IT WAS THE fourth-graders that got me.

The year was 1983, and, having traveled to Europe after college (my father expecting me home in a matter of months, my tail between my legs), I was in the final months of a two-year stint teaching English on Spain's northern coast.

I taught juniors and seniors, mostly. But twice a week I spent a blessed hour with the fourth-graders "playing English," teaching them a few words and expressions to instill both correct pronunciation and an eagerness to learn more.

At the time, I'd convinced myself that teaching was just a great way to earn a meager living while on my postgraduate "frivolous" adventure abroad. I fully intended to please my dad and pursue some sort of "real," much more respectable job once I returned home.

Fate had other plans.

The trouble was, the fourth-graders were adorable — at that precious, fleeting age between childhood and adolescence when they no longer tagged on a teacher's leg to tattle but still wanted to please; when they were just beginning to move beyond facts to ideas but hadn't yet reached the gauntlet of puberty.

I modeled some simple, rather silly questions and answers; then asked if anyone wanted to replace me as the "visiting professor" and repeat the questions to the class.

Not shy at all, the kids pleaded to play my role, never tiring of repeating the same English phrases again and again.

What

And so, when I finally, reluctantly returned to the United States, I decided to postpone yet again my pursuit of a career, whatever it might be.

Instead — despite my dad's silent disapproval — I looked for a teaching job somewhere in the Southwest. I hoped to nurture my hard-won Spanish and to prolong my fourth-grade fun.

Unfortunately, I found only a sixth-grade position in San Antonio, Texas, which eventually led to another one instructing high school English and Spanish.

I wasn't teaching my beloved fourth-graders, but I was enjoying myself nonetheless, putting in ungodly hours without a second thought. Four years later, I finally had to recognize that what I'd been considering irresponsible play was actually my life's calling.

Thus — to my father's further dismay — I came to California in 1987 to earn my teaching credential and my master's degree. Surprising even myself, I stayed, spending the next 18 years as a middle school teacher and administrator, followed by my recent two-year leave of absence.

When it was time to return to the classroom, I negotiated with my district's personnel director, discussing various schools and positions until he countered with the fourth grade at Kitayama Elementary.

Little did he know how my heart leapt.

Fourth grade again at last! After 26 years of wandering, I've finally returned to the kids who first lured me into this profession.

I have changed so much. They, not so much — thank goodness!

I wish my dad could see me now. I suspect that, perhaps a bit grudgingly, he'd be pleased.

David Ellison teaches fourth grade at Kitayama Elementary School in Union City. The Fremont resident's column appears on alternate Mondays on the Local page. Reach him via his blog, ateachersmarks.com.