I don’t know where to start with this book, so I suppose the beginning would be the best place. Where is the beginning? I would say the day I read the book on the flight to Nassau. No, that’s not it. The day I found the memoir in my daughter’s stack of books that had not yet been shelved? No, that’s not it either.

The beginning (the “introduction” in literary terms) was my childhood – an inner-city kid who longed to be out on the prairie like Laura Ingalls. Free to explore and roam and be who she was inside: a country girl. So, what did the girl do to rectify her inner-city woes? She read, voraciously. Little House series (her favorite), Anne Shirley series, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Pollyanna, Little Women, and so many more. Books about girls, books about days of yore, books about hope and validation and everything her heart desired and for which she searched.

The middle (the “rising action”) was a chance encounter with An Education Through Letters. The memoir rested atop a pile of books in Jillian’s dining room. She was still unpacking the boxes and boxes of books (a chip off the ol’ block) and had not yet found room for them in the quickly-disappearing bookcase space. I was intrigued by the cover – a photograph of a middle-aged woman from the previous century (What an awesome century it was!) and the words “1st grade teacher.” So, this was a book about a woman, Mrs. Jacobson, who had been the first-grade teacher of the author. My interest was piqued. A man had taken the time to write about his teacher – his first teacher.

“Where did you find this book?” I asked Jillian. It was not the type of book I would think Jillian would read. It’s not Russian, or post-modernist, or psychology, or philosophy, or Poe. It was a very Stacy type of book. It appeared to be very Laura Ingalls, sunny side of life, and all that.

“Oh, my friend Michael wrote that. He was in grad school with me.” Wow. What a serendipitous find for me!

“May I borrow it? I would love to read it.”

“Yeah, Mom, but don’t lose it. Michael gave that to me.”

Sheesh. I won’t lose it, Daughter. I am Stacy, Order of the Keeper of Books and Writer of Books for Girls. But I didn’t say that. I said, “I will take good care of it.”

The end (the “conclusion”) still has not arrived because I still think of this book all the time. Isn’t that the indicator of a classic? The Reader becomes one with the book such that it shapes her mind, her actions, and impacts her life in a positive way for years, perhaps forever?

Still no dénouement for me, so I will tell you some of my thoughts on this book, an instant classic in my opinion.

An Education Through Letters recounts the story of an inspirational elementary school teacher in rural North Dakota in the 1960’s and ’70’s. Michael Deschamp, the author, reminded me of myself as a child – an old-fashioned kind of kid who enjoyed doing all of the things that a child born in the 1960’s would enjoy doing. A child who took pride in doing well in school and doing a good job for neighbors and who tried his best to do the right thing. A child who wanted more than what his hometown could offer. (We could have traded places. He wanted the city, the world; and I wanted to retreat into the comfort and predictability of rural America.) Michael’s Mrs. Jacobson reminded me of all the great teachers that I had encountered in the course of my education. No single teacher stands out as the “best,” most influential teacher for me as Mrs. Jacobson does for Michael. She was remarkable.

Mrs. James (Hilda) Jacobson’s guidance set the tone for Michael’s education. Her words gave him the encouragement that he sought. He wanted to excel. He wanted to reach for the stars. He wanted his life to be meaningful. Mrs. Jacobson validated him. She corresponded with him from the time she moved to Bottineau after Michael’s first-grade year until the year he left his hometown for college. His world widened – a world that was made, in part, possible by the encouragement of a woman who saw and nurtured the greatness within a boy.

She was a small-town woman who did small-town things: baked; grew vegetables and fruit (and canned them); quilted; attended church and Bible study; visited friends, family, and neighbors; traveled close to home in summer; attended weddings, funerals, christenings, confirmations, and graduations. Her rural Dakota life reminded me so much of the life of Laura Ingalls Wilder – not much seemed to have changed in the hundred years between Laura’s birth in the 1860’s and Michael’s birth in the 1960’s. The important things in life still loomed large and forefront in their town. That life is the one for which I longed as a twentieth-century urban child.

I know that I would have loved Mrs. Jacobson as much as Michael does. In fact, I do. Hers was a life of profound meaning, for what better goal can there be in this world than to inspire a child to reach his or her potential through unconditional love? Hilda Jacobson was a Saint – a little Saint – a Santon. The kind of Saint who does the things that often go unnoticed to the lazy eyes of the modern world, but whose pebble of love ripples onward long after the pebble is no more. How lucky Michael is to have known her! Not every child has a Mrs. Jacobson to light the flame within him. May Hilda Jacobson rest in peace.

As I said before, the story continues. I searched online to find another copy of this book for Granddaughter’s first-grade teacher. I recognize in her that she is Granddaughter’s Mrs. Jacobson, and rather than having her go through life not knowing what a profound impact she has had on Granddaughter’s life, I had to give her a copy of this book to validate who she is and what she does for children. You see, Gentle Reader? That is the Mrs. Jacobson effect. Thank you to all the teachers out there who not only light the flame but continue to stoke it throughout a child’s life.

If you are interested in reading this memoir, it is not available on the Amazon conglomerate. Here is a link to the Author House site where it can be purchased directly: An Education Through Letters by Michael Deschamp.