WHO KNOWS IF LIFE HAS MEANING, but it does make sense. Existentially speaking, I guess it’s up to me if it’s worth anything beyond the sheer enjoyment of it all. Sometimes, certainly at random, full circles are created that bring a calming sense of order and purpose to life.

Ideas, events, life sequences sometimes stitch together, dovetailing to a moment of clarity that runs counterpoint to the constant chaos that swirls around us. I like when life makes sense. I need those occasional anchor points. This is my lead-in to what happened last week in my classroom.

First I have a young student who often comes early in the morning, 20 minutes before the bell. Being new to our school, little Early Bird would come into my classroom and we’d talk about whatever. I learned that he had a vision problem from an accident and didn’t do much reading. He was energetic and cooperative, but would sometimes forget a homework assignment, regardless of the reminding, and I would make him do it before the bell. He often did so. I took him under my wing, always checking his homework before the bell, asking him to tell me about the book he was reading. He was off to a slow start.

In the fall I got an email from his mom, concerned, and asking how he was doing. She apologized for having to drop him off early because of her long work commute. I thanked her for dropping him off early and explained how we worked together before the bell on his homework. I asked her to keep an eye on his reading. We agreed to work together. Today Early Bird has read five novels. He likes to read and is eager to find his next book.

I had another student turned onto reading this year so much so that his father caught up with me at Raley’s and asked, “Are you Steve Gibbs, the teacher?” When I nodded, he shook my hand. “My son and I read Dante’s ‘Inferno’ together. It was fantastic. I want you to know that for Christmas he asked for books. Books for Christmas! Thank you.” We shook again. Those are special days for teachers.

Funny thing, when I got Early Bird’s mom’s email, her name sounded familiar to me. I rolled it around in my head, but came up empty. I asked her if she’d ever been a student of mine. She wrote back that she couldn’t recall, it was so long ago. So, anyhow …

In a separate mindset, on a different day, I decided I ought to begin emptying my classroom, pre-retirement activity, tossing out lessons that lived their last use. I remarked to my TA, “I’m going to throw out one folder a day, starting right now.”

With that, I pulled open a random drawer in a random file cabinet, of which I have three. I rummaged in the back, finding an old forgotten folder that had no label on it. The label had fallen from the folder years ago. I knew I once had reason to keep it, though at present, I couldn’t recall why.

I pulled out the folder and inside was student writing. They were examples of a sensory ghost story we wrote one Halloween. The story had to have smell, taste, touch, sight and sound in it. When I looked at the names I recognized them as being in my English 9 class my first year of teaching, 30 years ago. It was my first creative writing assignment.

At the time, I now recall, I chose to save those examples as a keepsake of my first year, as artifacts. I had completely forgotten that I did that, and now there they were, the exact artifacts I’d intended them to be so long ago.

As I stood a while in reverie flipping through the stories, I found one that made my eyes light up. The long-ago student author of this sensory story was the mom. My little guy’s mom’s ghost story has been sitting in my classroom these last 30 years. I knew I recognized her name.

I took the story and placed it in a nice purple folder so it wouldn’t get bent. During class the next day I told my young student to stick around after the bell, that I had a gift for him. As you can guess, it made some other students jealous. I heard some “Why him and not me?” mumblings. Now several wanted to stick around to see what the gift was, which was all the better.

I handed the purple folder to the boy. He opened it eagerly. The other kids groaned to see it was just a student ghost story. They were hoping for treasure, I suspect. The Early Bird saw his mother’s name at the top. “Oh, wow. That’s my mom when she was my age. Thank you, Mr. Gibbs.”

I said to him and his friends, “No. Thank you. To find that short story of your mom’s has brought me a sense of completion in my career. I’ve been fortunate to have taught the children of many former students. It feels nice to have it happen once again, one last time, before I go.

“I want you to give this to your mother, and I want you to promise you’ll keep on reading, and you’ll teach your kids to read. Tell them I said so. Tell them the story of old Mr. Gibbs, and how he taught you and grandma.”

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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