Mrs. Hamilton
August 7, 2026
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, where I attended public school. In those days, the 1940s and ‘50s, California’s educational system was one of the best in the country. I still remember the excellent high-school courses I took in such subjects as math, science, chemistry, great books, and biology. The biology course was leadled by Mrs. Hamilton, a highly competent teacher. We studied many aspects of life and living organisms during the semester. One day, Mrs. Hamilton announced that we would next be studying the brain, which caused little reaction from the class. But when Mrs. Hamilton told us that she was going to bring an actual cow’s brain into class, we responded instantly with groans, and comments such as “ugh,” “sickening,” and “I think I’m not coming to class tomorrow.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Hamilton entered the classroom the next day with a rather large cow’s brain on a plate, which she placed on a front seat connected to the writing desk behind it. As expected, there were more groans from the class, but finally the instruction proceeded normally, with us students individually coming up to the blackboard and writing answers to questions from the last homework assignment. Here, however, events took an unexpected turn. Mrs. Hamilton became so absorbed with a student’s answer that she forgot about the brain placed directly behind her and sat down on it. Can you imagine what it must feel like to sit on a cow’s brain? Mrs. Hamilton certainly didn’t have to, and instantly jumped up with some of the gooey stuff attached to.her back sideto her backside. Our class erupted into utter bedlam, and Mrs. Hamilton, to her credit, shook her head in disbelief and then laughed like a good sport along with the rest of us. I don’t believe we ever studied the brain again.
Fast forward at least twenty or twenty-five years. Our Guarneri String Quartet was on tour, and one of the performances was at the Ambassador Auditorium in Pasadena. We always looked forward to performing there, because the audience was so appreciative and the auditorium’s acoustics memorable. As I was packing up my violin after the concert, there was a knock on our dressing-room door, and an older woman hesitatingly entered. “You probably won’t remember me,” she said. “Mrs. Hamilton!” I fairly shouted at her. “How could I ever forget you?” We laughed and hugged each other at the same time. Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Hamilton had followed my musical career and always hoped to meet up with me again. Now sitting face to face felt almost surreal, as we reminisced for the longest time about a most unlikely occurrence that both Mrs. Hamilton and her entire class would never forget. After all, when will any of us have the chance to sit on a plate full of cow’s brains or the privilege of watching it happen?
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Great story, Arnold! It brought to mind an incident of my own with my third-grade teacher in West Palm Beach (a similarly excellent education in the 1950s and 60s). On that day, Mrs. Haller, a kind and rigorous educator, was seated at her desk, talking with a new student who had just arrived with her mother. Sitting in the classroom, trying to concentrate on reading, I was suddenly overcome with nausea. Mrs. Haller was preoccupied and didn’t see my raised hand, so I approached her desk to ask permission to head to the boys’ room. I arrived just as she opened her desk drawer to retrieve some papers for the new student. Suddenly I was unable to control my nausea, and the contents of my stomach erupted into the opened drawer. Mrs. Haller promptly closed the drawer and escorted me from the room. When I returned she announced a new policy: in “certain” circumstances, permission to leave the room would no longer be required. In my teenage years, Mrs. Haller often saw me or my mother around town, and always asked about my education and music career. The desk drawer was never discussed.
sweet!!!
Great idea, Arnold. I have been enjoying your posts for several years .( I was the violist of the Cleveland 4tet. Bravo!
And I thought the cow’s heart we dissected was beautiful and gooey. How much more interesting it would have been to get a better look at the brain. I’m glad Mrs. Hamilton reintroduced herself so you could both enjoy that memory.
Dear Mr Steinhardt,
Another charming recollection, vividly brought to life for your readers. Resuming a long dormant but mutually affectionate relationship is one of life’s great pleasures. Like Mrs Hamilton, the best teachers are aware not only of their own limitations but also of their most gifted students’ potential.
for mrs hamilton:
abstract is the roof
above
abstract are the roots
below
de kooning knew
it was true
so did you
scandalous
cantaloups
seals in seastars
phalaropes in mirrors
albatross in seaweed
all abstract [like music]
conundrums
of the moon
heliotrope
sassafras
a pig’s nose
that almost froze
abstract in pose
de kooning knew
so did you
black holes in space
stirrups on a roan
herring in a swarm
all abstract
de kooning knew
you did too
spaces between
your teeth
angels on a reef
paintings by
o’keefe
are abstract
de kooning knew
and so did you
abstract are the galaxies
surfaces of pluto
hopes of dinosaurs
in cretaceous dusk
old factories in rust
your wildest dreams
crème de la crème
patterns of sage
purple weaving
waves of grain
all abstract
de kooning knew
you did too
infinity of space
brahman knew
testiness of zeus
are abstract’s proof
you knew
and de kooning too. [and it’s all in ravel’s F major quartet]
First, I thank you for the many years of quartet concerts beginning around 1970. Second, I often reflect on the excellent quality of the LA public school system. Not only did my first cello come home with me from Marquez Elementary on March 1, 1960, but my 10th grade biology teacher, Mr. Small, happened to be the president of the LA Audubon Society and thus a hero to this young birder, but my junior high school still offered Latin and my high school Latin teacher, Mrs. Zeisl, happened to be the widow of the composer Eric Zeisl. The two had escaped the Holocaust by a whisker and settled in LA. Their daughter married the elder son of Arnold Schoenberg, whose younger son taught math to my sister. If only I’d been a better Latin student.
what a fantastic and touching story. Thank you. Chin Kim
Thank you for sharing this memory. And what is the story of the illustration?
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