MONROE — The pile of broken classroom furniture underscored the monumental task at hand. A young educator just two years out of college stood at the front of the room. Chalk scraped the blackboard as he prepared for first hour, his back turned to the students filing in.

The upperclassmen had built quite a reputation — chairs hurled at instructors, threats, and unruly behavior. “The seniors have taken over the Ag Program,” this educator was warned. He was replacing a teacher that had resigned following a threat of physical violence.

As the start of first period neared, John Emmons prepped the chalk board. Seniors milled about, filling the room with a rising level of disorder. The bell rang out, signaling the start of class. If anything, the noise level increased.

“I’d like to start my first day by introducing myself as an educator who encourages a feeling of familiarity within the classroom.” The words were spoken softly, and lost in the cacophony.

At that, a student wearing a leather jacket taunted, “What’s that you’re going on about up there, TEACH?”

With ferocity bordering on theatrics, John Emmons whirled around, faced the students and roared, “My goal is to be on a first name basis with you, and let me be clear — my first name is MISTER!” He pounded the chalkboard, and paused. Dead silence. Not so much as a peep. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the room.

“And YOU,” he pointed a finger downrange at the leather jacket who had inadvertently identified himself as the leader, “I want YOU up here in the front row within arm’s reach AT ALL TIMES!”

Students, colleagues, and friends alike have known John Emmons by a number of names. He was quietly referred to as ‘Big John’ by the urban kids that learned how to work with horses under his guidance; ‘Old Blue Eyes’ by colleagues; ‘Jolly John’ as an ironic but friendly moniker for his zero-tolerance of nonsense; but most of all, ‘Mr. Emmons’ simply because he carried himself in such a manner that he earned the respect of a formal title.

Growing up as a farm kid in central Wisconsin during the 1950s, Mr. Emmons learned the value of hard work at a young age. At a time when kicker balers, milk pipelines, silo unloaders, and driver’s licenses were considered a frivolous luxury, Mr. Emmons fell in love with production agriculture at its most fundamental level. He cared deeply for the well-being of his family’s farm, land, and animals — particularly the dairy cows. As adulthood approached, Mr. Emmons looked toward his future and considered taking over the family farm.

Upon graduating from Pardeeville High School in 1961, Mr. Emmons enrolled at UW-Madison. In what may have been his only bout with below-average performance, he was placed on academic probation for earning only 22 credits his first year. With the rising conflict in Vietnam all but guaranteeing an imminent draft, Mr. Emmons enlisted in the U.S. Army and earned a specialization as a dental technician. With this specialty, he was shipped overseas to Vietnam.

Regarding his time overseas, Mr. Emmons focused on sharing the humanitarian aspects of his experiences. He often remarked, “Growing up as a poor Wisconsin farm kid, I thought I knew what poverty was. As soon as I got to Vietnam I realized how little I knew.” He described driving through villages, offering Army rations and medical support to those in need, which most assuredly saved his life on at least one occasion.

“As I was returning to base one day, I was flagged down in one of the villages. There was a language barrier, but I understood that I needed to hide. I was motioned into a basket. I thought oh boy, here we go. I heard a commotion outside, which eventually passed. After a while I was returned to the truck and drove back to base. I have no idea how they hid the truck, but as it turned out the VC were in the area and the people we had helped sheltered us. I’ll tell you what, that experience of serving in the military was the equivalent of a college education.”

Mr. Emmons returned stateside in 1965 to cold, unrest, and discourse. He was escorted out of the Madison airport by two uniformed police officers “for my own protection” when demonstrators noticed his U.S. Army duffel bag and surrounded him, hurling insults, snowballs, spit, and pounding on the taxi as he was driven home. With that, Mr. Emmons hung up his Army uniform and dedicated his life to service of a different capacity.

Despite pre-war academic probation, Mr. Emmons graduated with Honors from the University of Wisconsin-Madison College of Agriculture & Life Sciences with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Agriculture Education in 1971. Nothing less than that same standard of excellence would be tolerated in each subsequent classroom he served.

Students of Mr. Emmons learned accountability. Stepping out of line or insinuating foolishness would earn a piercing “Here!”, “Snap it up!”, “Can you hear the ice cracking? You’re on thin ice, buster!” Lessons of integrity, honor, decency, and self-respect defined classroom lessons. The curriculum may have carried the official designate of Agriculture Education, but Mr. Emmons broke down his lessons of dairy nutrition, land judging, parliamentary procedure, and public speaking into approachable components that were applicable to all aspects of life.

When students needed a leg-up on entrance interviews, Mr. Emmons enlisted the help of fellow educators to stage mock interviews that did not coddle, and absolutely prepared the recipient for the worst. He stood up for his students in the face of budget cuts and administrative disregard. Serving at the Green County Fair, Mr. Emmons brought soda and pizza to the overnight FFA crews, and was available for farm visits and mentoring throughout after-school hours. He genuinely put the interests of his students ahead of his own, and pushed each one to succeed beyond their own expectations.

It will not come as a surprise to learn that one day following his retirement, while fueling his car at a service station he heard a voice call out, “Hey Mr. Emmons, I bet you don’t remember me!”

Decades of students, FFA trips, conferences, interviews, and life experiences turned up blank. In his unique style of humility Mr. Emmons replied, “I’m terribly sorry — I don’t recall.”

The voice belonged to a former student. Specifically, a former student that used to wear a leather jacket in class, and got seated in the front row “within arm’s reach” on day one. They chatted and caught up, Former Student remarking on how the trajectory of his life had been so positively influenced by the experience of having Mr. Emmons as his Ag Instructor.

The greatest legacy an Educator can leave behind are teachings that transcend generations. Former students of John Emmons have grown up, started families of their own, and will continue to reference his example to their kids, others, and so on.

And in that regard, John Emmons lived a life of service that mirrors the motto of the National FFA Organization: Learning to Do, Doing to Learn, Earning to Live, Living to Serve.