Growing up
with Mishawaka Teachers
- by Marilou Karst Gilman
It was the best of times; it was the
worst of times. I started my formal education in 1955 as
a Twin Branch kindergartner. Miss Urnholt was my teacher.
I don’t remember much of her face, as I was so shy
that I only remember her opened-toed shoes and stocky
ankles. My parents thought for sure I would fail
kindergarten because I wouldn't talk. Thanks to Greg
Kuharic and Bill Morse, I broke my arm that year. Miss
Urnholt kept me in for recess one cold snowy day, and she
soon became my friend. I could talk, and so I passed.
(Oh, the monster she created!) It was on to first grade
and Mrs. Smith. She was the grandma I wanted living next
to me. During recess she would take me to the back of the
room, and we would crow like roosters in order for me to
learn my “r” sound. By the end of first grade I
could say “Ma-ree-loo” with my head held high
instead of my kindergarten “Mayweewoo.” I was
deathly afraid of 2nd grade and Mrs. Lee who used to lean
you over the desk, pull up your dress, and give you a
whack if you were out of line. (The boys could see your
underpants!) I was very gooooooood in her class! On to
Mrs. Robertson; she was the teacher who helped me learn
to love school. I wanted to be a third grade teacher that
year. I would play school in the evenings with my sisters
and sign their report cards "Joanne Robertson."
There were others at Twin Branch. Mrs. Bowers, our 5th
grade English teacher who read aloud “Blue
Willow”; I loved her voice and could visualize the
willows and the little China bridge. Mr. Cunningham, who
was quite the true picture of a “gentle man”
with his southern drawl and his shirts from Guam; I
memorized the Gettysburg Address and the Indiana State
song: “Round my Indiana homestead wave the
cornfields.” Mr. Brainard, the gym teacher for 6
years, was my favorite; he was funny and kind and so
energetic. Mr. Horst, my 6th grade math teacher; you
never wanted to sit in the front of the room because he
always spit when he talked!
It was on to Beiger Junior High in the fall of 1962. Mr.
Witham in his lab coat, with peppermint breath covering
the coffee and possibly cigarettes, was my homeroom
teacher. He would help us do homework, but he always made
sure we understood how we arrived at the answer. We had
George Prough and his “Mighty Fine” and lemon
drops when we did well. Mr. Boots was our music teacher,
and we all thought we would never see adulthood as he
scared the living daylights out of us with his Cuban
Crisis analyses. Mr. Reederer was my math teacher; he
knew I was deficient on the left side of my brain, and he
coached and coached and coached me through 7th and 8th
grade “new math.” But, the first love of my
young years was English teacher, Mr. Tansey; I would
dream that I was older and Mrs. Tansey. I loved the Last
of the Mohicans because he loved the Last of the
Mohicans! It was a chilly November day when Mr.
Witham entered our classroom with tears on his cheeks. He
whispered to Mr. Tansey to come out to the hallway with
him. When they returned, each with red eyes and with Mr.
Tansey blowing his nose into his white handkerchief, they
shared the tragic news of the shooting of John F.
Kennedy. Both men cried with us. I knew then that they
had loving “gentle man” hearts.
In September 1964, I began at Mishawaka High School. Miss
Hess was my Latin teacher that year. She pulled me
outside the classroom and said, “Miss Karst, if you
would spend as much time on your Latin as you do your
comic routine, you would make everyone in class
smile!” I soon learned to conjugate my verbs, and
now I can knock the socks off those “Word
Power” tests in Reader’s Digest!
I had Miss Stoddart who walked me to the hallway after my
class demonstration speech. With my bulldog under my arm
and my speech on “How to Wash a Dog” on 3x5
cards in my hands, she said to me, “You have the
potential to become a speaker. Come with me to meet our
speech teacher, Mr. Chamberlain.” His class was my
favorite. I loved speaking in front of others and could
write and deliver a speech without much fuss. He got me
involved in speaking contests, and there I met Kevin
Tansey! Oh, heart throb. Kevin didn't know I existed, but
I pretended to be Mr. Tansey’s daughter-in-law!
Others were there to guide and encourage me. Miss
Hackett: Blue polka dotted dress, chubby short stumpy
legs, and an arm that wielded a mean baton! She too took
me into the hall one day and said, “Marilou, a great
violinist you may never be, but you have the potential to
lead and make people happy. Your spontaneity is genuine,
and little children would love your cleverness; however,
the orchestra is for fine tuning talent. Do I make myself
clear?” (I now teach first graders.)
However, the person to whom I owe my burning desire to
learn is Mr. Charles Karst. He was dedicated to his
students, loved to turn kids on to finding answers, and
could write on the slate chalkboard faster than “The
Rifleman” could burn a round of bullets! He took me
aside one day while I was home from college and said,
“If you really want to teach, then always remember
to look the student in the eye and figure out what makes
him want to learn. Don’t worry about curriculum;
worry about teaching the love of learning. The curriculum
will come after.” I have never forgotten those
words. He was an example of his teaching. He never
stopped learning or searching for answers. His basement
was full of books, experiments, magazines, and models. He
knew about astronomy, chemistry, math, gardening,
history, geography. He was always reading, tinkering,
experimenting, taking classes, teaching, grading, and
hammering. I remember after his stroke, I watched as he
persistently lifted the hammer, trying to hit the nail on
the head time after time. He didn’t give up. Once he
accomplished the nail hitting, he began to crewel, then
to paint. There was nothing he didn’t want to learn,
and he soaked up knowledge like a sponge. After his
death, my youngest child said, “Mommy, why are you
so sad? Grandpa now knows all the answers. God told
him!” Charlie Karst was not only the best
“horsee” in any Midwest living room, he was
also an inspiration to his family, friends, and students.
He is my hero; he is my dad!
Marilou Karst Gilman,
MHS 1968
Mr. Charles Karst
1917-1987
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