Knowledge of what is beyond the pale that separates this world from the next is of course based on faith rather than experience.  Reflecting on the passing of Lucile James, one can not but hope that, surely, there must be a school.

"In my eternity I hope I can be a teacher," she said on the occasion, not quite a year ago, of a dinner held in her honor.  "I hope I can grab a few moonbeams, catch a star and set up a little schoolhouse."

Now, I like to think, she has her chance.

News of her death this morning gave rise to a flurry of images:  those bright, shining eyes, that melodious voice and, of course, that fiery red hair.  It is hard to accept that those eyes are now forever shut, that that voice is forever stilled.

There is, however, some comfort.  I cannot speak for her soul, but I know that part of Lucile lives in each of us who knew her, each of us who were touched by her special gifts.  And we are many rather than few. 

Lucile James was the embodiment of all that it means, or should mean, to be a teacher.  She shared her love of learning, her love of her subject, her love of the language, with three generations of students over a teaching career that spanned more than 50 years.  Doubtless, given the disparity among individuals, some of them profited more from the experience than others.  Nevertheless I'd wager it would be hard to find any who gained nothing at all from it.

She was other things, too, besides being a teacher--a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a friend.  Her force of personality was such that it was impossible to know her without being somehow affected by it.

Lucile James was, in some respects, a curious mixture--of flamboyance and humility, of caring and firmness.  Probably the way she achieved and maintained that delicate balance went a long way toward making her so special.

Many people--and the number stretches into the thousands, certainly, including her family, her students, her colleagues, her friends or even her acquaintances--have had their lives enriched by the simple circumstance of having known her.  That is a claim that few of us indeed will be able to make.

To say that Lucile James will be missed is an understatement that borders on the ridiculous.  But as much as we mourn her passing, we must recognize our inestimable good fortune in having had the opportunity to know such a person.

Rest in peace, Lucile.  Somewhere now, beyond that pale--among the moonbeams, among the stars, beyond pain and suffering--a bell rings.  School is in session, and Lucile James, her eyes again bright and her voice again firm, is in charge.  Pay attention, class: you're in for a treat.