some years later, that
Miss Preston and her mother had perished in a fire that
destroyed the home they shared.
California Scholarship
Federation
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