Making mistakes is an important part of human life. It's something we all do. In fact, it's the method by which anyone learns anything. I know this now, but as a child I thought only kids made mistakes and adults always knew exactly what to do. I don't think I'll ever forget the day I learned otherwise. It was the Day of the Pale Pumpkins.

I was in the first grade at the Chester Wendell Holmes Elementary School. I already had a successful year of kindergarten under my belt, and the new school year looked like it was mine for the taking. I was a good student. I kept to myself and did well on my assignments. I didn't have many friends, but my kindergarten teacher seemed to like me and, so far, so did my first grade teacher, Ms. O'Hearn.

Ms. O'Hearn was a feisty woman. She could be very kind and nurturing at times, but there lurked within her the fire and brimstone of the older generation of educators. She expected perfection from each and every one of us, and woe to the student who couldn't deliver. If she sensed that someone wasn't paying attention, she would heave a big blackboard eraser in their direction and order them to bring it back. This, like so many of her disciplinary actions, killed two birds with one stone. The student regained his senses and, at the same time, was embarrassed enough to never risk drifting off in class again.

Her appearance hid nothing about her true nature. She had graying hair, cut short in a unisex style. Her eyes were piercing. Her features were hard, untouched by make-up and of undeterminable age. I've heard rumors over the years that, before she became a teacher, she was a Catholic nun. To me, this fits perfectly.

It was mid-October and, by now, there were no surprises about the procedure of everyday classroom life. I fondly remember watching Ms. O'Hearn run off our homework sheets on an ancient crank-operated machine. The toxic smell of the ink filled the air, forever ingraining itself in my brain like a temporal bookmark.

In the spirit of Halloween, the assignment was a single sheet of paper printed with about ten pumpkins. Each pumpkin contained a math problem. Some were easy addition problems, but others were the new dreaded subtraction. We had been instructed to complete the math problems and then color in the pumpkins with orange crayon or colored pencil.

This was my plan until I got home. I completed all of the math problems but, at my mother's suggestion, I didn't color in the pumpkins. Her logic seemed sensible. If I were to color them in, how would the teacher be able to see my answers? I couldn't disagree. After all, she was a mom and moms knew everything.

The next day, Ms. O'Hearn moved slowly around the room, checking everyone's pumpkins. The tension within me grew as she drew closer. What would she think of my colorless pumpkins? Finally, I would have my answer. She hovered over my desk and I looked up into her merciless eyes, shooting at me bullets of disapproval.

"Why didn't you color in the pumpkins?" She spoke with the angry rumble of thunder.

I knew she didn't expect a good answer, but all I could do was be honest.

"My mother wouldn't let me." I hoped and prayed it would work.

"Your mother wouldn't let you?" Failure. She didn't believe me.

A tidal wave of terror flooded my six year-old soul. This had never happened to me before. I had never been in trouble with a teacher for something as important as homework. I had no idea what to expect now. What form of punishment was the ex-nun planning?

She had moved back to the front of the room, probably to give herself time to decide my fate.

"You're going to stay and color them in." She spoke just as much to the rest of the class as she did to me. Humiliation. She used it like a painter uses his brush.

"Right now?" I asked, hopefully. Coloring in the pumpkins didn't seem like so bad a punishment. I felt, for a moment, like I had gotten off easy.

I was wrong. She glared at me from across the sea of my classmates and spoke the two words I dreaded the most.

"After school."

The combination of emotions I experienced was probably similar to what Noah felt when it started to rain. I freaked out. I began sobbing uncontrollably, begging and pleading to be spared. I'm not sure what tortures I envisioned happening to children who stayed after school. Whatever I thought, I was certain that such a punishment was reserved for bad children and I wasn't a bad child. All I did was listen to my mother. Only good children listened to their mothers and good children never stayed after school.

To makes things worse, I was completely on display. My seat was in the back corner of the room which meant that any of my classmates who wished to turn around had an excellent view of my misery. The ones who didn't like me were amused. Others were just shocked to see the quiet kid act this way. So many eyes were burrowing into me and Ms. O'Hearn's, accusing and unrelenting, were the worst of all. I would have run out of the room if I didn't think it would get me into more trouble. I felt helpless. I needed a savior.

Just then, and not a moment too soon, an older man walked into the room. I don't remember his name, but he was another teacher who made regular visits to our classroom. He was tall and round with white hair and a pleasant pink face. Upon entering, his smile turned to a frown at his discovery. He asked about the crying child in the corner.

Ms. O'Hearn was happy to share with him the events of the past few minutes. I silenced my cries and held my breath.

The man absorbed Ms. O'Hearn's story and responded almost immediately. "Maybe he can finish it before the bell rings," he said..

At last, a sign of hope. Ms. O'Hearn stayed silent, as if she was actually considering this option.

While we waited for the verdict, the man bent down and held his watch close to my face. "What do you think? Is there enough time?" he asked.

I had no idea how to tell time and he must have known that, but the gesture was appreciated. To be safe, I pretended to understand exactly what the watch was telling me. "I think it's enough," I said.

Apparently, his opinion was valuable enough to seal the deal with Ms. O'Hearn. She allowed me time in class to color in those God-forsaken pumpkins. I realize now that Ms. O'Hearn was probably surprised by such an emotional reaction. Besides, this was only my first offense. I still remember the relief at being spared.

I hurriedly colored in those silly math pumpkins. I hadn't finished by the time the bell rang, but Ms. O'Hearn let me go anyway. I guess she decided I'd been through enough.

Before that day, fifteen years ago, I thought kids made mistakes and adults never did. I believed that kids were in school to learn how to be perfect like adults. I realized that day the people who I thought knew everything weren't always right. I took comfort in that. The lesson I learned is one I still use today. When I find that I'm putting too much pressure on myself, I take a step back and remind myself that nobody's perfect. Everyone makes mistakes.