Life Goes On

Have you ever noticed that there are some people in your life that make you “better.”

They’re people who make you laugh, who make you feel smart and witty, and who just give you a natural “high” in their presence. I have been very lucky to have many of those people in my life.

One of them was the late Fred Rye.

Most Stanwood High School graduates might remember Mr. Rye as a curmudgeon, a stuffy, tyrannical chemistry/science/physics teacher who accepted NO late work and no excuses.

When the kids would hand in their homework, Mr. Rye would take his sturdy stapler and pound the papers together and say, “If it’s not in by now, it’s no longer chemistry, it’s history.”

My son used to say, “If every teacher taught like Mr. Rye, there would be no late papers and everyone would behave. He’s a genius.”

Fred Rye was a genius — absolutely brilliant. He was a bit of a folk hero to teachers at Stanwood High School. At faculty meetings, he would bring in his paper and do the New York Times crossword, to the consternation of many an administrator. We would always watch in awe, like kids in a classroom, wondering if the passive-aggressive kid would get in trouble.

He never did. Every single day, he would finish that crossword puzzle, even as they got harder as the week progressed.

I always feel lucky if I know one word in that blankity-blank puzzle.

Mr. Rye started every year lecturing his students, saying, “I’m not here to blow your noses or wipe your butts. I’m here to teach you, and you’re here to listen, read, and learn.”

I always used to wonder how long he could say that. I knew things were changing when the first parent called to complain. He stood his ground, though the kid was transferred from his class. I think he did alter his first lecture in subsequent years.

When kids would come to him and complain that they had a “learning disability,” Mr. Rye would say, “Do you have your driver’s license?”

When the kid invariably answered, “Yes,” he would say, “Then you can read. You can’t pass the written test without reading.”

You could never beat Mr. Rye in an argument.

When my son (who, by the way, is also named Fred, for my grandfather, but also for Mr. Rye) went to the University of Washington (UW), his two quarters of chemistry were a breeze and he earned 4.0 in both classes.

He had to work a little harder in the third quarter, but he still aced the class.

He said it was due to Mr. Rye.

Mr. Rye was a gifted, wonderful teacher, especially for college-bound kids.

I’m not sure I agreed with all of his methods, but I do know that he was a great friend and not only one of the smartest men I ever knew, but the funniest. I often received the brunt of his humor.

Fred loved, shall I say, “off-color” humor.

One time I bet him that he could not get through a day without telling some offensive, sexually-themed joke.H

e said that he could, and when I said, “I bet you $5 you can’t,” he sat back with a gleam in his eye, all smug, and said, “Yes I can.”

Of course he did it, and when I wrote the check, on the “for” line, I wrote, “my stupidity.”

That wasn’t enough.

Fred blew it up to ten times its size and posted it on the faculty room wall.

He also never cashed it, but just kept it to taunt me.

Though he was a brilliant, strict, unyielding teacher at school, in “real life” he was a very funny man, an old softy and a good friend.

He died suddenly four years ago of a heart attack. It was one of the saddest days of my life. Since then, life has gone on, but it’s not the same.

I think of him almost every day, but particularly at this time of year because the Relay for Life is coming up.

He walked it every year in honor of his ex-wife Linda who died of breast cancer. It is partly due to Fred’s inspiration that I took on the job as Survivor Chair for the Relay for Life.

He never missed it.

So next month, on May 21, I’ll be working on the relay, in honor of not only the survivors, but the caretakers as well.

And when I walk around the track honoring those who have battled cancer, I’ll remember my hilarious, wonderful friend for all the times he walked in honor of those he loved, and the fact that life does, indeed, go on.