The Young Minds by Forrest W. Fairley

TM

The Young Minds
A Journey to Conquer Remorse
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2020 Forrest W. Fairley
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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication.................................................................................i

1. No One Is Home ............................................................... 1
2. The Head Master’s Office ...............................................24
3. The Plan ..........................................................................57
4. The New Digs..................................................................78
5. The Instructions ............................................................ 86
6. At the Doorstep of the Chapel ........................................92
7. Dark Beginnings .............................................................95
8. The TV Guide ................................................................103
9. Unexpected Emotions ..................................................109
10. The Day After................................................................120
11. Digging Through the Ruins .......................................... 125
12. Midnight Conversation................................................. 132
13. A Ritter Nugget Found .................................................138
14. Where There’s a Will, There Should Be a Way .............151
15. The Answer ...................................................................163
16. The Awakening ..............................................................171
17. Pandora’s Box ...............................................................180
18. The Final Scene in the Play of Life ............................... 193
19. Christmas Bells Are Ringing ....................................... 202
20. The Bookstore Ghost – 2 Years Later ......................... 209



DEDICATION

To Dot Sibley English / Speech Teacher
Captain Shreve High School- Shreveport, Louisiana

In my confusing youth growing up, my next-door neighbor
was a wonderful lady by the name of Dot Sibley. She somehow
saw something in me that I most certainly did not see in my-
self. It’s like she had XRay vision to the future of my life. She
was like a second mom to me and just knew how to point me
in my life direction specifically tied to my talents.

Because of her consistency in encouraging me and my life
direction, it gave me the right push I needed to become the
success I am today.

However, my personal ambitions, my goals, my life agen-
da, never took me back home to let her know just how incred-
ible I felt about her in what she did for me. Her life navigation

ƇI Ƈ

put me in a place to succeed, and yet, I could not see my way
to return and take the time to tell her how much of what she
did meant to me.

I was forever filled with Remorse. And, remorse is a hard
thing to shed from one’s psyche.

Like many of us, I am Martin Hicks in this book, The Young
Minds.

Remorse fills my mind so many times that I did not circle
back in life and let her know how much she alone impacted
my walk throughout my life. She set down footprints for oth-
ers to see in her teaching of many students during her career.

I readily admit, I do beat myself up on a regular basis for
not being more caring as was and I still today terribly regret
my actions.

And, so it is, that I dedicate The Young Minds in her mem-
ory and she will always be my reminder to never let that occur
again.

Ƈ II Ƈ

“Young minds, allow me to remind you, that you
warm your hands at the fires that others have built
for you. You are fed the recipes that others have
written and therefore, young minds, your day will
come when your footprints will be what others look
back on to know that you were there.”

—Dorothy Ritter



1

NO ONE IS HOME

B efore I departed the physical remains of Miss Dorothy
Ritter, some six feet from me, standing near the edge of
her gravesite, I peered down forward at her casket, parallel
with the ground, one last time before they laid her to eternal
rest.

Funerals are simply not my thing. My emotional DNA just
does not do well at these morbid affairs. I vividly recall my
grandfather’s funeral as a young boy of just 6 years of age.

“Martin, you need to be strong about this”, disciplined in
his instructions, my father said to me on the morning of his
funeral.

I quickly responded, “Father, I don’t want to see him”,
pausing uncomfortably, “lying there in that box”, I retorted.

“Martin, funerals are part of life,” my father inpatient with
me now, stated with a more demanding tenor to his military
instructional tone.

He stopped gathering up all the necessities he needed to
hand over to the funeral home, and stood erect, just as he prob-
ably did in the military as a commanding officer and instruct-
ed, “You need to understand, you are born to die.” “Dying is
part of the process.” “You simply cannot escape it.” “It will
happen to me.” “It will happen to you.” “And, by the grace of

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FORREST W. FAIRLEY

God, it has now happened to your grandfather.” “Understand
that Martin, digest it and live with it and this, son, is where
you transition into a man. You are born for moments like this
in your life.”

He finished with one last set of instructions for me with a
tone that I knew not to question any longer. “Get your things.
You will respect your grandfather and you will be a man about
doing so.”

My mother spotted the insensitivity of his conversation with
me, and as we exited our apartment, she caressed me tenderly
and that felt warm and caring. Much more than a father who
really did not know the first thing about being a loving parent.
My head looked up to my mother walking out alone as we were
following him. “He thinks I’m one of his soldiers.” My mother
caressed me even tighter and simply said, “It’s ok, dear. It’s ok.”

Those childhood memories now surfaced to me as a 34-
year old adult staring straight ahead at Dorothy Ritter’s shin-
ing casket, sprinkled with newly formed rain droplets from a
sky weeping over her most recent passing.

I much prefer to remember the person who has passed
with fond memories instead of the bleak and dark abode rep-
resented in the process of transferring a physical body back to
the earth from whence it came.

Being an emotional “softy” as I was, a single melancholy
tear slid down my left cheek onto my upper lip and into my
dry parched mouth. A two-hour catholic funeral dirge full of
all the adorning rituals, including the smoke and incense, had
preceded this moment and I quickly realized that this is prob-
ably what Dorothy had asked for; she being an incredibly pas-
sionate follower of her Catholic faith.

There is just something about funerals. You are physically
there, yet you are not mentally present. You stand there pay-
ing homage and respect while the priest provides his liturgical
litany of biblical inspirational thoughts, and your mind is just
in another place.

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THE YOUNG MINDS

And, so it was for me this day, Tuesday morning November
14th, 2012, as I found myself saying goodbye to Miss Dorothy
Ritter, my prep school instructor of English Literature and
Creative Writing at Nathan Hawks Prep Academy for Boys. I
was not listening to the words coming out of Father Carrigan’s
lips, but thinking more of my days back at NHPA school for
boys, when just a growing lad attending her classes every day
at the ripe “young mind” age of 14.

My older, more mature, mind carried me back to those
vivid days in her classroom surrounded by 4-walls and no
windows. In her neatly arranged santorium room of knowl-
edge, she would daily remind us that our young minds, as she
walked up and down the aisles focusing all her energies dedi-
cated to one purpose; that of her daily ritual of reciting her
infamous speech, which we all struggled at the time to under-
stand. Its meaning and significance were much less important
to us then, than what we had planned at 3:30 pm when the
doors of Nathan Hawk Prep Academy would open and young
men all, were stripping off their uniformed blazers and ties,
escaping the bondages of education.

My class, plus each of the other four she taught daily,
would each hear that same speech spoken word for word with
the same tonality to each student, whether their young minds
were ready for it or not.

“Young Minds”, she groveled in her 60’ish something
voice, “allow me to remind each of you, that you warm your
hands at the fire others have built for you. You are fed from
the great recipes invented by the creative writing culinary
chefs of our times. One day, Young Minds, your day will come
when you will be called upon to lay down footprints for others
to look back on how you walked this earth. I say to you now,
what will be your path of prints that they shall see?”

She would deliberately pause some 20 to 30 seconds fol-
lowing her diatribe to allow every word to penetrate the crev-
ices of the Young Minds in hopes that perhaps one day they

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FORREST W. FAIRLEY

may be listening and truly comprehend what she was verbaliz-
ing or “putting down”, to say it in a more contemporary slang.

She would just stand there in the aisle of her choosing,
staring at the back row, scanning across the room and then up
and down each row of desks, until each boy had met his fate of
the stare of Miss Dorothy Ritter.

This daily guilt trip ritual we thought at the time, brought
her great enjoyment reciting her words, rich in meaning but
lacking in mental “stick-ability” to her young lads with the
many other things laden on their wondering and mischie-
vous minds. We all thought she just enjoyed hearing herself
pontificate.

It was not until now, standing at her open grave, that I
began to truly hear those words she spoke for the “first time”.
So many hundreds of times we could not help but memorize it
to our everlasting memories. To understand its meaning now
and how I had so abused what she was attempting to say to
us, made the present moment even more dreadful than it was.

And, now in my adult professional life, it was like I was
hearing it for the very first time. A more mature me, standing
in the drizzling cold November weather staring down at the
graveside of a lady who was doing her best to communicate
rational, well-meaning words, to her students all. Sadly, all of
us were simply not listening or at least that was my thoughts
processing through the emotions of this day.

Now, viewing her steel casket, it was too late to tell her
how much what she taught me in those days, meant to me per-
sonally and even more importantly, how it literally changed
and impacted my life today; a professional writer with a Times
Best Seller just published. Me, 34- year old Martin Hicks, a
professional fiction writer with a best-selling novel. A feat that
never would have occurred had it not been for her pushing me
forward to write everyday in her classroom, discovering a tal-
ent she spotted in me when others had not.

One believed that she believed telling us, then telling us

Ƈ4 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

again, every day her infamous speech, would be the most ef-
fective method to impregnate the young minds of her boys of
Nathan Hawks Prep Academy.

Yet today, staring at her steel gray coffin, with newly de-
posited rain droplets beading up from a more increasing rain
shower, it only reminded me of what Father Flannigan, my
childhood Priest at Nathan Hawk would tell his congregate
when he was called to duty to officiate a parish funeral.

His Irish brogue would punctuate his passions and had
he today officiated Miss Ritter’s funeral, he poignantly might
have said, “You see my brothers and sisters, as you peer upon
the remains of our dear Dorothy Ritter, I must confess to you
that she is not at home anymore. For you see my daughters and
sons of God, the house that Dorothy once resided in for these
many years has been sold and she has moved away. You may
knock as many times as you wish at her door, now closed and
locked for good. Do so with the strength of an army, however,
she will not answer. The doors, you see, are locked for good.
For she has relocated, moved away, to be with our heavenly
father, the great innkeeper above in his mansion of eternity.”

With ever increasing rain droplets falling on my face, this
reminiscent memory made what was an already depressing
day even more so.

I had not seen Miss Ritter in years; many years, as I began
to ask myself, “Why was I even here today at all?”

And, why had I come to this dreadful funeral, an event I
detested the very look and feel in its morbid contribution to
the guilt, shame and remorse I was already beginning to feel
for not doing a better job of keeping in touch with my past and
particularly with poor old Miss Ritter.

I glanced up looking around and there were few, if any,
past students who had attended her funeral today. If those
there were past students, I would not have known them. They
had no familiarity to me whatsoever. Some could have been a
few parents of current students doing their best to support the

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FORREST W. FAIRLEY

school for the enormous amount of tuition they paid. There
were maybe 20 or so attending the funeral, and that was in-
cluding the ladies of the alter guild reliant in their funeral duty
to the parish.

In so many ways it was so sad, I thought to myself, how
this lady had touched the lives of over 6,000 young minds
throughout her teaching career and none of them were here
to pay their respects, except me. Not that that made me feel
better about myself, not that that excused my past actions,
and not that that made anything right at all about this day,
because it simply did not.

It just made me even more sad for Miss Ritter, who I began
to wonder whether she died a lonely lady. Did she have fam-
ily? Had she ever married? Did she have children of her own?
Truth is I knew nothing about her nor did I possess answers
to any of these questions. Why? Because I had gone AWOL
in life when it came to staying in touch with her after having
left the school for my last day of what we boys called, “Hawk
Education”.

Once again, I attempted in a feeble way to condone my
life’s absenteeism, so as, to passively forgive myself. You
know, it’s that same thought, when you’re on a diet and you
raid the refrigerator to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
You immediately have negative thoughts for doing so, but find
it in your mental capacity to forgive the action. And, with that
same paralleled action, I thought, where is it written that you
must stay in touch with people of the past? And as quick as
that thought passed into my mind, the quicker it also depart-
ed, as I smirked, “Nice try Martin, but you failed.” I shook my
head as if to say, the peanut butter wins again.

It was two days earlier that I received a call from one of my
closest friends and current business partner, Scott Yancy, who
was out on the west coast for business. He and I were child-
hood classmates at NHPA and through some past contacts at
NHPA he had kept in touch with over the years, he heard from

Ƈ6 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

a friend of ours whose aunt is an instructor at the school about
Miss Ritter’s sudden passing and knowing such, called to en-
courage me, that I should attend. After all it was Miss Ritter
that stimulated my creative juices in writing he stated, being
my book agent and all, quick to add yet a morsel of even more
guilt than I was already carrying on my back.

But, when I thought more about it, I knew that that was
just the way Yance’ processed and formed his thoughts. It was
what I so admired about him the most. Always the considerate
one; a quality as my business manager that I truly admired.

Now with a best-selling fiction novel to my credit and a
current #1 on the Times list, I realized after all, that I owed
more than a great deal to Miss Ritter for my success as a writ-
er. A writer born from her seeing something in me that no
one else ever did; not even my own family and certainly not
even me. Not realizing until now, that she somehow coached
me onward to the great accomplishments I enjoyed today. She
visualized a quality in me and practiced a daily ritual of en-
couraging me to write what was on my mind; my young mind.

My thoughts returned to the present and I started to feel
with every rain drop increasing now in intensity, the guilt
and remorse of my past memory of Miss Ritter and how I
had abused this incredible gift that was laid at my feet by her
generosities.

Her vision on its own merit did more to teach me the in-
dependence of writing than anything I could have ever in life
experienced. I always compared it in my mind to a composer
writing music. Like a composer, you are either blessed with
the talent of being able to allow your feelings to transport you
to a place that sends thoughts to paper in a way that moves
others in some emotional fashion. A composer of music does
the same exact thing and so do gifted writers.

And with the success of my book, I felt, I had finally
achieved this pinnacle of success. I had composed my own
masterpiece, in moving others emotionally.

Ƈ7 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

After hearing from Yancy, I, reluctantly said “sure, I would
carve out the time and drive over to attend her service.” After
all, it gave me a good excuse to drive my new BMW 5 series, a
gift I purchased for myself as a reward for my recent success
in publishing, not to mention financial success.

And now here, standing at her gravesite recalling how she
single handedly carved out the change in me as a student to
form and shape me with this love I have in my life called writ-
ing, I was truly ashamed of my absence of befriending her
these many-many years. My eyes glanced forward for just a
moment to view the Patron Mother statue in the small church
graveyard, as if she were looking down on Dorothy’s vacant
house with a significant sadness in her faithful face. As I gazed
at her, my thoughts starting seeding upward again, thinking,
the patron mother was more dismayed at how I had forgot-
ten this incredible lady who touched my life, just as Jesus
had touched so many throughout his days as a teacher on this
earth.

Dorothy Ritter had more to do with custom wrapping who
I was as a writer, than my own mother had over teaching me
right from wrong. Not to say that my mother did not have a
positive influence on my growing life, but Miss Ritter pushed
me daily to become a lover of the English language and the
incredible inventory of rich words within it. She turned words
into a living form of art to be appreciated by others and showed
me how to paint the canvas of an 8x11 inch piece of paper into
a masterpiece.

As these thoughts raced through my frigid mind, standing
in the rain, I welled up even more with emotions and the more
I thought about her presence in my past, the more tears began
to stream down my cheek. I could not help it. I felt an empti-
ness of hunger to see her, talk to her just one more time, hug
her neck, yet, I felt so ashamed at my actions of the past of my
abandonment of our relationship over the years.

I admitted to myself that my very life, my success, would

Ƈ8 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

never had been possible had it not been for the keen eye of
Miss Dorothy Ritter seeing something in me that I certainly
did not acknowledge in myself at this young age. My gripped
fists were pounding hard on my leg, whipping me in torture as
if to suggest, why could you not have thought about all of this
then versus now. It certainly would have made this moment a
better one to deal with.

I stood lonely in the rain, not believing how selfish I had
become in not doing what she recited to us every day in our
paying forward of ourselves and our talents, so others could
see where we had been in our lives. She always said, “nothing
feels better than giving.” And, now looking upon her grave, I,
sadly realized, I had not done any of this at all. If anything, I
had taken more steps backward in my life instead of forward
in becoming the man I should have been versus what she had
expected of me to become.

My best-selling book had taken off like a racehorse and
Yancy stated this was a certain “million-er” as he called it;
meaning it would easily surpass a million copies by the end of
the month. This success would easily in a year’s time place a
smooth $2-million dollars income in my bank account.

This was something I had never accounted for nor even
dreamed possible as a struggling writer. What got me up every
starving day prior to this book was my appetite for writing. I
never considered money as a beneficial outcome for a talent
that I loved. I just loved to put down on paper thoughts, plots
and words of expressions that I knew would drive a public to
want to read my works.

My future now was set financially. I could now relax to
what I wanted to do in writing and dedicate myself to the cre-
ative inspirations that drove me to put on paper plots that
people would want to read. No more pressures of making the
rent payments or borrowing money from my mother to make
ends meet, as I had done on more than one occasion in those
hungry times.

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FORREST W. FAIRLEY

And, who did I have to thank for it…a dead woman lying
still as a board in her silver colored shining casket not having
anyone there for her, except the church alter guild and a few
folks, most of which I did not know or recognize. I thought
to myself this ritual would be forgotten the moment they all
left the service. No one would remember the dead soul placed
back into the earth from whence she came.

Standing at her grave, absent of the others around me, I
was awash with emotion and an even more darkened remorse
of grief overcame me. My never reaching out to her to say,
“Hey Miss Ritter, I did it! Aren’t you proud of me, your prod-
igy student?” “I made it and it was because of you that I did!”

Words never spoken to her. And, with rain coming down
harder, the umbrellas had broken out being passed out by the
ladies of the guild. One could tell that they had practice at this
and something told me that they were used to providing shel-
ter from the rain when most folks in grief strickened states
would fail to remember to bring one.

The remorse in my soul was now becoming as apparent as
the pouring rain.

A momentary passing thought of how everyone at some
time in their life experiences remorse tied to relationships with
people in their current or past life and not staying in touch
with them. Once again, I attempted to mentally find favor in
forgiving myself but it simply was not sticking. I thought to
myself more silent conversation in my head to Miss Ritter.

“Yes, Miss Ritter, I owe it all to you for planting the seeds
of inspiration in my very mind and soul.”

All the things I could have said to her. I now realized what
could have been; what should have been and what now will
never will be, all due to my lack of caring.

Suddenly, a “what could have been” mental image of me
showing up in her classroom, now a successfully published
author, demonstrating to her students, that anything is pos-
sible and that they should listen to her young minds speech,

Ƈ 10 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

due to its resonance of meaning, all witnessed in my life story.
This momentary dream vision blurred in my head, seeking
anyway possible to find a way to forgive my past life actions
and poor choices.

But, that image disappeared when the reality of my never
doing that came full-front to me. I did not do what I should
have done in practicing her famous quote and quickly awak-
ened once again by the reality of this cold November NYC day
with another large rain droplet exploding on my face; nature
attempting to decide whether to transition it into a snowflake
due to the cold temperatures of November bordering on freez-
ing. The day was ending. It was 4:30 in the afternoon and it
was starting to get dark, especially in downtown NYC where the
buildings typically shroud sunlight or any light for that matter
and simply made an already dark day even more darker.

My guilt was building and I began to realize how so self-
centered I had become. I had done nothing to avail her; not
even a bouquet of flowers sent to her at her classroom. She
would always state to we young minds, “It is the small foot-
prints you make that end up being seen the most by others
even if you never know it.”

What she meant by this was a simple kind gesture, al-
though you may never know it, can mean so much to some-
one who is its recipient. The small footprints once repeated
by others who had received them would then cause a chain
reaction and this repeated by others would simply make the
world a better place. She stated on numerous occasions after
speaking this, that this was the true definition of walking in
the path of Jesus.

Up until now, I had not appreciated the reality of attend-
ing a faith based school, as this was just some of goodness of
morsels of life that comes out of such an experience.

She was attempting to teach us a very faith based theologi-
cal message about walking the same walk that Christ did in his
life and when you do this you become more like him.

Ƈ 11 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

My mother would always tell me growing up, “Sometimes
Martin, a simple word of thanks is all a person wants to hear
to brighten up their day or for that matter their life”.

Why is it, when you feel like you have failed, you hear your
mother’s voice inside your head?

Little did I know this realization, spoken from the lips of
my mother and Miss Ritter, would come to play in my life to-
day at this dreadful event.

I felt terrible. Suddenly, all the success of the past few
years as a writer with a best seller, meant nothing to me any-
more. A sourness in my stomach provided me a sickened
feeling in which was starting to cause the sweats; not to be
confused with the rain and teardrops that also covered my
face simultaneously.

I now felt my biggest remorse; never communicating my
deep respect of how she changed my life. Never walking the
path that she daily asked us to walk as her students.

It made me to realize that I had not been a practicing
Christian. Not that I needed more guilt, but the truth was, I
had not done a good job of walking the walk of Christ, as was
her words to us, attending a religious school as I did. All of
this made me think of how I had put the race to success in
front of the race of building a good life.

And, as is common nature, with every remorseful thought
accompanied another like-type forgiving thought, “Well, ev-
eryone does this. You’re not alone Martin!” Somehow, as
much as I mentally attempted, those thoughts just did not
wipe the slate clean for me this very sad day.

In the world of a writer, nothing came easy.
Although there were many late nights in front of my com-
puter typing away at chapters that would never make it to
print and the continual self-doubts of never becoming pub-
lished, there was always something that kept driving me for-
ward in my writing. And, that something, I now realized, was
the spirit instilled inside me by one who cared how I turned

Ƈ 12 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

out in life. Yet at the time, not until now, viewing her life’s
end, did all this come full circle to me.

As one gets older into adulthood, one tends to reflect on
past events that occurred in their lives that cause them to
transition into a new phase of living. And, such was the case
for me riding back to NYC from Boston one day on the train.
It was one of those “V8” moments I later would suggest to
Yancy, where I literally slapped myself on my forehead with a
book plot that would forever change my life.

Traveling on this 3-hour Amtrak ride, I had an idea flash
before my eyes for a story, that immediately became an out-
line on paper and even more quicker than that in the span of
3-days, became the rough draft of my book.

I remember not sleeping for two days straight I was so
excited. I typed as fast as the thoughts could flow from my
mind onto the computer screen or as I called it, “the composer
screen”.

It was that composer moment that writers struggle to find
in their careers. That moment that so rarely comes and when
it does it feels as if there were someone in my head dictating
and all I was doing was just transcribing as fast as my fingers
could type in keeping up with the voice inside my head. I was
the conduit to the authorship and the energy of the words that
were coming from somewhere else I simply could not explain.
In book writing, this was the high of highs. It reminded me of
what marathoners sometimes classified at the 21-mile mark-
er as getting the runner’s high. It is an almost unexplainable
feeling.

With my rough draft completed and too much coffee in
my system, I finally collapsed and crashed for over 15-hours
straight before being awakened by the phone. It was my moth-
er asking if I was coming over on Sunday. Sunday would be
Easter and in her annual tradition to attend Mass, followed by
lunch, awakened me to the responsibility of keeping this tra-
dition alive, something my mother held sacredly close to her

Ƈ 13 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

heart. It mattered not to her, that the typical flow of people
normally surrounding the family table had dwindled with my
father’s passing. Add to that a grandmother who was more
concerned about her social circles than her own family that
somewhere in life along the way, she had placed at the end of
her line of life prioritizations.

Understanding how my mother wanted to keep traditions,
I for one, was not going to disappoint her; not in the least.
Even more now since my father’s sudden passing of 8-years
prior.

It was me she relied on to be there for her now in her own
aging life. However, as for my grandmother attending, well,
that was always a big last-minute question mark, only to nor-
mally be answered with an evening prior phone call from her
live-in maid stating that she would be attending or declining.
You see, my grandmother was not the religious type and for
that matter, not even the family type and being honest she
would come maybe 1 or 2 times within a 5-year period.

My grandmother was not the typical Norman Rockwell
“granny” type. She rarely was around, and spent most of her
time and money dedicated to her arts foundations and various
charities that would be blessed by her presence. She resided
on numerous society boards and the like while family life took
a back seat and to her was just not in the cards as hard as that
was for me to suggest, comprehend and understand.

Following mass, we would eat mother’s lovingly prepared
dinner, sometimes just she and I and speak of the past and
the day would end with a last sip of Easter wine, unless I con-
vinced Yancy to attend to give more breadth and company to
the conversation of the Easter festivities.

On this Easter Sunday, it was just mom and myself. I gazed
into her aging eyes as she passed me her homemade yeast rolls
and realized my days with her were numbered.

Departing my mother’s apartment that Easter Sunday
2010 evening, I got myself up and spent the entire night into

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THE YOUNG MINDS

morning proofing and editing. Then, picking up the phone
with great excitement in my voice, I called Yancy to break the
big news at 5:30 am sharp.

“Yance, wake up you ol’ son of a bitch.” “This is it” I stated
to a sleepy agent at who was for sure not nor never a morning
person.

He stumbled to a consciousness to pronounce a sensible
response. “Who is this?” as he said half comatose and a tail
end closing comment, “And, whoever you are you had bet-
ter have a damn good reason to call me at this hour of the
morning!”

“Yance, wake up, get a shower and I’ll meet you at your of-
fice in 60.” “This is it, Yance, I’m telling you…this… is… frick-
in’… it!” “Now get your ass up and head to your office.”

“I have finally written it! I have finally written… “the one”.
That’s all I had to say to him to bring him out of his sleep.
Yancy was a total believer in me and my writing talents. He
was not only one of my lifelong best friends, but as my man-
ager, he had stood by me for the last 6 years, always believing
that my gold mining in writing would pay off someday. He
had invested cold hard cash in staking me through this long
unproductive period and never once questioned his invest-
ment. Today, I would hand over to him a large golden nugget
worthy of his years of investing in this miner of words.
It had truly been a dry bones period in my life. Beyond a
creative article here and there published in magazines with
little income to show for that, I was growing very discouraged
to the point of almost convincing myself this was not going to
be my end game.
“Are you sure? I mean, are you really sure?”, he asked.
I paused long and hard as I prepared my response.
Calmly, I responded, “Meet me in your office in 60 and
read it for yourself.”
And sure enough, almost a year later we were published.
“Stop at Nothing” hit the shelves and with some tactfully

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FORREST W. FAIRLEY

orchestrated PR from the publishing company, all part of the
gig of introducing a new book, we quickly rose to the #1 chart
in a very short span of time.

The hype continued and we were well on our way to real-
izing publishing success.

We were both smiling; especially Yance’, who was quickly
realizing a financial return on his investment from years of
carrying me. He now knew that his future as a successful pub-
lishing agent would be what he also had dreamed about as
well. He would see more clients as his reputation now soared
in the publishing world as a successful agent. The secret sauce
of publishing is to get a winner that new authors then beat a
path to your doorstep.

Our friendship could not have been more bonded. It felt
good, really good to enjoy our refreshed kindred of being best
of friends.

And, simply put, both our careers were set for life.
Success defined is an unusual thing. The phrase, “Success
Begets Success!”, is true, as this was like a switch that went off
in my head. Another great sequel concept for my second book
quickly formulated in my head and I began working on it. In
the book world that is the perfect cash storm. Create reader
desire and make them want more that only a sequel can sat-
isfy. Do it well and you can get four to five publishing’s from
the same title.
Yancy got a call the other day from a film producer in
Hollywood wanting to discuss movie rights, which was the
very reason for his west coast business trip, during this time
of my attending Dorothy’s service.
But, for now, coming back to the reality of gazing through
the rain, I realized morbidly once again that I could not now
share this personal success with a wonderful old lady who put
me in the right place in my life to rise above the standard of
performance from a love of this craft called writing.
Here I was a guy who was so consumed with himself in

Ƈ 16 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

doing it, doing it, doing it, every day. I was focused on one
thing and one thing only; my own personal success. I had be-
come over the years totally self-centered, even ignoring many
times my own family, least of all this poor woman whose bodily
house she no longer resided in regardless of how many times
I may choose now to try to knock on her departed front door.

I stood there counting, like sheep, in my mind the assum-
able number of years Miss Ritter taught at NHPA and when
45 finally rolled off my mumbling lips and I was even more
weak in sorrow.

Who works in the same job for 45 straight years?
Someone who loved their work more than the job itself,
and certainly money had nothing to do with that, that’s who.
And, for sure, Dorothy Ritter, was that person.
She was a life force at this school. She changed young
minds for 45 years. Teaching, educating, inspiring assumedly
the better part of over 6,000 students and it was for her the
only mission and passion in her life that mattered. Nothing
else ever came close. It was her path to walk sent down from
heaven above.
Dorothy always stated to we students, “God has a plan for
us all. For me. For you. For all of us. Never forget that. Never!”
When she stated this on numerous occasions, I could see her
eyes well up and although I never quite understood why, on
this day observing her final rites of life, I finally did. I got it.
I wondered, who else, besides me, did she have this same
effect on? Who else could have been as steered in their own
similar direction as I had been by her incredible insightful-
ness? How many of the 6,000 did not know she had died?
I once again regretted her passing and the sore and painful
thought kept reoccurring in my head like a bad ground hog
day movie nightmare. How many of the past students could
look back and reflect on their successes tied to this one won-
derful educator, knowingly or unknowingly.
You never know until most likely it’s too late in one’s life

Ƈ 17 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

how the actions of another affects you. As such it results in
you becoming the impact of another person. I was quickly re-
calling another quote from Dorothy, who said, “never waste
a moment in telling one how appreciative you are of a good
deed done.”

I remembered what Yancy had told me he heard when he
called the school to find out more about her sudden death and
the funeral arrangements to pass along to yours truly.

In her predicable manner, she strolled up and down in be-
tween the desk aisles in her classroom, stating and reciting
her famous Young Minds speech. She completed her journey
at the blackboard to write the assignment for the next day’s
reading of Daisy Miller, the Great American Novel.

Just as she finished with chalk still in her hand and her
students, all with heads down, writing in their journals the
assignment reading for the next day’s class, they were sud-
denly brought out of their concentration hearing a loud thud
which was now the limp dead body of Dorothy Ritter smash-
ing downward on the 100-year old wood floors of Nathan
Hawks Prep Academy. Holding an eraser in her frail hand a
small dust imprint on the floor outlined its sudden impact. It
was the first time that the classroom of Miss Dorothy Ritter
exhibited any disorder what so ever in all the years she had
presided over it.

And, that was it. Almost 50 years teaching Young Minds
suddenly and tragically slammed to the wooden floors with an
abrupt end this November 12th, 2012. The dynamic teacher,
instructor of Nathan Hawks Academy, Dorothy Ritter, not to
mention God’s own daughter, was eternally gone. Her door
was shut and locked for the good of all time.

Her life path on this physical earth was completed. Her
path now was in the hands of her heavenly father.

Totally, ignoring the small crowd within the cemetery be-
hind the main parish cathedral that had gathered and showed
up to pay final tribute to Miss Ritter, I looked up to realize

Ƈ 18 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

that the service was over and most were walking to their cars
or inside the church fellowship hall for sip of coffee and bit of
something that the alter guild woman prepared as their cus-
tomary send off to heaven gift to Miss R.

Later I would find out that almost 50-years earlier, Dorothy
Ritter purchased a small plot in the church’s tiny cemetery
when one could still do so. In fact, it was one of the first things
she did upon receiving the teaching assignment at NHPA.

The tiny partial of Manhattan land that adjoined the back
of the Catholic Cathedral was home to some souls that dated
back as early as the late 1700’s. And, with a small defined lim-
ited number of remaining plots, Dorothy even in her young
years as an educator knew this is where she would want to
eternally lie, when she secured this small partial of space. This
resting spot to wait for her new orders from heaven.

It seemed Dorothy had lived a very simple and what ap-
peared to be lonely life. I would come to later learn that she
purchased an apartment just two blocks from the school. A
street side downstairs apartment facing Howell Avenue was
home to this beautiful soul. A one-bedroom unit with a small
kitchen. She did not own a car. She had everything she need-
ed within a 5-block radius of her apartment. Two blocks from
her apartment was Papa’sittas Grocers. The church was two
blocks away and across from the church was NHPA. She never
married. She had no known family, no known children and
no one to call her own. No one except her students. Her life
was exhibited in her passion for teaching, shaping and alter-
ing young minds, like mine.

I wondered why God had delivered this gift of a lady, this
“fire-starter”, just so that she could forge her God path in
making sure that over the span of 45-years and some 6,000
+ students who gathered together to warm their hands at the
fires she built every day; the Godmother that she was to us all.

And, now standing at her gravesite I could easily see the
footprints she had left for others to see. The footprints left

Ƈ 19 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

for me to see. The footprints she always challenged us to put
down for others to see our presence on this earth.

The reality of the cold November rain brought me out of
my school daze and with it even more remorse about how I
did not hold up my end of the Young Minds creed.

I thought to myself, I could have been a better person; a
better example to others while suddenly finding great depres-
sion in this afterthought.

Slapping my upper arm in disgust my thoughts continued
to scold me. Would it have been so much to show up in her
classroom unexpectedly and surprise her with a copy of my
newly published book?

So many regrets were building up inside me that I could
feel my very heart breaking inside my body with sadness, re-
morse and regret. I could not have been more saddened even
if my own mother had been in this casket.

I kept thinking to myself, I was not raised this way. So, why,
did I ignore the obvious of what I should have done? Sadly,
my reality life allowed me to perform the miserable actions of
a person that was truly, truly not me. The values instilled in
me by a loving family were absent in my early adult years.

This genuinely beautiful old woman gave her whole life
in the sacrifice to young men teaching them, inspiring them
and in her own way, mothering them in a way that produced
young adults from rough edged boys; transitioning them to
responsible and ready to face the world male adults.

I could only assume this as I really did not know too many
people except Yance’ that attended NHPA. But, I just figured
most had to have succeeded in life. I asked and stated an ob-
vious, “How could they have not?” After all, they had the lit-
eral “jewel in the crown” of teachers providing daily doses of
golden nuggets of education to them.

How many leaders of industry, how many doctors, scien-
tists, artists, teachers did she touch?

An answer I thought to myself I would never know and

Ƈ 20 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

once again, I felt total emptiness in this additional void of
information.

I tried hard in the blowing wind now stirring up with the
November cold front moving through the city, that there must
be hundreds, if not, thousands of her students who would like
to know more about her.

And, suddenly as if I felt she could hear me, I blurted out
under my breath in my dripping tone of anguished tears,
“Miss Ritter, I am so-so terribly sorry!”

“How can I make you know how much you meant to me?”
I took a couple of steps backward and bumping into a
cement bench, I sat down for the next 45-minutes at least
with my hands in my face having the cry of my life. I quickly
thought, what would my father have thought of his stoic son,
now, bundled up in a tangled mess of tears, crying out of con-
trol like a little girl.
With little reserve remaining, I lifted my 6’2” 175 lb. torso
off the concrete bench. I had sat there so long that the rain
had formed an outline of my butt and the trench coat I was
wearing on the seat of the bench, having been somewhat dry
shrouded from the rain from the trees coveting the small cem-
etery when I had first sat down.
I slowly stood and became erect. A few steps forward re-
turned me to the open gravesite. I looked up only to see two
cemetery workers hiding respectfully in the shadows under
the low branches of the 100-year old oak tree that shrouded
the small cemetery footprint space in the rear of the church.
The enclosed 8’ high brick walls totally surrounded the cem-
etery and gave it, its respectful privacy. The gravediggers po-
litely stood there with shovels in hand wearing their dripping
yellow raincoats and forest green knee-high rain boots ready
for the big dig.
The day had started with me giving little regard except to
an obligation to do the polite thing of attending her funeral
at the invite of my business partner and fellow Nathan Hawk

Ƈ 21 Ƈ

FORREST W. FAIRLEY

schoolmate’s request. Little did I know when I arrived at her
gravesite, that I would face this incredible and overwhelming
emotional breakdown in respect for an incredible lady I had
failed. And, with little effort from me, she could have left this
world knowing how I truly felt about what she done to change
and alter my very life. Again, I glanced through my tears, to
witness the grave workers standing under a large oak tree
with shovels awaiting their physical duty, just wishing I would
leave and get on with my life.

For a moment, I deciphered that the area of the small post-
age stamp cemetery was not big enough to allow big equip-
ment in to dig graves and this was done by these two workers
with grunt strength as it must have been done hundreds of
times over the past centuries by other grave diggers.

I had no idea of the time that had passed sitting there, as I
had. I thought to myself, this is a scene, the grave diggers were
probably used to witnessing. They also probably thought she
was my mother. And, to some degree they were right. But as
her “prodigal son”, I had let my mother down just as they were
about to do in covering her up with wet dirt.

Looking once again toward them, I figured they must want
to get this over so that they could get home to their respective
families.

I tipped my head forward and with my index finger point-
ed toward them as if to say, ‘just a few more seconds gentle-
men, just a moment more and I will be on my way.’

And, it was at that moment, just as sudden as the thought
that occurred to me on that day on the train from Boston,
when the entire subject matter of my successful book came
into my head, I started to experience an explosion of an idea
into my head. Suddenly, I began to understand what I had to
do. What I must to do for Dorothy. What I had to do to seek
forgiveness for my past indiscretions of ignoring this beautiful
lady in my life.

It was as if Dorothy Ritter, herself was speaking to me

Ƈ 22 Ƈ

THE YOUNG MINDS

straight from the grave. It was an idea of gigantic proportions
congealing in my mind and one that I absolutely knew I had to
pursue to its ultimate end.

“Yes, that’s it!” “That’s it!” I mumbled this over and over to
myself. “That is what I have to do!”.

I looked straight ahead at her casket, smiled gently and
winked at the doorstep of Dorothy Ritter. I reached out to
touch it gently as if I was leaving my business card in the door
cervices of an empty home.

As quickly as this grand idea came into my mind, the chal-
lenges associated with it, immediately followed. But, I knew I
must try at all costs and efforts. I must. It was the least in my
life I could do now to pay my dues to the lady who certainly
paid hers to me and perhaps the other 6,000 students she
taught throughout her life.

And, with that, I glanced with a small smile toward the two
gravediggers and startled them when I shouted out to them,

“Hey fellas, there’s nobody home here boys! Nobody’s
home! I was pointing toward her casket as I continued, “close it
up, lock the door and turn out the lights! The house is empty!”

The two gravediggers just stared at me without any reac-
tion or response.

I looked at her casket one last time.
And, with that I said goodbye to the old dead mind of
Dorothy Ritter.
I looked up heavenly and quietly uttered, “I do so hope you
enjoy your new home. You deserve it”.

Ƈ 23 Ƈ