“One of these days，” Mrs. Coots was fond of saying， “you students will find that what you’re learning here will be useful.” Few of us believed her， but that didn’ t discourage Mrs. Coots from her relentless drilling in the basics of English composition. She was unwavering in her determination that we master the intricacies of the term paper with a proper bibliography. At the slightest protest， Mrs. Coots’s dark eyes flashed. “You will find that the real world is far more demanding than my term papers， but meanwhile they can help prepare you for it！”
I smiled at the memory. Nothing had been more difficult than one of her term papers， not even the prospect of one of Professor Dressel’s. He was a notoriously hard grader， seeming to take particular delight in giving Cs to A students. The next day I threw myself into the paper， working harder on it than any project I could remember.
When he handed back our papers， groans from the disappointed made Professor Dressel’s classroom sound like a hospital ward. He tossed my paper on my desk without comment. I shut my eyes tightly， steeling myself for the blow. When I cracked them open， an A+ leaped off the page. I disbelief I bent over for a closer look. Professor Dressel had written a terse note just below the grade： “See me after class.”
Nervously I approached his desk as the others grumbled out. “Young lady，” he said， “your term paper is among the finest I have ever seen produced by a junior accounting student. Do you know what this tells me？” I shook my head.
“It tells me that somewhere along the line you had a remarkable English teacher. If he or she is till alive， you should go to that teacher and express your gratitude. Good night.”_He snapped his textbook dosed， abruptly stood and strode out.
My mouth gaped. In my heart I knew Professor Dressel was right； I owed a good measure of my A+ to Mrs. Coots. I knew I should thank her， but the memory of her no-nonsense， crisp classroom demeanor still intimidated me.