Frances Carpenter
Kemper Hall – Kenosha, Wisconsin USA
By: Stephanie Tolan
By the time I was in high school (at a small Episcopal for girls where my class had the same English teacher for all four years), I knew that I wanted to be a writer. The ambition had been with me since my first story assignment in fourth grade. And Frances Carpenter, could not have been a better teacher for me to have. She was unmarried, lived with her elderly parents less than a block from the school’s campus, and seemed, from our perspective, to have no life beyond teaching. She was determined that her students would read great literature, speak with impeccable grammar, and learn the intricacies of the English language by diagramming sentences. But most of all, we would write. And write. And write.
As Juniors and Seniors, in addition to whatever other papers we were assigned all year, we were required to write a journal entry weekly (each of us had a hard bound journal that had to be left on her desk every Friday). In senior year there were no specific assignments for these entries—she wanted us to use our own minds to create something worth reading. The journals were returned to us on Monday, marked up and graded. Her grading was merciless, her comments perceptive, and her suggestions invariably worth considering, whether we were willing to accept them or not. We were not required to. “Carpie,” as we called her, never believed herself infallible, but if we were going to quibble about her judgments, we had to build a defense she could respect. By the time I graduated I not only knew how to write, I knew how to deal with editorial comment, to defend my choices, and to accept someone else’s very good ideas if I believed they could make my work better. I treasure the letter she wrote to me many years later, after reading my first published novel. I’m only sorry she didn’t live to see the awards that came later. She was at least partly responsible for them!
