"Right now!" He stomped his foot. Big sissy baby.

I got up and planted my freshly glue-smeared sneaker on the floor. I then walked out, squishing shoe-shaped glue impressions all the way to the door of the classroom. By the time I got to the office, whatever glue there was that hadn't been left behind had dried. No one at the office knew why I was there, so I chose not to enlighten them. I just asked for extra chalk for Mr. Watkins' classroom, got it, and left.

Then there was the time he decided that we — the class as a whole — walked like apes. We slumped, slogged and drug our feet about. He couldn't have that! Not his class. We were to spend an afternoon getting walking lessons... from Mr. Watkins. See paragraph 5 above for a description of The Proper Walking Process.

He lined us up, boys in one line, girls in the other. He stood at the front, barking orders over his shoulder as he walked with us following.

"Heads up! Shoulders back! Like me — watch!" He snapped as he sashayed down the hall.

Twenty or so fifth graders in two lines — all attempting to walk as Mr. Watkins does. All eyes watching his every move. Amazingly enough, no snickers could be heard. We truly were trying to do as we were instructed. The Proper Walking Process.

Four other kids in my class and I had won a contest on memorizing the names of state capitols. Mr. Watkins sponsored a trip for the five of us to the Ueno Zoo in Tokyo. He paid for it himself — the train ride, the park fee, food, everything.

The best part was seeing the Llamas. Not because I'm some closet-freak llama fan — but because llamas have the propensity to spit. We all walked (Mr. Watkins glided) up to the llama pen. It was pretty open. Just a split-rail fence embedded in a cement berm divided us from the llamas. One of the animals came up to Mr. Watkins.

"How's Dr. Doolittle?" Mr. Watkins quipped.

The llama proceeded to do something with its face that caused it to appear as if it were about to explode. Its tongue literally turned inside-out as it blorbed from between huge, yellow teeth. Some sort of yellowish goo then shot out, and landed neatly on Mr. Watkins' face... and the hair.

I swear, I have never in my life heard another sound similar to that which emanated from Mr. Watkins. He screamed. And screamed. And waved his hands in the air. And screamed. And screamed some more.

A handkerchief suddenly appeared from his person, and he gingerly dabbed at the goo embedded in his hair, while screaming. As for myself and the rest of the kids... we didn't know whether to run, shit or go blind.

Needless to say, our trip was slightly cut short.

Mr. Watkins was without a doubt, one of the best teachers I've had in my entire life. He taught me to love books, to find the adventure in social science and history and to accept people for the unique individuals they are.

Thanks, Mr. Watkins.