The Man Of Renown Abbie Creed   © Copyright 2026 by Abbie Creed

Image by Artur Skoniecki from Pixabay Photo by Liana S on Unsplash

When the youngest of my six children and the last of my five boys, was a 2^nd grader attending our parish school, he had many friends, including my next-door neighbor’s son. The school was large, having three classrooms for each of the eight grades. Some of them walked to school cutting through our back yard.

When one of the 2^nd grade teachers had a health breakdown, the pastor called and asked me to teach that class for the next half of the school year. I was not a certified teacher but was the 2^nd grade teacher of religious education for our Sunday School. Since I had five boys, he felt strongly that I could do what needed to be done. I couldn’t teach Math, Reading and English but I qualified to teach the rest of the 2^nd grade material, including Religion.

My first day on the job, I realized that I had my work already cut out for me. “First things first,” was my instruction from the principal. Linning up in an orderly fashion for recess, restroom, and lunch breaks was the first order of business. After several days, many attempts, returns to seats, and late for lunch times, we overcame the first hurdle.

On the second day of that year while I was putting seat work on the chalkboard, and before the day began, I heard giggling from some of the early arrivers, but when I turned to see what that was all about, I saw nothing. A second round of giggling and a quick turnaround, I caught glimpse of one young man who had grown a mustache, and goatee. Somehow, he had acquired a black felt tipped marker and been busy creating his new look. I pulled the chain on the speaker that notified the principal that I needed assistance.

I really don’t know what kept her from laughing because it was all I could do to keep a straight face. “Oh my, Mrs. Creed, you do have a problem.” I asked her to stay with the class while I took the boy to the office to make a phone call. I had always found that the worse punishment for boys was to tell their dad what they had done. He made the call telling his dad about the misdeed and I added the worse punishment of all. “He may not return to my classroom until the new look was gone.”

This was as much punishment for me as it was for the boy. His dad came to school, took him to the boy’s restroom and proceeded to try to remove the coloring. I couldn’t believe my ears when he returned saying that he had to use cleanser to get it off. The artwork was now red instead of black and I almost cried. I know it had to have hurt!

The next day we had a class meeting, consisting of grown-up things to talk about. I explained to the class, where there were twice as many boys as girls, that we could make up the rules of conduct to put on the chalk board, along with a list of helpers that I would rotate every week, giving everyone equal time to be a helper. I posed the idea that we could make our classroom the envy of the whole school. It worked!

The next year, because of a teacher shortage in our school, I moved to 4^th grade. I taught there for 18 years. Part of my duties at that level were teaching about the Sacrament of Reconciliation, (Penance in the old days.) I was doomed or privileged to have my first class again in the 4^th grade. This time, my son was in my homeroom class. I struggled with that all year because I always hesitated to give him any stage for fear of being accused of playing favorites.

I had heard that some of my students had been involved in some after-school mischief. The name came up, “Tom Brown, known as “the man of renown,” from the song of that title. He was a cute, mischievous, likeable, little fellow who was an obvious leader in his own way. After doing a little research, I decided that in my teaching about right and wrong, I would give Tom a chance to fess up.

After school one day, I met with him privately and talked about what I had heard was happening in the neighborhood. It seemed that boys were stealing porch lights from some neighbor’s homes and when it got dark, one of the boys would ring the doorbell and when the resident tried to light his porch to see who was there, the little imp would hide in the bushes to hear what the resident had to say. It must have been widespread because I had been cautioned by my neighbors as well.

Young Tom, about 9 years old, was a bit afraid of my talk but I had to find out if rumors were correct and do what I could to discourage his activity and leadership. So, the time came, I said, “Tom you are a good kid who may be making bad choices, look me in the eye and tell me, are you involved in these shenanigans?” He immediately. “No, Mrs. Creed, I am not.” I thanked him for his honesty and forgave him on the spot.

The summers of the next five to seven years brought many of my ex-students to my back yard. My son and our next-door neighbor’s boy played Mini ball across our two yards. I had two rules, no name calling and no bad words allowed. My friend, Tom Brown, let a bad word slip right out of his mouth and immediately yelled, in case I was in listening distance, “Mrs. Creed, if you heard that, I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to say it, it just slipped out.” I did hear it but I truly believed he was sorry.

Mini ball consisted of a miniature bat that was given to visitors to the Hillerich and Bradbury bat factory and museum located here in town, and a used tennis ball. The pitcher and catcher stood in front of my metal storage shed, my side steps were 1^st base, neighbor’s tree house tree was 2nd, their garage with 3^rd and home was back to the batter’s box. This game went on throughout the summertimes until they were old enough to get part-time summer jobs. My poor shed was ready for replacement. The door showed the results of hundreds of missed bats and strong pitches.

Many times, I made a large pitcher of Cool Aid along with a plate of cookies and sat to watch the big games. It was such fun watching the boys as they got older. It was something else to see these big guys trying to bat with that tiny bat and from my kitchen window, hearing their comments in men’s voices.

Fifty years have passed and as a retired teacher, I volunteered as Funeral Coordinator for my church. In that position, I met with bereaved families helping them plan funerals for their loved ones. Many times, I encounter one of my students doing the planning. One particular time, I met with the mustached kid and his big sister to plan the funeral for their mother. That was such a privilege.

After planning a funeral one of my duties was to attend the visitation. I took enlarged copies of the Scriptures that had been chosen by the family for the readers, along with the written protocol for the funeral the next day. While I was there, I met many of my ex-students who had come to pay their respects.

The next day at the funeral, I was so inspired by the row of young men who sat behind the bereaved family. They were classmates of the mustached kid, still friends, keeping in touch, and came to support him in his time of grief.

About a week or so later, I was standing in the window of my Den and watched as a sleek looking antique Cadillac convertible pull up in front of my house. It was the one with the long fins and it was spit and polished. I didn’t know any antique car dealers and questioned why he was here at my house.

A gentleman about 50 years or so walked up to the porch. I came right out onto the porch as I don’t let anyone in the house, salesman or otherwise, that I don’t know. He said, “Mrs. Creed, you probably don’t recognize me, but I am Tom Brown. I missed seeing you at the funeral home, but you are on my bucket list. When I found out that you were still around and living in the same house, I had to come.”

“I want to apologize to you personally and ask you to forgive me for the time when I was a 4^th grader and you said, ‘Tom Brown, look me in the eye and tell me , did you have anything to do with removing porch lights in the neighborhood?’ I looked you right in the eye, and I lied to you, I said NO” Everyone knew that you didn’t lie to Mrs. Creed, but I did. And it has always bothered me. Can you forgive me?”

We hugged and I said, “I did many years ago, Tom.”