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MEMORIAE Memories of Miss Ferrin, from the people who sat in Room 204 These came by e-mail after July 9. I've printed them with the writers' permission, oldest class first. I fixed nobody's grammar. She would have. — M.O. Class of 1944 I was in her typing class in 1943, not Latin, because I was going to be a secretary. On the last day she told me I was too smart to type other people's letters for the rest of my life and that I should go to the teachers college. I did. I taught third grade for thirty-one years. I don't think I ever told her. — Wilma H., now of Muncie Class of 1953 She coached the girls' basketball team during the war years, before my time, but she still had the whistle in her desk drawer. If a room got too loud she'd blow it once. Nobody ever needed the second time. — Clifford T. Class of 1958 My parents didn't have much, and she knew it. When the Latin Club took the bus to the state convention in Indianapolis, my registration was always "already taken care of." I found out years later who took care of it. — Doris (Wendt) Albers Class of 1964 I was the kid who couldn't sit still. Instead of sending me to the office she gave me the job of "keeper of the chalk." I went around the room every morning collecting the stubs for her coffee can. I'm an electrical contractor now. I still can't sit still. But I kept every Latin book. — Ron G. Class of 1969 Two of the boys in my Latin III class went to Vietnam the year after graduation. She wrote to both of them every month, in Latin, and made them write back in Latin. One of them told me she was the only person who wrote him every single month. They both came home. — Susan K. Class of 1971 I'm the one who drew the mustache on Gus. It wasn't Denny Sauer. Martin, you owe Denny an apology. So do I, I suppose, twenty-nine years late. — name withheld at the writer's request [Martin's note: Denny, I'm sorry. Everybody, it was not Denny.] Class of 1975 I'm a pharmacist. Every time I read a prescription I hear her asking what the word really means. She would have liked that the doctors' handwriting is still terrible. She'd have said it was a failure of discipline. — Greg M. Class of 1979 We were her last class. On the last day we all stood up at the end of the hour and said Vale, magistra together, which we had practiced in secret for a week. She turned around to the blackboard for a long time and wrote the next day's assignment, even though there wasn't going to be a next day. Then she told us to go home. — Lisa P. Did you have her? Please write, and tell me your class year. « Back to Room 204 Last updated August 29, 1999