Today, you're reading our 32nd edition of Best of Utah. Since our very first Best of Utah (a whopping 36 pages), City Weekly has honored thousands of local merchants, personalities and dog parks with the accolade of being named Utah's very best. Over those years, we've learned a lot about this community. Among those lessons is that you can't just foot-wedge your way into the hearts and minds of communities with anything less than honesty. City Weekly has a historic and unspoken trust with you, and you with us. We screw up all the time—perilously in each Best of Utah issue—but we never undervalue who you are. You are the best, named so right now by the pioneer of the genre locally. Yep, the graybeard.

We have all been through two incredibly rough years. More than once, we were let down or even betrayed by a perceived friend or ally. More than once, we came within inches of throwing in the towel. More than once, we were spared that fate when a guardian angel, sprite, astrological omen, shaman, new friend or long-lost friend whispered to us to make sure we not give up, to stay in the game. Without such interventions City Weekly would be yesterday's news.

Which begs for me the questions: How did we even get here in the first place? Who from my accumulated thousands of yesterdays is worthy of a Best of Utah accolade today? Then it came, a cluster of names I remember fondly from my various public school teachers and educators. This is a fitting time to thank some of them, and by extension, all schoolteachers and educators throughout Utah. Here are my belated Best of Utah shoutouts:

Lola English, my Copperton Elementary first grade teacher: Mrs. English properly introduced me to finger paints, the alphabet, music and the notion of always making new friends. She also encouraged me and Jim Wankier, a left-hander, to fight it out when his elbow bumped mine as we sat next to each other on Day 1. We became best friends. It remains a good lesson.

My second grade teacher, Mae Stillman, opened doors and windows to a new world outside of our little canyon via aquariums, terrariums, our little library and the bookmobile. I learned so fast they wanted to jump me into third grade mid-year, but Mrs. Stillman had the good sense to know it wouldn't work since I was too loud, noisy and disruptive—tea leaves.

I remember Copperton Elementary principal John Wharton raising our flag, leading the PTA mothers, coaching us up and down our only hallway and always smiling. He taught us, "principle is just a word but a principal is your pal." Thus, when inclined otherwise, which is often, I remembered to respect authority.

Grant Pullan, my sixth grade teacher, introduced giant maps of the world and showed us where some of our older brothers were then serving in Vietnam. Oh-oh! He pushed hard for extra effort and rewarded it. So much so, by the time I passed sixth grade, I'd been pushed enough to have read an entire junior volume of encyclopedias. Jeopardy never called, though—reward is not a given.

I remember few junior high school teachers. It was the era of escape, for sure. But West Jordan Junior High's Napoleon J. Tullos was everyone's laughing Texan buddy, the perfect foil to all that was going on in the world in the 1960s—riots, great music, hippies, Yippies, war protests, assassinations. He helped us through it all.

Then there was Floyd Richardson, also of West Jordan Junior High. A gym teacher basically just blows a whistle, does jock inspections and hollers a lot. But he was more than that. Many years later, I went out for a beer at the Peter Pan Billiards, which had sports photos pasted all over its smoky walls. Sure enough, there was a picture of a young boxer, Mr. Richardson, looking to knock someone's head off. Respect.

I can see this isn't going to work. Not enough space, so I'll end with these fine folks from Bingham High School. Tom Pazell: A Croatian and future Boston Red Sox until he was shot up in Italy in World War II. A dear friend and mentor til the day he died. Tommy took crap from nobody. He also gave his soul to goodness. Elma Wankier: The mother of my buddy, Jim, was also a crackerjack English teacher. Nobody could diagram a sentence like Elma could. Beatrice Bates: Herself a BHS grad from decades earlier, I can't imagine any English or literature instructor having a larger impact on a school or community than did the beloved Mrs. Bates. Roy Whitworth was my coach through three years of athletic letters, but another imprint came via our first-ever health and sex-ed class when he warned on Day 1: "A hard-on has no conscience." He was right.

Paul Newton: There simply wasn't a better math teacher anywhere. He sent so many students to region and state math finals, it was silly. His lesson was to take a hard subject, break it apart, then make it fun and easy. A wonderful man.

And finally, Jean Wollam, who assigned our basically lily-white, LDS, literature class the assignment to read Claude Brown's Manchild in the Promised Land. This was 1971 when the book was being banned in schools across America for its hard knuckle portrayal of one black man's upbringing in Harlem. It was critical reading then and remains so today. She was brave for making that happen—probably my life's best lesson from a teacher willing to go where no one else will.

Because that is important.

Send comments to john@cityweekly.net.