Parade

 There should have been a parade. Yvonne Reynolds retired. A year ago, the idea was that she would make it through the first semester, brining her to a full thirty-four years of service. 

Food service. 

Ms. Reynolds was in charge of the kitchen at my school for thirty of those thirty-four years. She was in charge of the Horace Mann kitchen when I was hired. I have never known another cafeteria supervisor. Not professionally, anyway. For all those who have never maintained a professional relationship with a cafeteria supervisor, it is essential that you make it a good one if you want it to last. I was fortunate that mine was.

I begin by confessing that the first few years left me, like most of the kids, a little terrified. That voice that resonated over the sound of hundreds of little ones in that vast room that served the purpose of feeding and entertaining an elementary school. Whenever there was a birthday to announce, or if she spied someone throwing food, we knew it. There was no way to ignore it. And not just because of the volume, but because of the directness. There was a laser focus to her voice. I tried my hand for years at yelling in the cafeteria, but it never had the same effect as Ms. Reynolds' commanding presence. I could say that there was fear in the kids' eyes too, but that would be inaccurate. That was where you found respect. She had figured out the way to connect with our students in an abbreviated way, since the amount of time the children were in her presence was limited. There was no doubt about who was in charge. 

And there was little doubt among the children at my school about who cared for them. Ms. Reynolds. No one went hungry when she had anything to do or say about it. If it was a kid who came in late and missed breakfast, she would find something. If there was a little boy or girl who lost their lunch and mom didn't bring it to school, Ms. Reynolds made sure they had something to eat. 

Unless it was one of those big bags of chips. Do not bring one of those big bags of chips into her cafeteria. Then there would be trouble. But mostly, there was lunch. And breakfast. And snack. And the perilously short time between them to clean up and prepare for the next onslaught. Ms. Reynolds did this for more than thirty years with hugs and smiles and a no-nonsense attitude. But she made the mistake of timing her retirement during a time when cafeterias had turned into empty places, and she was asked to go and help distribute food to families in need elsewhere in the district. 

So there was no parade. Because social distancing requirement would not allow. But if there is any justice in the world, when hugs and high fives become part of our everyday world again, Ms. Reynolds will be at the front of the line for celebration. The sad news is that someone will have to replace her. 

Good luck with that.