A Friendly Visit to Lincoln School

On the morning of May 14, 1975, I had my mom call Lincoln School to make arrangements for a visit with my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Burton. Mrs. Knipp, the principal, answered the phone. She contacted Mr. Burton so that my mom could talk to him personally.

“I have a son who wants to visit you this afternoon,” my mom explained.

Immediately Mr. Burton remembered. “Oh,” he said, “you mean Chucky?” That’s what I was called in fourth grade.

My mom slept that afternoon (she works 11 p.m. to 7 a.m.) and left a note stating that “Chucky may go to the school—Mr. Burton will be there until 4 p.m.”

At 3:39 I entered the school. I have heard people talk about the narrow halls in elementary schools before, so it was no surprise that the halls were only about three meters wide. However, the ceiling was only about two-and-a-half meters high! The lockers were only about 150 centimeters high, and I could see over the tops of them. I remembered with a chuckle that in first grade I could not reach that high.

I saw the work of many children taped to the walls—pictures, first grade reading assignments, and the like. Somehow this seemed unusual to me, for I didn’t remember them from my elementary school years.

I wandered aimlessly for about five minutes before I remembered how the building was laid out. I was amazed at how old the school looked after being in a modern school such as Parker. Finally I saw Mr. Burton’s name on the door of a room. But he wasn’t there. I asked someone where he was, and I wound up in another room a short distance down the hall.

“Is Mr. Burton here?” I asked. To my amazement I was talking to him!

It’s funny how everything seems to shrink. I knew Mr. B. was only 5′ 7½″ but it didn’t really register in my mind until I saw him. His voice was higher than mine, but I remembered him as having a deep voice.

We went into Mr. Burton’s room to talk. I soon learned that Mrs. Knipp was going to retire at the end of the year. It came as a surprise, but soon I realized that she had been working in schools for about thirty years.

Mr. Burton asked what I was here for. I explained that it was an English project. “I’ve had other visits too,” he said, and began to name several people who had visited him recently, including Dan Rufer.

“Joel Meton came back and visited in sixth grade,” I remembered, “and I think his brother Norlen was a student here four years ago.”

He asked me about my future plans. “I’m hoping to go to Baptist Bible College this fall and possibly become a preacher or a missionary.”

“I wanted to be a minister when I was your age,” he told me. “Then I spent two weeks in Skid Row… in Chicago. After I popped a few pills, by the end of two weeks, I just said, ‘That’s it.’ I just felt I didn’t have the grace to become a minister.” He paused for a second. “Say, what’s that in your pocket?” He was referring to the gospel tracts that our church passes out. I gave him one to read.

We began to reminisce about fourth grade. Mr. B. was amazed when I told him that he had been teaching for 21 years… and I was right. “How did you know that?” he asked.

“I remember something you said in fourth grade. You said you had been teaching for 13 years. I just put 13 and 8 together—”

“Yes, you always were good in arithmetic,” he said. “You’d come up to me and ask me what this and this and this was, and when I didn’t know what was going on, you’d rattle it off like crazy.”

“Yeah. Multiplying by ninety-nine was my specialty. I think by the end of the year just about everyone in the class knew that 99 × 99 was 9,801.”

“You keeping up on your math? What are you taking in Parker?”

“Advanced Math. It’s the top—as far as you can go.”

Somehow we got on the subject of music. I noticed the piano in the corner of the room and remembered how our fourth grade used to have music classes in the auditorium with Mr. Burton.

“We just had music today,” he said. “A hundred and fifty children packed into this room. They all sat on the floor. I played piano, and we sang. They were well-behaved too, and they sang well. By the way, what were some of the songs we used to sing?”

I thought a moment and then replied, “The German Band.” This one had a very jumpy melody. Mr. Burton got out a book and played it on the piano.

We talked about reading awhile. I was in the fast group in Mr. B.’s class. I enjoyed to read.

“We had some troublemakers too,” I chuckled. “Remember George Tracy?”

“Oh yes,” he said, as if he had been hit by a basketball. “He used to sit there and say, ‘What did I do?’ He was just so innocent!”

The conversation was interrupted when a teacher entered the room.

After the other teacher left, Mr. Burton said, “Didn’t you have meningitis when you were in kindergarten?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I was in the hospital for two weeks.”

“I thought you were the one. Boy, that really scared me when I found out you had that.”

More teachers came into the room and talked with Mr. B. for several minutes. Meanwhile I noticed a list of children’s names with a locker number beside each name. Some of the children I knew.

After the other teachers had left, Mr. Burton said, “How would you like to see Mrs. Knipp?”

“Good idea,” I replied. So we walked side by side down to the office, just as if we were buddies in Parker High!

“Remember the last day of school?” I said on the way down. “I was so sad because I had to leave. I cried on your shoulder.”

“It’s funny… you’re not the only one. Several children have done that same thing through the years.”

“I think it’s because of your love for the kids,” I speculated. “You really are a great teacher.”

“Thank you!” said Mr. Burton, flattered by the remark.


At 4:05 we entered the office. Mrs. Knipp had no trouble in recognizing me. She has a memory like an elephant. “I’ll show you how good my memory is,” she said. “When you were in kindergarten you were standing right there—” She pointed to a spot on the floor next to a desk—“and you were reading to me.”

“I bet I can tell you what you were reading,” Mr. Burton added.

Mrs. Knipp spoke again. “I can, too. He was reading Johnny Appleseed out of a fifth-grade book.”

She began to ask about various members of our family and what they were doing. She remembered them right to the last detail.

“What subjects are you taking in school?” she asked. I told her about Advanced Math as well as a few other subjects.

She asked about my future plans, and I told her about Baptist Bible College. She seemed impressed.

“It’s funny,” I said after awhile, “how everything changes after a few years. When I was in this school you were eight feet tall. How tall are you now?”

“I’m five-feet-eight. With these shoes on I stand five-feet-nine.”

“I used to stand before you scared to death because of your size.”

“Yes, and lots of other kids were, too. I think it’s because I rule with a rod of iron. If I didn’t, this school would be in a terrible mess.”

I agreed.

“Some kids really look up to me,” she went on. “One kid said, ‘First there’s God, then Mrs. Knipp.’”

There was a pause while I pondered over what she had said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Ninneman,” she said. Mrs. Ninneman was my first grade teacher.

A little way down the hall we stopped. “You were really something when you were in kindergarten,” Mrs. Knipp said. “I remember one day I had you looking at a vocabulary list. It was from the Wexley Intelligence Test. You ran across the word catacombs. I really got a kick out of that when you said, ‘I see cat and combs, but what’s that A doing in the middle?’”

She paused as if in thought. “Say, I’ve got a tape of your reading,” she said. “Johnny Appleseed. I wonder if that’s in the office.”

On the way back I remarked, “It’s funny—I’m still more attached to this school than I am to Parker. I guess that’s because I got my foundation here.”

Mrs. Knipp looked for the tape but couldn’t find it. “It must be at home. I’ll try to track it down for you. When I find it I’ll give it to you, and you can listen… and laugh.”

As I turned to leave she said, “How’s your family?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Tell them all I said ‘Hi.’”

“OK. I’ll be seeing you.”


I went to see Mrs. Ninneman. It was 4:25, and she was long gone. I ran across Mr. Burton, who dialed her number on the phone so that I could talk to her. “That’ll give you some more unusual experiences,” he said.

Mrs. Ninneman answered the phone. Casually I said, “Hello, this is Chuck Petitt.”

“Yes, and what do you want?” she said, and then it dawned on her who I was. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “you mean Chucky—you mean THE Mr. Petitt?”

I laughed.

“What grade are you in now?”

“I’m a senior.”

“Wow! I didn’t think it had been that long. What are you going to do when you graduate?”

I told her I was going to Baptist Bible College.

“What are you doing at Lincoln School?” she asked.

“I’m visiting various teachers. I saw Mr. Burton and Mrs. Knipp. It’s weird how everything seems to have changed.”

“You go to the Bible Baptist Temple, don’t you? Is your family saved?”

“My mom is, but I’m not sure about Dad.”

“I’ve tried to tell some of the teachers about Christ’s death,” she said. “Most of them simply say, ‘I’ve got my church, you’ve got yours, and that’s that.’ It seems that they’re just so hard to reach.”

“Speaking of teachers…” I said, “How long have you been teaching?”

“Too long,” she said, “I think this is my twenty-ninth year.”

“How long have you known Christ?”

“I was saved when I was a child. But our church was sort of dead. I finally found a fundamental church in Monroe. They had problems too. I guess we just have to keep trusting the Lord.”

“Has there been any problems at Lincoln School?” I asked. “Everything seems so peaceful.”

“Yes, it’s creeping into our school. Last winter—and I know this isn’t very nice—we saw two high school kids having intercourse in the snow between the two wings of the school. It was quite a shock, right in front of our window. A janitor had to go out there and chase them away.”

“Ecch,” I said.

“We’ve also had some children coming to school with pornographic pictures. Mrs. Knipp took them away. I guess they were really dirty.”

“That’s SICK.”

“We’ve had some pills in our school, too. Mrs. Knipp took them away, too.”

“I’m glad,” I remarked. “I wish there were more people that had the moral standards she’s got.”

FIZZ! “Oh-oh, my soup’s boiling over. I’d better watch my supper.”

“OK, I won’t keep you any longer. It’s been great talking to you. God bless you!”

“Same to you. Good-bye!”

Mr. Burton had entered the room. “Mrs. Ninneman’s a nice lady,” I said. “She’s been teaching for twenty-nine years. Bless her heart!”

“I bet you’ve had quite an experience today,” Mr. Burton laughed. “You could probably write a book on it.”

“I think I will,” I said. “But I’d better be getting home before I forget about it.”

“OK. Hope to see you again soon.”

“You just might. Good-bye, and God bless you!”

“Same to you,” he said as I left.

As I left the school at 4:43 p.m. I could almost hear the voices of our fourth grade class singing “The German Band” and could almost see the happy faces of Mr. B.’s students. But then as I went outside I saw the dark clouds in the west, signaling the coming storm. I thought about what Mrs. Ninneman had said about evil creeping in and reminded myself that Lincoln School (and the whole world, for that matter) is heading for a storm of its own.


It’s now 2001, and I felt it necessary to update a few things in this story: