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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