Those who knew Henry High School Art Teacher Harold Bobgan just raved about his kindness, his brilliance, his patience and his care for his students. He was the epitome of a good teacher and was always encouraging, thoughtful and gave us a landscape of opportunities for expression and achievement.

Last weekend, that master of art left this earth to join other masters in the vaulted museum of the promised land.

And this former Henry Patriot student will forever be grateful for the circumstances that allowed Mr. Bobgan to mentor me and pave my future.

Harold Bobgan taught art at Henry from 1959 to 1985. I was a graduate of 1980 and because of his death at 93, I never got to tell the man the impact he had on me and my career.

For years, I tried to track him down to tell him of my gratitude but to no avail. That was until about two months ago when a former classmate posted on Facebook that the man was still alive and kicking. I garnered his home phone number and intended to call him, but I let the opportunity slip through my fingers.

I regret I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

I was never a great student throughout my school years and by the time I got to high school, I had my eyes set on moving on with life after “just four more years”. My freshman through junior years were spent at Fridley Grace HS where most of my brothers and sisters had attended.

As I said, school was not my forté and by my junior year I was told by the school office that I was going to be short a few credits for graduation, thus I would have to spend my pre-senior year in summer school. I was devastated. I told my best friend and he suggested I transfer to Henry, which allowed for more credits per year.

Yikes, that meant I had to try and get my parents to go along with the idea which — to my surprise — they gave me full blessing.

As many kids can attest, switching to a new school in your high school years is never an easy thing — especially when it’s your senior year. But again, I had my eyes set on “getting through” high school and getting on with my regular life.

That’s where Mr. Bobgan entered.

Art classes at every level of schooling was always my favorite and thanks to my natural talent of being able to draw, I excelled. At Henry, I took Mr. Bobgan’s art class the first trimester and loved it. By the end of the first trimester, I had a couple cool paintings, some posters and some ceramic pieces I was super proud of.

I took another Bobgan art class the second trimester. One day, as I sat at the group table, Mr. Bobgan saw my notebook open and requested to see it. Most student’s motebooks typically had “notes” from classes they were taking...mine had pencil and pen drawings.

This was on a Friday and when the class bell rang, I noticed Mr. Bobgan at his desk perusing the pages of my notebook, in no hurry to return my “diary” of favorite sketches. I shrugged and went on to my next class.

The following Monday, as I walked up to school, several students rushed up to me and congratulated me for my art. I was dumbfounded and when they ushered me to the third floor just outside Mr. Bobgan’s classroom, I saw behind a glass case my drawings carefully removed from the notebook and hanging on the wall. A cardboard placard was placed in the middle that said, “drawings by Billy Morgan”.

Wow. I was stunned and a little embarrassed but  — with all the attention I was getting — I was sort of proud, too.

As was Mr. Bobgan.

He never mentioned a word to me about the display but when class commenced and he announced to the students the next assignment, he pulled me aside and quietly whipspered to me, “Billy, you don’t have to do any of the assignments moving forward if you don’t want to — you can just sit there at the table and draw.”

Did I hear him right?

When I looked up he smiled and gave me a wink.

Then, as the third trimester began and the final weeks of my high school career launched, Mr. Bobgan came up to me and asked where I was going to college. I told him I had no plans .

He turned around, went over to the telephone at his desk and started dialing. Moments later, he came back with a little piece of paper and told me he had me pre-registered at North Hennepin Community College in the Commercial Art program.

Again, I was stunned.

He must have saw something in me I didn’t recognize or find value in. The saddest part of this story is I never got the opportunity to tell that man how grateful I was for investing his time, his care and his attentiveness to me.

But I figure, if he’s looking down from his canvas in the clouds, I’m sure he’s still smiling and winking.