Florence Lundsten never stood in a classroom in front of me. But it doesn’t mean our education paths didn’t cross. Florence, affectionately named “Flossie” by my dad, Franklin, was lifelong in education in the Twin Cities, then headed north to one and two-room schoolhouses in the Santiago area to finish her career in the 1950’s.

 

A widow, she lived in a cream-colored house in a neat yard with her chihauhau on Co. Rd. 7, between Santiago and Oak Park.

 

We got our “dose” of Flossie at Gethesemane Lutheran Church in Oak Park, where she shared her teaching talents in Sunday school.

 

The times were “old school,” and Florence was “old school.”

 

Rote memorization - more memorization - and then more memorization. That’s the way it was with educators back in those days. That’s how we learned, because all we had were books and a map and a globe of the world.

 

I read the entire school library of books, which was quite extensive - and regularly poured over the maps of the country and the world. It showed Oak Park, in relation to the rest of the world.

 

At Gethsemane, boys were boys and disturbances were handled with corporal punishment, right there in front of God.

 

Pulled fingers, twisted ears, a deadly glare from two feet away. We were back in line quickly.

 

Florence and our parents were best of friends and many times she was invited to our family farm after church services (and Sunday school) to have Sunday dinner with us.

 

She was always teaching and the messages were good.

 

I remember a Sunday in particular. We four Meyer kids, probably aged five to eight, were asked by Florence to stand in a row next to the kitchen dining table, upon which she placed three small gaily-wrapped gifts - and a white envelope.

 

For some reason, I wound up at the far right of the line - and fear struck. It was soon realized as my brother and two sisters selected the gaily-wrapped packages.

 

Inside - small plastic trinkets, perhaps rings, which were popular in the day.

 

Being last, I was asked by Florence to take the final item.

 

Forlornly, I reached to the table and picked up the white envelope, only to have it slip out of my fingers and clank to the linoleum kitchen floor.

 

I looked at her and she with a nod of the head asked me to retrieve it.

 

Inside was a bright shiny silver dollar.

 

I’ll never forget the moment, nor the lesson.

 

Packaging isn’t everything.

 

That goes for a lot of things in life.