Written & read by our dear family friend Pat Donahue:
In the modified words of the Immortal Bard:
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one [woman] in [her] time plays many parts,”
—As You Like It
We come today to celebrate the life of Dallas Louise Webb Wickham Grodman:
The saying goes that family loves you no matter what—warts and all. Dallas exemplified that phrase. Wife, mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, cousin,—each of these nouns describes the woman whose life we honor today.
Harold, I remember when you and Dallas were dating—over sixteen years ago—we went to the Texas Star (?) on Bandera Road to go dancing—Dallas was determined I would learn the two-step—and she made sure I did. Vivacious and energetic, Dallas constantly moved, never content to stay still very long: a bundle of loving, laughing energy deceptively contained within a small frame. She loved you dearly.
Jack and Nona—Jack, I remember the first time I met you was because Dallas volunteered you to drive me to the airport when I had to fly to New Jersey to attend my grandmother’s funeral—and I know her love for you never wavered—through good times and bad—no matter what. Nona, I remember being at the house in Leon Springs before you went to your prom and how proud your mother was of her beautiful daughter. I remember, too, the excitement Dallas and I shared as we drove up to Austin to meet you and Matt at the airport after you got married—she was so happy she could surprise you—and boy, did we—balloons, bubbles, and all. Then there was the mandatory cup of coffee—Dallas ALWAYS had a cup of coffee in hand—at the Pancake House before we headed back to San Antonio. She loved to surprise you—which is no easy task—and she repeated so many times on the way back how happy she was to have accomplished that.
Cassel, Becky, Jimmie Bell, and Mitch—“Sissy” always shared your accomplishments with love and pride. She was the older sister to whom everyone could turn with joys and sorrows—she’d always give you her opinion—and she was opinionated—and you might not always agree with her, but you always knew where you stood. I remember her telling me how wonderful it had been to have seen all of you last Christmas and to have shared such a wonderful holiday time with you. When her family was at her house, Dallas was at her happiest.
And no grandmother was ever more proud of her two beautiful granddaughters Winona Jo and Bailey. I remember her pride as she watched the two little ballerinas on stage at Trinity University—her face would light up when she talked about them and played with them. She often spoke about how much they enriched her life.
As an aunt and a cousin, she shared in so many lives—sharing in the good and in the bad. I remember her telling me about a nephew’s performance in Oklahoma and how it was the best high school production she had seen—of course, she admitted to being prejudiced but her knowledge of music and the theatre couldn’t be denied either; I remember her support of a cousin suffering through difficult illnesses, Dallas lending a shoulder and a hand whenever and wherever possible. You were all blessed to have Dallas as a member of your family—you didn’t have to share her, but you did—and did so generously, too.
You shared her with the students she taught throughout the years: theatre, English, history, reading. She touched the lives of so many students—and they can thank her for the reading, writing, and thinking abilities they have today. Her gift was teaching, both in and out of the classroom. She ran a tight classroom, but her students learned, and they knew she cared about them. She loved teaching literature, but she excelled in teaching students to think and to write. If a student came from Dallas’ 9th grade English class, he or she would have learned basic grammar and mechanics and would understand why the sentence worked a particular way. Her classroom bustled—no moment was ever wasted after Dallas closed the door and whirled into her lessons. Trust me, I know—I could always tell which students came from her classes. I was fortunate enough to have students in my classes who had experienced—“endured”—Dallas as freshmen—and they constantly thanked her for those lessons. Even after Dallas retired from public teaching, she had to teach—now through her story-telling time at the Bulverde Library. She loved planning the stories she would share with the students, planning the activities she would have them do, and “staging” the story to make it come alive for the children. Ms. Dallas had to bring the magic wand and cape to story-time so that the “magic” could begin. All those children have been touched by her love and her gift of teaching. And she touched the lives of adults who longed for the gift reading can bring…she was most proud of one man she helped learn English—she said he wanted to learn English so he could learn to read to his children. Dallas’ “magic” lives on in the lives of everyone she touched.
You also shared her with the friends she made, and she made many in her sixty-five years—I am fortunate to have known Dallas in two ways—first as my mentor and then as my friend. Twenty-three years ago Dallas met a first-year teacher who knew quite a bit about English—and almost nothing about classroom teaching. She took me under her wing. I remember Dallas being hired six-weeks into the school year to teach English and history at John Marshall High School. She had four different preparations and traveled to at least that many different classrooms all over the school. Knowing she needed all her teaching materials with her throughout the day, she bought a collapsible metal two-wheeled shopping cart—about two feet and a half feet deep and about two-feet wide—the kind you can pull behind you. She filled it with all her materials for the day and pulled it to every class she taught. If you saw the cart, Dallas wasn’t too far away. I remember watching her, listening to her comments and feeling comfortable asking her questions—she had that way of making others feel comfortable around her. She always listened and gave wise suggestions. I’m not sure I realized how wise those suggestions were until much later. The next year Dallas and I were part of the team of teachers who opened Taft High School and we taught next to each other—downstairs in the “sub-terranean” rooms for the next four years—she taught freshmen honors, and I taught sophomore honors English classes. I would hear her through the walls (and I’m sure she heard me), and I picked up ideas, techniques, and habits during those four years. One time in an evaluative conference, the vice-principal who evaluated the English department remarked that out of all the different teachers in the English department, only two had similar styles. When I asked who they were, he told me that Dallas and I were the two—I took that as a monumental compliment.
Although I value the lessons I learned from Dallas as a teacher, more importantly, I value the lessons and blessings I learned from Dallas as a friend. When I received a dozen roses from a guy I was dating, no one was happier for me than Dallas; when my that same guy broke my heart, no one hurt with me more than she did either, but she told me that he wasn’t worth my tears.. We had good laughs together, too. If you knew Dallas, you probably remember her old Datsun station wagon that was held together with bailing wire and a wing and a prayer. I remember meeting her at the Sears at Ingram Park Mall one night because her Datsun station wagon had car trouble. I don’t remember exactly what was wrong with the car, only that Sears couldn’t fix it, so I followed her (at about 8:30 at night) from Ingram Mall to the Pep Boys on Bandera Road—through the speed trap known as Leon Valley—all while she had no headlights—only emergency lights blinking down Bandera Road. We were worried at the time but had a good laugh afterwards. I remember going to her home in Leon Springs to share a short story I had written for a writing project we each had had to attend. As I read it to her, she was the one who pointed out that the characters were more teenagers than elementary students and that my story was a reflection of my memories of visiting Dachau when I was a child than one of a child’s first day of elementary school. She had an ear for the melodies of literature and for helping others find things in their writing that they had overlooked.
Dallas always made time for her friends and family—and always told you what you needed to hear, whether you wanted to hear it or not. She knew what you needed and offered it freely. When I left teaching in 1989 and became a legal assistant, Dallas and I still kept in touch. We’d go to movies, have dinner together, or just sit and chat for hours (over numerous cups of coffee). When I was laid off in 1992 and decided to go back to teaching, Dallas was the one to suggest I put in an application with the Schertz school district, one of the districts she had taught theatre in years before and where her son had killed his English teacher’s classroom plant. As always, her advice was sound—I’ve been teaching English at Samuel Clemens High School for the past fifteen years. In 1998 when my mother died, Dallas made sure I knew I had another family here in San Antonio. When I was finalizing my thesis for my Master’s Degree, Dallas learned more about Thomas Hardy than she NEVER wanted to know and helped me edit my thesis. I can honestly say that without her fine editing skill, I doubt my thesis would have been finished on time. She comforted me when my mother died and watched with a mother’s, sister’s, and friend’s pride when I received my Master’s Degree from Texas State. That was Dallas’ way—if you were fortunate to be a member of her family or one of her friends, she gave you everything she had—freely and without anything expected in return.
Dallas Louise Webb Wickham Grodman—a master teacher. She continues to teach us still. Her lessons are all around us—with the love of a wife, the pride of a mother, the doting of a grandmother, the strength of the oldest sibling, and the support of a valued friend. As we remember her life today, we can’t focus on what we have lost, we must remember the gifts and lessons she has taught us in the past and that she continues to teach us into the future. Now she moves on to her final teaching assignment—teaching us and guiding us every day as she watches over the larger classroom of our lives.
So therefore, once more, with apologies to the Bard,
“Good night, [dear Dallas], and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
—Hamlet
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