PROLOGUE

Teach the Whole Person

“Sauvignon Blanc?”

When I glance up from my menu, staring back at me is a black skull that rises out of the V-neck of her country club golf uniform. I clock that this emblem definitely wasn’t on my favorite waitress’s chest last week.

I shift my gaze and smile back. “Like always,” I respond, willing myself not to study the artwork that covers her collarbone.

I’m mildly dazed as she walks away. Part of the reason I find myself measuring the glaring scale of her decision—I mean, the size of that tattoo—is that I can take a pretty decent guess at why she did it: probably to get some guy’s attention.

Twenty years ago, I’d been that young woman: a girl with the subtlest sense that the future has big things in store but who is too scared to leave what she knows, while not yet stocked with enough confidence to believe she’s cut out for more. In my upbringing, I’d been taught that in the eyes of our Creator, each one of us is a treasure.

But in our town, I’d learned that a woman is worth only as much as she believes she is.

A small town has a way of making a girl’s whole world small. When it came time to decide where to go next and what to do for the rest of my life, I found it tough to imagine what was “out there,” and even tougher to know what was inside. Of me.

Sure, I performed well in school, but I wasn’t genuinely invested in my potential—in fact, I feared success. A career seemed scary. If I’d had my way back then, I’d have chosen to stay right where I was for the rest of my life.

It was a blessing that I didn’t get my way. One woman had an important part in that.

I was fourteen when I met that firecracker of a soul, a bombastic professor of life with colossal charisma who, meanwhile, stood all of four foot ten. She was different— and she was present throughout those teen years, patiently and persistently drawing out proof of my capabilities. She gave me an unjudged ground to tumble through young mistakes and learn, by trial and error, who I wanted to become—who I could become.

In time, that would also lead me to appreciate who she would become to me.

INTRODUCTION

The Character

“Now, that’s something!”

I and several other patrons turn our heads toward Mrs. Korthaus’s raspy roar as she enters the country club and audibly admires the artwork our waitress is newly exhibiting. Her raucous energy is balanced by her sweater vest and golf skirt, her one-of-a-kind, chaotic yet composed brand of brilliance.

“Sorry I’m a minute late,” my old high school teacher says as she brushes the wind out of her bangs and shimmies into the wooden booth. “The breast cancer golf benefit is next week, and our planning meeting ran over.”

“For the first time in history, you’re not the one waiting on me.”

“Did you know,” she says, characteristically giving the final consonant its own syllable for dramatic emphasis, “ten of us playing this year are cancer survivors?”

Mrs. Korthaus is eighty-two years old and battling breast cancer as we speak. But nothing, not even cancer, can stop her from giving her time and energy.

“Ah,” she sighs, resting her elbows on the table, one hand covering the other fist in the same contented way I’ve known her to do for more than two decades. I love to study her hands, small but strong, her nails characteristically blunt and bare. To me they’ve always represented a life active and occupied, the hands of a woman who’s forever on the move enjoying her life.

Even the pronunciation of her husband’s German last name, courthouse, personifies—to use a term she taught me—some of her own traits. Sturdy and solid, always fearless to stand for what’s right. Famously fair in her understanding, and generous in granting the benefit of the doubt.

And, she’s funny. If Judge Judy taught Shakespearean comedy or Dr. Ruth coached the golf team, then you can imagine Mrs. Korthaus. She’s known for her chiseled cheekbones and plainspoken thoughts, her larger-than- life, exclamatory mannerisms, and a joy-filled spirit like Oprah’s old holiday gift giveaway episodes: YOU get an A, and YOU get an A!

Her students went to her when we were applying to college, seeking the kind of teacher who gave a thoughtful recommendation letter. Our reliance on her was a testament to her gift for helping us see the good in ourselves when we hadn’t yet learned to find it in the mirror.

As much as she had taught me about literary works and approaches to journalism, knowledge I took heedfully into my career, I’d also studied the way she made the world better and herself, happy. I was captivated to witness this brave woman use her voice, gritty and forthright. I’d never known a female so self-propelled. A lot of the women in our town, and in both her family and mine, had been largely in the background, not at the table where decisions were being made. Mrs. Korthaus now sighs at their preoccupation with appearances—“With their wardrobes! And their jewelry! And their big, ridiculous houses!” (To be fair, she used a far more flavorful adjective than “ridiculous.” Her impulse to mince no words is one of her traits I love the most.) Her point is that a woman will be confused about what makes her worthy if she’s never had to stretch and discover her own capabilities to support herself.

We were both raised in places led by men where the women were fiercely loyal at following males’ leads—from the sports teams we supported to the presidents we voted for. Growing up, I hadn’t seen a woman try to hold her own in a business meeting, but I’d seen them exchange choice words when one got a nicer car, or when one’s husband advanced at work. The unmarried ones were typically nuns or widows, and for the rest, the last name of the man she’d marry seemed more important than the one she was capable of making for herself. Behind every great man is a great woman! Behind every successful child was also a devoted mom: The accomplishments of her children were considered her own greatest accomplishments.

Mrs. Korthaus made her classes about writing, literature, and communications a window to the world for a school full of kids unaware of how sheltered our rural roots had made us. The multiple extracurricular activities she helmed showed us a woman fulfilled by her passions. Sitting in her classroom, the perceptive student might sense that she had carved out some space in her early life to explore her values and her identity. Even if we didn’t fully grasp it at the time, we could imagine that before she became our teacher, her life had been full of curiosity and adventure. We could have asked her to share her stories, but most of us hadn’t yet learned the thoughtful and courageous skill of asking questions.

Standing on a chair to make her point (and, I suspect, for a full view of the classroom), she’d cry, “The hu-MAN-uh-teez!” as her pointer finger poked holes in the thin air above her, like Braveheart rallying his troops before the Battle of Stirling. To her, the humanities were those subjects that showed the dignity and goodness within every human, the inherent need to feel a sense of worth—in ourselves and in others.

She didn’t have to demand that we listen; she inspired us to pay attention with the way she radiated her joy of learning.

In her classroom, a thin wood podium and a backless metal stool stood front and center. She would sit comfortably, legs crossed and hands folded over her knee, facing us as she read a passage from a work she’d just discovered or rediscovered. She was known for jumping off the stool and frantically searching every surface of her desk for her reading glasses . . . which were usually nestled on top of her head. When one of us said something mischievous as she paced between rows, she’d pop onto her tiptoes and clutch her chest, howling sharply as if we were giving her a heart attack. Instead of reprimanding our teenage antics, Mrs. Korthaus often played along. On rare occasions, she’d curse in class, trusting our young adulthood to hear her with maturity. “Well, what the hell, you guys? Isn’t anybody gonna take a stab at an answer?”

“Carol . . . ,” one of the boys might playfully growl in response. These small things, especially in a Catholic school as disciplined as ours, felt like unspoken pacts reinforcing our trust in her—reminding us that she saw us as equals. Calling a teacher by her first name was one of the ultimate acts of pushing one’s luck, but she’d carry on merrily with the lesson, assuring us we were safe.

In her eyes, the only behavior that called for discipline was failing to stretch the farthest we could. Yet she understood that “stretching” meant something different for everyone. She was committed to noticing every student—really seeing each of us—which is why so many thrived in her classes and beyond. She knew that a child’s behavior reveals the difference between one who feels loved and one who doesn’t.

All this is why, about two decades since I’d sat in her classroom, after I had moved away for a writing career then moved again, I’m sitting in this country club. I’m taking this rare chance to reembrace her in my life. Our friendship is an elective commitment, as they say in academia. Non-obligatory, like all the most precious commitments we choose to keep. I still think of myself as her student, and she remains my most understanding confidante.

“That tattoo,” I whisper. “Didn’t she just recently tell us she’s looking for an office job to support her son? I was thinking of introductions we could make for her . . .”

“We make our own decisions in life,” she says, gesturing an exchange with the waitress, who’s already caught the message to pour her Chardonnay, “and we learn from the outcome whether they were good decisions or poor decisions.” A classic Korthaus-ism.

“Mrs. Korthaus.” I lean in with a whisper.

“You know you can call me Carol.”

“No, I can’t,” I tell her. She’s been saying this since graduation day, but it would feel like calling a grandparent by their first name. “Listen: The tattoo is bigger than she is. What would we call that, a metaphor?”

“A comparison,” she says.

As if to punctuate her answer, our waitress returns and places a glass in front of her. In an instant, Mrs. Korthaus has struck up a conversation about the new ink job with examination and intrigue, as though the two of them were standing side by side admiring a Van Gogh at the Met.

Of everything I have ever loved about her, this moment is the ultimate example. Just when it’s wildly possible you’ve made the worst mistake of your life, Mrs. Korthaus responds with openness instead of judgment. There is no dwelling, there is no looking down upon, there is no lecturing. If you’ve paid attention to her lessons over the years—and especially if you’ve watched her—then you’ve learned to live with your decisions, and you’re making the best of every outcome. In a moment when most adults would turn their backs on you, Mrs. Korthaus leans in and engages: Tell me more...

This time around, I’ve asked her to tell me more, to revisit all I didn’t understand in my young years about her faith in how far my life could take me. I had achieved things that, when I first met her, I hadn’t the imagination, let alone the audacity, to dream. Now, our experience of discussing life as women together was becoming something of a story of its own. In a world of dizzying standards for women, I couldn’t help but wonder: Had I lived up to the ones my most enduring mentor had instilled in me?

At age thirty-five, after I’ve achieved what she’d once told me I could—and, now, bought a house on my own back in my hometown—I recognize what a gift it is to spend time all these years later with my favorite teacher and how rare this chance is to gain a glimpse inside the life of the woman who shaped my own life so significantly. The possibility for me to become self-sufficient started in her classroom. Then Mrs. Korthaus continued with me on my journey, nudging me to try things I’d once barely had the guts or imagination to dream.

I’d learned so much from her that I asked Mrs. Korthaus if she’d join me in writing a book.

“Us?” she said. “Together?” I nodded.

“A book.”

I laughed. “Yes.”

Our discussions take place at her kitchen table or as we walk along the lake where we were neighbors when I was growing up and are once again. Instead of standing at the chalkboard, she stands over the stove making us one of her generous four-course dinners, or we meet for a dinner date to catch the happy hour specials at our country club by the lake.

The only challenge has been that one of us is used to working on serious deadlines. The other, let’s just say, is a lot more accustomed to assigning them. She leaves me no choice but to contend with her schedule, since even in her eighties she’s the only person more involved in high school extracurriculars than I was in the late 1990s. Interviews for this project were often timed around her schedule coaching the mock trial team, meeting with the journalism club, and helping out with the spring musical. “Want to have a glass of wine and catch up tomorrow night?” I ask as we pass each other walking our dogs.

“Can’t!” she calls back at me over her shoulder. “I’ve got bridge!”

“I’ve been calling your house. I was worried.”

“Gee whiz, I forgot to tell you: I got rid of my landline! Didn’t need it anymore!”

When I text her, it often takes a couple days for her to text back. “Sorry!!” she finally responds. I was busy following the baseball team around. Can you believe it? STATE CHAMPS! First time since your brother’s old team!”

My heavens, her memory. It had been twenty-two years since my brother and his team won the state title.

For years she coached tennis and led the National Honor Society and some of the school’s programs in spiritual life. She helped launch the school system’s inaugural 1990s CARE Team in response to students’ mental health needs, decades before society recognized that we needed the world inside our minds to be as healthy as our bodies. She emceed the annual spring auction since the kickoff year in 1992 when she’d famously sipped one too many Chardonnays and once or twice ended up awarding the big-ticket prizes to the wrong bidders. Nobody minded—after all, she was the entertainment everyone came to see. The morning after the auction, she’d meet the prom committee to help set up decorations.

Once she started to focus on her work, I started to witness how profound our moments were becoming for her. On one occasion, I arrive at her house to find a yellow legal pad filled top to bottom in her expressive, abstract handwriting that resembles Keith Haring’s art more than the prudent, lacy cursive both my grandmas used to use. I flip the pages, discovering some of her memories, thoughts from old lesson plans, and “Korthaus-isms,” as we called them back then: You can do anything with a degree in the humanities! or, Expose self to every facet of professional life!

At another point, she hands me a file folder, inside which I find a small stack of single-spaced pages. At the top, I read:

BECAUSE YOU ASKED.

Born 8/23/41, the first child of Mary Nanni and Tony Persichetti . . .

She’s documented her life story for me. “How long did this take you?”

She shrugs. “A few days.” Bless her. “It was no big deal,” she quickly adds, now searching her wet bar for a corkscrew. “We had a couple snow days. I needed something to do.”

As the journalist I am, I record our conversations on audio. Like the English student I used to be, I also take down notes in a ferocious attempt to capture the essence of her wisdom. This time around, she filters nothing, and the secrets and events she shares reveal an even deeper power in the woman I thought I knew. While she was encouraging us to tell our stories, she was brimming with so many of her own. She reveals her life in chapters: a season for education; a season for work; a season for family; the season she calls her “comfort zone,” when she enjoyed the blend of marriage and career; the season after her husband dies, which she dedicates to her faith—and her love for her friends woven into every one. All these experiences contributed to her growth—“lifelong learning,” she still calls it—and this reminds me of one of my favorite phrases: Goodness is its own reward.

The love of learning is self-rewarding.

It’s a treat that after a visit with her I can wander home on foot to the quiet cabin I’ve bought, not far from where she still lives in the bright, well-kept one-story on the lake, the place a group of us theater kids used to house-sit when she and her husband traveled in the summers. She trusted us that much.

“Do you remember?” I ask her one night. “The summer going into our junior year, we found the book that you kept on your nightstand: Is It Hot in Here, or Is It Me?”

“HA!” she exclaims. Her famous crack of a laugh. Her generation kept “the change of life” private—but not her. To me, that book about menopause that lay within easy reach of her pillow proved that she hadn’t wanted to stash that personal detail away from us, even though she knew that we would snoop through the house. I remember standing there, looking at the book and admiring her for her determination to research the answers she needed for her health. It also occurred to me that her husband must have loved and accepted her through all those changes.

She taught us about foreshadowing as a literary device, and that book on the nightstand had been an example of it. With so many challenges women face, Mrs. Korthaus had foreshadowed for me an example of what to do—if I put my mind to it, I could figure out how to overcome just about any obstacle in my life.

I’d demonstrated to myself that I was, in fact, capable of what Mrs. Korthaus had long ago jockeyed for me just to try. I’d worked for a couple of the biggest publishers and media companies in the world. I’d lived internationally and spent a decade working in New York City. I’d written a New York Times bestseller. I’d been on Oprah’s TV network—I mean, I used to race home from the bus stop to pour a bowl of cereal and watch Oprah at four o’clock every afternoon.

I’d followed the call into a profession that deserved its reputation for being tough, and I’d sacrificed meeting a partner or starting a family: two dreams that had never gone away but hadn’t come to fruition. So when I started searching to buy a house, it didn’t take me long to realize that my longings to be close to nature, my family, and my familiar roots would make my hometown the most sensible place to settle down. It was also a budget-friendly market for me to join the growing demographic of single female first-time homebuyers.

I hadn’t quite expected to find that back home, the opinions about women’s roles hadn’t budged much since I first entered Mrs. Korthaus’s classroom over twenty years ago. Some people were suspicious of this mature but unsettled-down version of me—a young woman who’d once been reluctant to live outside of town, who’d originally wanted nothing more than to get married, have kids, and stay local. In my years living away, though, I’d managed to become so uninterested in those conventions, I was getting the impression that to some neighbors, I couldn’t be trusted. I was a writer who believed women should determine our own futures and was critical about what hadn’t worked well for us in the past. Free-spirited, self-supporting, and perfectly delighted with all of the above.

“You’ve come back here?” one of my grade school teachers asked me at a picnic. “Are you . . . happy?”

“She’s lived here her whole entire life,” I later vented to Mrs. Korthaus. “Is she happy?”

Mrs. Korthaus replied with the philosophical mindset that led me to become the thinker I am today. “Even if we give every student the best possible chance to have professional success: What is really a well-educated person? Or a truly happy person?”

She’d taught me the art of the rhetorical question, and in our time together, she’s asked me a few doozies. Some made her my antagonist, just like in the literature she long ago introduced to me, as she provoked me and continued to call out my long-held notions about what I thought my life should look like.

But aside from our deep inquiries, a part of me had just missed her. When someone we love passes away, we’re typically left to dwell on not having spent enough time with them. But what about the rare soul with whom we find ourselves treasuring bonus time at a stage in life when we weren’t bold enough to hope for it—when now we can grasp how meaningful it is?