June 24, 2021
Volume 51 - No. 25
By Friedrich Gomez
I was in fifth grade when I first heard my teacher talk about Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens (18351910).
Usually I was a clock-watcher; just waiting for the magical hour to come, so I could once-again run home. And be free again!
Free from the cold discipline of The Paper - 760.747.7119
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school and all the tedious rule-making that went along with it. Free from being punished by the steady drone of deadly-boring lectures from teachers who seemed older than redwoods. And who had equally-dry, wooden personalities.
School was even worse than Sunday church services where I could at least nap on my Momma’s shoulder and not be chastised for just being a little boy with a short attention span.
But I was in fifth grade, and I had a brand new teacher named Mr. Fred Steitzer (real name) who seemed strangely, and genuinely, interested in us. He laughed a lot. And he didn’t talk at us . . . he talked with us. One day he came dressed as Mark Twain!
And he sat and spoke with a funny Midwestern accent, and told of a small boy just like me who hated school, church sermons . . . and all
Mark Twain Continued on Page 2
those unbreakable rules.
My whole world changed that day.
That wasn’t my teacher talking up there in front of the class that day; making us laugh out loud, with tall tales and adventures along the mighty Mississippi. At the end of class -- one by one -we all lined-up, and we each stopped to hug Mr. Steitzer, our new teacher.
When it came my turn, I reached