There are some jobs that are beyond special. They’re special when we have them and, often, even more special when they’re over. From start to finish, they infuse us with the indomitable spirit of relational enlightenment. The cherry atop a mountain of whipped cream employment histories languishing in ancient filing cabinets.

When considering my own work history, I visualize drawing two columns. One would highlight the work I’ve done and how, when it ended for one reason or another, it also cancelled any working world ties that were established.

The second column would reflect the opposite. Yes, the checks stopped coming. The vision and dental benefits dried up, as did the half-price gym membership. But the network of work friends you built for however long you were on the payroll lives on. When situations like that occur, the oft-quoted seasonal nature of friendships is turned on its head.

When I was teaching, on day one, I sensed there was more wackiness going on within the walls of the English department than in the classroom. I figure it was directly the result of the creative genes that teachers carry, only to discover that the same creative impulses were alive and well in the math department. (So much for the vaunted seat of logical thinking.)

The one exception to the rule were the gym teachers. Gym teachers might be ripped and macho and they may have emerged from the birth canal with whistles around their necks, but, sadly, they are not creative. They will drill into your impressionable brain that there’s a time-honored way to throw, kick, or bat a ball. Plus, they like to lounge around the office with their cleats propped up on someone else’s desk.

At the high-school where I worked, the intradepartmental mischievousness has become the stuff of legend, forever engraved in the minds of those staff members who stay in touch. The list is so very long. Where to begin? All right, I’ve whittled the entries down to a few events that, in my mind, sort of check all the boxes.

Late one afternoon, while on his planning period, a teacher decided to catch a snooze on the couch in the center of the office, a disgustingly ratty affair that even Goodwill would reject. Which was perfectly fine with us, since we had become used to its classic looks and scent. It also served as the venue for on-the-go therapy, where idealistic educators pondered why they didn’t forget about molding youthful minds and just join the family business. Anyway, in the middle of his nap, he felt something wiggling in the cushions. It didn’t take long before he discovered he was sharing the space with a mouse!

Soon, another teacher breezed into the room. Upon learning what had gone down, rather than flee, she got closer, trapping the critter in a cardboard box, ready to take it home for the weekend. “I want to nurse it back to health,” promised the frustrated wildlife biologist. “There are those among us who label this an existential threat. It’s not. It’s God’s gift to us, an essential part of the ecosystem.”

I loved that her heart was in the right place.

Our office was also the scene of daily drama of another sort. This one came in the form of the tired, overappreciated coffee pot that sat on the counter by the sink. It had longer lines than the drive-through at Starbucks. Half of the foot traffic came from neighboring offices, where workers came by for free cups of joe. The gravy train had a season. When the person who so conscientiously tended to the coffee pot – refreshing the Folger brew with funds she collected from staff – noticed the growing number of freeloading interlopers cycling thorough, she fired off a terse email to the staff: “Coffee is limited to English department personnel!” it read. The boom was lowered. The ‘Coffee Nazi’, as she was nicknamed, had spoken. No more outside agitators permitted.

Naturally, rules are all made to be broken. While most of the nearby departments honored the edict, drastically reducing the volume of caffeine addicts, there was one person who must not have read the memo. With a level of defiance that rivaled Trump’s clenched wrist and chants of “fight, fight, fight!” she continued her daily visits. When the head of our department caught this hardened criminal red-handed, he issued a restraining order, personally banning her from walking past the office or even thinking about our space, long considered the emotional hub of the school. A week later, she was up to her old tricks. Even the Coffee Nazi had given up.

Respect. Trust. Honesty. It is crystal clear that every teacher models these virtues in their own lives.

On another occasion, word spread around the school that the principal, for some reason, had dashed out of his office and sped away in his car, destination unknown. Turns out he had hightailed it to McDonald’s to round up those kids enjoying ‘brunch’. I’ve never heard of the main administrator going the extra mile (literally) this way. Later, at a staff meeting, he reminded everyone that those students who qualified could eat at school, thanks to the free and reduced lunch program. “Unfortunately, when the conversation involves ‘free’ and ‘reduced’, McDonald’s doesn’t subscribe to either plan,” he quipped.