I wrote this a while back, but since this is my all-school reunion weekend in Bonham, Texas, I wanted to reshare this sweet memory.

I took a private Speech class from Mrs. Mary Wilshire for two years when I was in middle school. I walked to her house from school along Agnew Street and I remember chatting with a friend as we walked. I can’t remember who my friend was but coming from a small town with only one elementary, junior high, and high school, it was easy to know pretty much everyone.

I remember walking and talking and laughing. The class must have started at 5 because school was out at 3:45 and I don’t recall there being any pressing need to hurry. I have a wisp of a memory on the day I recall we were talking about The Monkees and who was our favorite in the group. I thought Mickie Dolenz was cute and my friend might have been leaning towards Michael Nesmith. Or vice versa. Like I say, the memory is faint.

Mrs. Wilshire was tall, dark-headed, and wore red lipstick. She had a very particular manner of speech, enunciating words carefully, and an easy and wide smile. I’m sure my mother sent me because I had a strong Texas accent and little stage presence. I find that funny since I’m sure Mrs. Wilshire also had a distinctive twang, but she did teach me a good deal about stage presence. During our class sessions, she handed out mimeographed sheets with poems on them, and we stood up in front of the tiny class with three or four other students and read them out loud. I realize now that was probably my first real poetry class since Mrs. Wilshire discussed what the poems were about and why the poet emphasized certain words. I enjoyed learning about these things and soon became comfortable reading those poems to our small group.

Once a year, Mrs. Wilshire organized a recital so we could demonstrate our new public speaking skills to our families. On those Sunday afternoon events, we’d gather at a place that could accommodate 20 or so people and we each take turns standing up and delivering our memorized poems. One year, we gathered at the First Baptist church in one of the larger classrooms; I suspect we used a First Methodist classroom on another recital year.

I remember distinctly the First Baptist year. I delivered three memorized poems: Abu Ben Adhem, the White Cliffs of Dover, and The Old Patchwork Quilt. Mrs. Wilshire had coached us on our delivery: stand straight, smile, and make eye contact with at least one person on either side of the audience. She also told us her little “secret” about public speaking. “Always lick your lips and swallow once you’re up at the podium,” she said. “It will give you just a minute to become calm before starting your recitation.” On the occasion of the First Baptist recital, I did just that. Stood up, surveyed the audience for at least two friendly faces, then licked my lips and swallowed. Mrs. Wilshire gave me a big nod of encouragement from the back. I then proceeded with my poems, emphasizing the words she’d pointed out, pausing where she’d taught us to pause, and projecting my voice just as she had instructed in that little room at the back of her house where we held our class. I finished and smiled, just as she had said, then quietly exited the stage as she introduced the next student.

As an adult, I have done a lot of public speaking. I often get a little nervous just before I head up to the podium but I have Mrs. Wilshire to thank for teaching me a few tricks of the public speaking trade. She is never far from my thoughts when I am delivering a speech, a talk, or a eulogy for a loved one. And I would never – not ever – consider opening my mouth to speak without first licking my lips and then swallowing. She was absolutely right about the efficacy of doing this. Not only do I feel a bit more relaxed, but these actions offer a perfect moment of calm before finding those two friendly faces who will be my anchor points on either side of the room once I begin to speak.

And just in case you are wondering, I can still recite at least the first few lines of Abu Ben Adhem by Rudyard Kipling. “Abu Ben Adhem, may your tribe increase, awoke one night from a deep dream of peace.” I deliver those line in a jaunty tone, just as Mrs. Mary Wilshire, bless her soul, taught me in my little Texas hometown in the mid-1960s.