Cave In Rock, or: How I Almost Became a Bus-Driving, Tie-Offending, Closet-Questioning Fourth Grade Teacher in a Town with One Gas Station and Zero Boundaries

July 1977. The summer of disco, polyester, and my full-blown panic attack. I had just graduated from McKendree University with a degree in Elementary Education and a head full of dreams—and zero job offers. Apparently, that was the year everyone and their cousin decided to become a beacon of hope for America’s youth. The market was flooded with idealists and lesson plan evangelists.

Meanwhile, my best friend Nancy—who had already locked down an English teaching gig at the local high school—appointed herself my personal job search manager. She was relentless. Alaska? Sure. South Dakota reservation? Why not. I half expected her to suggest a post in Atlantis if it had a school system.

Then came the call: “There’s a fourth-grade opening in Cave In Rock, Illinois.” I thought she was making it up. Cave In Rock? And it’s in Illinois? OK. Let’s find it on the map. It was slightly more plausible than helping Eskimos haul whales in the Arctic tundra.

I called the school district. Mr. Varner, the principal, answered. He sounded like a man who’d seen things. “I’ll be honest,” he said, “this job has some challenges.” Translation: run. But instead, I agreed to meet him in person. He didn’t want a resume. Just me, my credentials, and presumably my soul.

Nancy insisted on driving my Ford Pinto, which had a rusted-out passenger floorboard covered by a stolen cafeteria tray. She feared losing a foot to the Illinois highway system. I feared losing my dignity in Cave In Rock.

We left at 7 a.m., armed with a thermos of coffee and Nancy’s mock interview questions. She grilled me like I was up for Secretary of Education. I finally snapped, “Nancy, I’m not interviewing for Harvard. I doubt Mr. Varner cares about Piaget’s snack preferences or Kohlberg’s bedroom habits.” She pivoted to lesson plans and parent communication. Reasonable. Ish.

Cave In Rock was...tiny. Like, blink-and-you’re-next door- across the river-in-Kentucky tiny. We stopped at the gas station where the cashier greeted me with, “Are you the new teacher?” I hadn’t even met Mr. Varner yet. Apparently, the town’s grapevine was faster than the Pinto.

Nancy parked herself at a picnic table with a book while I entered the school. Mr. Varner greeted me in a robin’s egg blue leisure suit and a silk shirt that looked like it had been attacked by a bouquet. His handshake was limp enough to qualify as a sponge bath. He ushered me into his office, which doubled as a sewing studio. A Singer machine sat proudly among piles of fabric. “I make clothes for my twin boys and church dresses for my wife,” he said. “Here’s our Kmart portrait.” Inner voice: Sweet Jesus, Carol Ann is five feet tall and three hundred pounds, and those twins are bursting out of their Osh Kosh huskies like popcorn kernels. And yes, they’re all wearing matching outfits sewn by Dad.

Then came the pitch. “We’re looking for a beginning teacher. Male. Preferably white. This community has standards.” My inner voice: Oh, we’re doing this out loud now? He continued: “You’d drive the school bus, coach baseball, rent a room from Myrna the cook for $50 a month—supper included—and join our Baptist church. My wife plays the organ. You’ll love it.”

Not once did he ask about my teaching philosophy. He showed me a 1956 style classroom that looked like it had been preserved for The Smithsonian. Beavers’ teacher, Miss Landers, was dead. I was her ghost.

As I left, Mr. Varner patted my back and said, “You might want to get out of town before dark with that tie on.” I wore a Save the Children tie—multicultural, inclusive, and apparently threatening to the local aesthetic of beige and Bible verses. Nancy later decoded the racist undertone. I was stunned. And furious.

Back in the Pinto, I exploded: “I’d rather work at Red Lobster or shovel coal in hell than teach in that town!” Nancy didn’t flinch. She waited. She let me unravel. I told her about Mr. Varner’s sewing hobby, the Kmart horror show, and the gnawing awareness that maybe—just maybe—he was living a closeted life. And maybe I’d have to do the same to survive in this profession. “Is this what it takes?” I asked. “To teach kids, do I have to lie about who I am?”

I’ll admit it: my Gay-dar was pinging like a smoke alarm in a polyester factory. Between the floral shirt, the sewing machine, the wash rag handshake, effeminate mannerisms and the matching family outfits, I started building a whole narrative about Mr. Varner’s inner life. But here’s the thing—I was making assumptions. Maybe he’s just a man who loves a good Singer zigzag stitch and believes in coordinated family portraits. Maybe he’s living his truth. Or maybe he’s not. Either way, it reminded me that stereotypes—no matter how well-tailored—can’t be the whole story. I don’t want to be the person who trades empathy for easy conclusions. Even when my Gay-dar is calibrated to vintage leisure suit precision.

And Nancy didn’t fix it. She didn’t offer platitudes. She nodded. She teared up. She stayed.

An hour later, in Mt. Vernon, we found a Dairy Queen. Nancy declared, “We need a Buster Bar.” And we laughed until our stomachs hurt. About the tie. The twins. The leisure suit. The Baptist sewing circle.

But beneath the snark and the ice cream on a stick was something deeper: Nancy’s unwavering presence. Her ability to hold space for my truth without judgment. Her gift for turning a breakdown into a road trip memory with snacks.

That’s the heart of Empathy on the Rocks. It’s not just about the stories—it’s about the people who sit beside you when the floorboard’s rusted out and the future feels like a polyester trap. Nancy didn’t just drive the Pinto. She drove me back to myself.

And I still had a lot to figure out. Still do!