We have come here today to remember Fran Henry, my mom. To speak of her impact on our lives and to summarize her life. But, how do we measure a life? What makes a life well-lived?

We may measure some people’s lives by their dedication to public service, or the esteem of their colleagues. Perhaps for others, it’s the awards and achievements they received in their profession.  I think my mom’s life could have been measured a success by any of these yardsticks, but for me, I think her life is measured best by the company she kept, and who kept her. The outpouring of stories from former students about her influence on their lives has greatly moved me. The friendship and support of her many friends, going back decades, during her life and also during her dying, say so much about the kind of friend and person she was. 

She was a force to reckon with. You didn’t cross her and have her bite her tongue. She stood up for what she believed was right. She was tough, but fair. And she championed the underdog. Always. Everywhere. Some of her best relationships with students were with the rebels. She didn’t suffer the rebels’ silently, but she didn’t crush them, either. She had an uncanny ability to see underneath the bluster and the attitude and find a poet, or a journalist, or a thoughtful student overlooked by others, and to help those students blossom. Maybe they didn’t even realize her impact until years later, but many have told me of it in recent days, in remembrance of her life.

She was passionate about politics and addressing social injustice, and she shared those passions with her friends and family. She gave generously to many causes, with her time and her money. She spent much of her retirement working with disadvantaged youth with her therapy dogs, Luke, Cinder and Abby. Her German Shepherds were as much her family as any of us, and they gave her great comfort and companionship. Many of you have asked me where her last dog, Abby, will go, and she has gone to live with my brother and his family, where her new best friend is Triton, an American Staffordshire Terrier, that she exhausts daily. The cat has been less welcoming, but Abby is not deterred…

Fran was a teacher by profession, but she was always teaching herself new things as well. In the mid-seventies, she learned how to do tracking with her first German Shepherd, Drummer, and together they volunteered with Colorado Search and Rescue Dogs to find lost hikers in the mountains. During the Big Thompson Flood of 1976, she and Drummer were flown to the site by helicopter to help search for survivors. She took up the hobby of backpacking and learned all about the equipment needed to live on very little for several days. I remember going off-roading with her on one trip with her friend, Nadine, and Nadine’s kids near Marble, Colorado, and the road was barely wide enough for our 4-wheel drive with a sheer drop-off. I was scared to death. She probably was, too, but she didn’t let it show.

She planned two trips to London with high school students and spent a summer there, too, on a scholarship funded by the English Speaking Union. She was one of only two teachers from Colorado selected for the study-abroad program that year. She would have liked to travel more -- she was so curious about other cultures and languages -- but her body stopped cooperating. Still, she loved to speak French, and many times over the years she would see a little bird pecking around near her, smile and say, “un petit oiseau.” Then she’d giggle, and say, “I always loved that expression.” When I lived and studied in Italy for a year, she enjoyed picking up Italian phrases. She began calling me “Bella” then, and never stopped. She loved the sound of Italian, and said, “I’d have made a good Francesca.”

She enjoyed cooking, and we were always sharing recipes back and forth. One of her favorite things to do was to come to my house at Christmastime and make Pozole, the traditional holiday soup from New Mexico, a place she loved to visit. Making it was an all-day affair, but it was her labor of love.

She was fond of the Southwest, a fondness imparted by her father who wrote Western novels and collected Indian art. He also taught himself to make Navajo jewelry in the traditional sandcasting method, and she wore his silver jewelry proudly her entire life. We enjoyed many trips to Santa Fe and Taos together, where we discovered an African art store that sparked a love of African animal figurines and Heidi Lang batiks. Her art was eclectic, and reflected her interests and curiosity about the world around her.

My mom loved music: she enjoyed many years of going to the symphony and opera, and later down the block to Swallow Hill. Her tastes were varied. She loved folk music, and the Limelighters, Joan Baez and the New Christy Minstrels sang the songs of my youth. Hearing them can transport me back to our house in Parker where she would play their music loudly on our old record player while we cleaned the house. But she also liked Waylon Jennings and Dire Straits. I can hear her singing, “Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…” I remember in high school when we were getting ready to go to the Michael Jackson concert at Mile High and she was belting out “Billie Jean.” I thought I’d die, then, but now it makes me smile.

For me, personally, I believe my mom’s life is measured best by her unwavering support of me: from my difficult and testing teenage years, to my periods of self-doubt or great challenge or uncharted experiences, to the times I was a harried and overwrought mother of my own kids. I always said her greatest legacy to me would be if I could match her skills in motherhood. She was never critical, even when she might have felt like being so. That takes real courage and restraint. I know, because I’m a mother, too. She made me feel that I could do anything, and watching her example, I figured I just about could. She was strong, she was resilient. She was also kind and warm and generous. People did things for her, they helped her, without being asked. The construction workers next door and her caring neighbors brought up heavy deliveries to her door or her trash to the alley because they could see it was hard for her, and they wanted to help.

Adversity builds character, and we often joked with each other in times of acute stress that “our character is just fine, thank you.” Sometimes when it rains, it pours. But it was watching my mother surmount the obstacles in her path that shaped me into the woman I am today. Even as she was dying, she showed such courage and strength. I am sure she was not ready to die, but she was at peace with the life she had led. She imparted that peace and strength to me, when I needed it most.

I have found great solace these last couple of weeks reading about the ways in which my mother impacted your lives. If you haven’t yet had a chance to leave a memory of her on her website, please consider doing so. I know I will find much comfort in the weeks and months ahead reading about her positive influence on those around her. Thank you for sharing with us the piece of her she shared with you. Hers was a life well-lived, and I see it in the lives gathered here today. Thank you.

Good teachers know their stuff.  Great teachers infuse their content knowledge with a passion for the material, helping students develop a deeper interest in the subject and opening their eyes to a new world of possibilities.  Exceptional teachers use this platform to teach life lessons and mold students into better people.

Fran Henry was an exceptional teacher.

She used her role as journalism coach to make tremendous impact on the writing and the lives of high school students.  In my three years as her student, she made me a better writer; more importantly, she made me a better person.  She was patient with an immature and, I’m sure, irritating sophomore journalism student bent on proving her wrong.  She forgave and offered me a second chance.  And, despite the grief I caused, she willingly shared her wisdom with me.

Mrs. Henry and I did not get off on a good note.  While the idea of writing about sports and perhaps even becoming a sports broadcaster held great appeal, to me, journalism was a discipline filled with rules.  So many rules the Associated Press had to create a massive style manual, which I noted at the time, is larger than the official rulebooks of baseball, football, basketball and hockey combined.  When I wasn’t playing sports I merely wanted to watch, write and talk about sports.  This, I believed, didn't require that many rules.

Reinforcing that journalists must follow the rules, Mrs. Henry displayed her blue spiral-bound AP Style Manual prominently on her desk.   We used the guide almost daily and I became familiar with guidelines, mandates, rules, laws, and what seemed to me to be creativity-stifling conventions that could never be broken. 

This rigidity made certain there would be confrontation.  Perhaps more accurately, it was my rebellious teenage mindset (which also masked a certain laziness) that resisted conforming to this new set of rules.  Mrs. Henry and I had conflict almost daily.  Rather than obey and learn, I challenged.  This AP Style manual, to me, was journalism’s version of the Code of Hammurabi and it stared at me from her desk, taunting and teasing.  At times even provoking. 

Additionally, Mrs. Henry’s expectations for her class of budding writers seemed unfair, unrealistic and unnecessary.  She demanded that we have a point of view, to be able to express an opinion, to describe events in an accurate and colorful manner, to adhere to rules of grammar, to respect the intelligence of readers, to spell correctly, and above all, to have thought about the issue from several perspectives. 

Furthermore, she expected students to work in class (and in my case, not read The Sporting News).  This, I rationalized, was narrow thinking – I wanted to be a sports writer, and it seemed obvious to me that reading that publication in class was about all I needed to do to become a great writer or sports commentator.  Completing her assignments seemed a cumbersome and frivolous task.  In reality, her assignments were challenging and hard work … two more reasons for this teenager to disengage.

I did work hard, albeit focused exclusively at chipping away at Hammurabi.  My effort went into getting out of the assigned work and searching for examples that contradicted her teachings.  My favorite “victory” was when I challenged her rule about the size of headlines.  It was mandated somewhere that they not be larger than 36-point type.  One weekend the #1 ranked University of Nebraska football team destroyed CU and the Denver Post headline, in something like 100-point type, read simply “69-19!”  On Monday I couldn’t wait to show her the paper.  I had proof that her rule could be broken, which was made even more delicious because the transgression was made by a distinguished publication. 

Mrs. Henry’s patience was certainly tested that day.  Upon looking at the massive headline, she smiled, shook her head, and graciously said, “Well I guess it can be done that way.” 

She waited until I looked away to roll her eyes.  Barely.

For the next two months each of us slogged through the relationship and at the end of the semester, we gladly parted ways.

A year later I decided I wanted to be a reporter for her Castle Courier student newspaper.  I was, however, concerned that she wouldn’t consider me for the staff because of my behavior and attitude as a sophomore.  One day after school I trudged upstairs to her classroom and sheepishly asked if there was any way she would consider me for the staff.  

Mrs. Henry granted me an interview.  She clearly wasn’t going to relax her standards, but she was willing to give me a shot.  Her response taught me several life lessons:  don’t screw up the first time, show patience with others, forgiveness, following the rules isn’t always a bad thing, people may have solid rationale for their expectations, maybe I didn’t know everything … I could keep going ….   

As a reporter on staff she taught me that there were motives – good ones – for rules, process and convention.  Because she ran the Courier like a real-world newspaper, I quickly learned about deadlines, discipline and professionalism.  I saw how her high expectations helped the staff work as a team to create a quality product.

I dreaded the one-on-one meetings when she reviewed her edits of my writing.  These conversations were the first time outside of a sports setting that I experienced how harsh, direct feedback – delivered with compassion – could be extremely constructive.  While her edits, and the accompanying rationale were painful, they were always accurate and fair.  And usually, after licking my wounds, I, grudgingly, had to admit she was right.

Eventually she had to use less red ink on my articles, showing her ability to teach writing, expect high standards, be a great coach, and above all, have patience with others.  I grew tremendously from the experience on the Castle Courier.  She was more tolerant than required and more forgiving than I deserved.  I’m a better writer – and a better person – for her effort.

Of note, I’ve edited this tribute to Fran at least 12 times.  Re-writing was an activity I despised as a sophomore and merely tolerated it as a senior.  I now fully appreciate what she was expecting by asking for a re-write of a story.  She helped me realize it’s not the writing that is clunky in the early drafts – rather it is the thinking that hasn’t congealed.  Crisp prose is the product of a sharp and focused mind.   Achieving this requires many revisions – her life lesson was that hard work and high standards pay dividends.

This tribute, though, seems a bit shallow, at least in how I think Fran would grade it.  If this were a one-on-one editorial session this is about the time she would put down her pen, lean back in her chair a bit and ask, “Dan, what’s the big idea with which you want to leave the reader?”  She would then slowly grin, as if she already knew the answer.

In this case I’d argue that I’ve tried to convey the type of teacher and mentor she was and the impact she had on my life.  I’d point to examples that show rather than tell.

She would pause, and say, “Okay.  What else?”

I'd squirm in my chair as I gave her question deeper thought.

“What is it about your experience that would make this story complete?”  She would pick at this until I discovered what might be missing.

Fran would be correct about my effort so far in this tribute.  There is a big idea with deeper meaning that is absent:  I did not take the opportunity to tell Fran all of these things.  I didn’t let her know the impact she had on my life.  I meant to.  I thought about doing it.  I pictured us reminiscing and laughing.  I imagined that this time I would get to see her eyes roll when I mentioned 69-19!

The point is not so much that I failed to make the effort to connect and tell her what she had meant to me.  My failure was that I assumed I’d have time to do it.  I expected that there would be plenty of opportunity.  Later in the spring, I’d think.  I’ll take her to lunch over the summer, I’d promise myself.  I rationalized that I’d see her at a holiday party.  Life always seemed so busy in the moment and I assumed – when things slow down – that we’d connect.  Then I’d tell her what she’d meant and thank her for not giving up.

Fran would likely be disappointed if I used the “life is short” cliché to summarize this point …   Yep, lazy writing. 

Instead I’ll simply say that Fran has taught me another lesson:  Make the time to tell people what they mean to you.

Thanks for all of it, Fran.  You were exceptional.  You made a difference.