News and Insights

A (Sort of) Elegy for Miss Osborne

May 10, 2025

Our family had recently moved to East Hampton—decades before “The Hamptons”—living far from the village in the woods on a still-dirt road. We knew no one and found it hard to connect. My dad had joined a (very) small local law firm; my mom was expecting a baby in just a few months. Not quite eight, I hadn’t yet found my place and was bullied by some classmates because I was “from the city.” I grew shy.

 As the end of second grade neared, the buzz was about teachers we’d get next year. The common theme: “Anyone but Miss Osborne.” Older, single and bespectacled, she was deemed mean and weird.

I worried the whole summer; naturally come fall, the universe assigned me Miss Osborne.  

The universe knew what it was doing.

Sand Roses and Shakespeare’s Flowers

Early in the school year, Miss Osborne came down our dirt road to introduce herself to my family and spend time with my parents. She was different from anyone they’d yet met in town. World travelled, immersed in art, music and books. They talked of all these things. When my brother was born, Miss Osborne brought gifts to welcome him; this also gave my mom, stranded in the woods, someone to whom she could show off her beautiful baby. She brought gifts for me too: paper dolls of historical figures, a Sahara sand rose and a book of Shakespeare’s flowers. My family felt “seen,” in today’s parlance; someone understood my parents’ interests and values. She didn’t just support us. She cared for us.

Miss Osborne’s class combined third and fourth grades, a somewhat novel move. The room was divided into quadrants—one with a cluster of expected desks, another with round tables. The third and fourth were easels and a carpeted, bean-bag-seated “library” overflowing with books of varied subjects and origins—most of which she’d bought herself. 

Our class read and taped to the chalkboard articles from The New York Times so we could discuss the news of the day. Crises in the Middle East. Gas shortages. A fraught presidential election. Economic problems. Everything was on the table.  

We played records and painted. She showed us slides (yes, slides) of her travels, sharing how she slept in tents in the desert (with her shoes on sticks to avoid scorpions), how she met Bedouins in the Sahara and Buddhists in the Himalayas. She’d studied Arabic and sailed her own boat. She brought in Nepalese prayer wheels, hummus, pomegranates and Tarquin, her English Springer Spaniel (no one had seen such a dog!).  She showed us Tintin and BBC children’s movies. She hosted class family pool parties at her home. 

Her classroom was a sanctuary where all were welcomed, encouraged and loved. Even so, she wasn’t shy about discipline; I had my mouth washed out with soap for speaking unkindly to a classmate.

It never occurred to me she visited other families, though I’m now sure she did. Years before the concept of “different learners” became commonplace, Miss Osborne instinctively knew every child, every family, had its own needs. She met them where they were.

Teaching for Life

I spent two years in Miss Osborne’s class, then my family returned to the city and life moved on.

But her memory lingers. No other teacher ever matched her. Decades later, I searched online, only to find she’d died shortly after we’d left town. (Dog show, heart attack – apologies to Billy Collins.) I still have the sand rose and the book of Shakespeare’s flowers.

Miss Osborne wasn’t teaching just for the tests, she was teaching for life, showing us the huge and exciting world waiting for us if we opened our eyes, ears, minds and hearts. I hope she knows I didn’t squander the gifts.