Mr. Rosenthal

"And YOU are THERE!"

I'll never forget that booming phrase jarring a classroom full of wandering 8th grade minds. I'm sure we rolled our eyes. But we, or I, did not forget. I think back on those days, and him, fondly. I remember what he taught.

He was a character. The kind of teacher they don't make anymore, the one in bad ties and, occasionally, I swear, unfortunately colored saddle shoes. To a thirteen-year old he didn't look smart, but he was. He was also my friend's father. And last night, as we waited to attend history, we spoke of him and what he might have thought. We couldn't ask him, couldn't know how he'd voted. He had dropped dead on a golf course one day.

I wasn't in touch with my friend when that happened a couple of years back, but when I heard that awful news, I mourned some for myself. Through the magic of the Internets, she and I reconnected this year. We chatted, and we played games, and we smarted off, just like old times. Nothing serious. But when I told her that I remembered him, that I thought of him often, that I was sorry for her loss, that's when we again became friends. Friends enough that I could say, "Hey, wanna go?" and, "Hey, got a couch?" Friends enough to share an adventure.

So I went to Chicago. So we went to see hope and change and promise come to life. It was something no one had ever experienced before. And WE were THERE.