Middle school: arguably the worst three years of your life. As I balanced on the delicate line between childhood and teenage years, the feeling of never quite belonging lingered. Nothing in my life felt certain. However, I always had one thing that I could count on: home base.

Mr. Muehl’s eighth grade home base class was the part of the school day I excitedly anticipated. Mr. Muehls was in his 60s, and had been a teacher for over 19 years. He was both a special education teacher and a home base teacher. He was the equivalent of Santa Clause if he had a bushy, grey mustache and had spent years in the military. He had the memory of an elephant and reminisced about his war-experiences and history of the United States. Mr. Muehls often played by his own rules. Every Friday, our class enjoyed Capri Suns and Girl Scout cookies, supplied by Mr. Muehls. Everyone in class, in addition to select individuals notorious for being disobedient,  said, “Thank you, Mr. Muehls.” He truly valued the happiness of his students.

The typical classroom in my middle school was undecorated save for flimsy trinkets or family photos on the teacher’s desk. Mr. Muehl’s room, however, was like a burst of color in a black and white film; it was a depiction of the inside of his mind. The walls were decorated with an explosion of World War II posters ranging from Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima and the Gadsden Flag. There were glass cases filled with military-related artifacts, such as pins, statues, photos, and dog tags. The collection of artifacts in his room surpassed a museum. Despite his collection of historical artifacts, the shelves above his desk held the possessions he deemed most dear: gifts from his students.

Beanie Babies, clay bowls from art classes, snow globes from spring break destinations, green toy soldiers, and miniature squirrel statues were a handful among the jumble of objects on these shelves. Each object came with a story, and Mr. Muehls could recall the backstory of each object like it was ingrained in his aging mind. Throughout the year, my friend and I added drawings and paper plate projects to this collection; our projects remained on the shelf the next year when we came for a visit.

In Mr. Muehls’ room, I was a snowglobe, or clay bowl, or even a squirrel statue. Despite existing among a sea of other unique objects, Mr. Muehls always made me feel significant—like I belonged. Mr. Muehls viewed his students like each of the objects on his shelves. Each of us was unique and contained a different story—and Mr. Muehls knew all of them.