Saturday morning at the SFC Sunset Valley Farmer’s Market. We had eaten our Taco Deli breakfast tacos. And we had a dozen eggs in our bag.
We were on the crushed granite path between two rows of vendor booths. As we walked slowly along, we passed a Capital Metro booth, and I stopped, because … why would Cap Metro be at the farmer’s market?
It turns out they were taking a strategic planning survey. There were three women at the booth. One explained the survey. One handed an iPad to the fair and industrious Trudy who filled out the survey for the two of us. (Does this surprise you?) And the third woman was holding an umbrella to keep the sun off an elderly woman who was working on another iPad.
When the elderly woman finished, that third woman looked over at me.
“Did you used to teach math?” she asks.
“Um… a long time ago,” I say after a moment.
She smiles and nods.
“At ACC,” I say. “Algebra.”
“Are you David Hasan?” she asks.
I am stunned. My eyes open wide. My jaw drops. I don’t know what to say.
Teaching at ACC had been so incredibly wonderful. My two years there were some of my happiest ever. But that was a very long time ago — just before Ben was born. In fact the last class got regular updates on his mom’s status as her delivery date approached.
And here’s the thing of it: Ben helps run that farmer’s market. He is twenty-six. So I’m standing there speechless, this voice from decades ago having just called out my name.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m David.”
And the woman looks over at her colleagues and begins to gush about how she loved that class. About what a great teacher she had. And about how she finally understood math when she thought she never would.
I’m still sanding there speechless. My eyes still wide. My jaw still slack. Literally speechless and unable to respond.
I glance at her colleagues. Then at Trudy. And then I look back at the woman. With tears almost coming to my eyes, I spread my arms and walk up to her, and we hug each other tightly.