The Red Room

Your room is your first personal space. On occasion, it is also your place of punishment. Time outs were never long, probably no more than five minutes, but to a kid, five minutes can seem an eternity. I suppose I only lasted about two before calling down to my mother, begging for release, promising to be good. That is so odd, when you consider that my room was where all my toys were stored, all neatly stacked on the shelves that climbed the wall opposite the window. You’d think I could spend hours there and never be bored; but I suppose my begging release had more to do with seeking parental approval, and of being forcibly confined.

That said, my room was arguably the perfect space for punishment. It was a fitting colour, thematically red: red hanging lamp shade, red curtains, red bedspread. I have my doubts that I was consulted in the colour scheme. East facing, when the sun rose the room was bathed in a hot red, making the room seem even more close and stifling in the summer months (hardly anyone had air-conditioning then, to say nothing of ceiling fans). At night, when I lay about reading, the hanging lamp projected a single, focused circle of white light onto the bed, and bathed the rest of the room in a layered and faceted glow from the folded red glass. It had a somewhat hellish aspect to it. Oddly cool.

Later, an old, pint-sized school desk was added, set next to the entrance, where I had a full view of the hallway and a bit of the stairs, but nothing of the living room (these were the days before the addition was tacked on to the rear of the house and the living room migrated back there, and the dining room took its place). When I say old, I mean having an inkwell hole in the upper right-hand corner, and an open shelve under the writing surface. I kept a table lamp on it, and a transistor radio to help me pass the time while doing homework. I’m not sure how true that is; I recall stopping all work when Paul Simon’s “Slip Sliding Away” came on.

Later still, a turntable occupied the lower wall shelf, a stack of albums on the floor beneath it. I’d sit in front of it until my back ached, and then for some time more, selecting singles and LPs, lifting and setting the needle, memorizing every lyric, every riff, every nuance of those songs, impressing them on my memory.

Was the room always red? Probably not, but it will always glow red in my memory.

Transitions

Transitions can be hard. So can letting go. I had always felt oddly separate in Grade 7. All the kids around me had come from other schools in groups, in readymade cliques, if you will. Not so me, the lone transfer from the public-school system to the Catholic. Of course, as I said in an earlier memory, thank God for my being set next to Garry Martin in Grade 7 Homeroom. We struck it off that first day, and later, when I followed him out into the playground at first recess and approached him (not without an extreme fear of rejection, I might add), he invited me to stay, introduced me to his friends from Schumacher Public, and soon that small group attracted a few other geeks and freaks, the too tall, the too redheaded, the slightly overweight, the bookish, the poor who were poorly dressed, a few natives down from Moosonee.

But I always pined for my old friends from Pinecrest. I think that’s understandable, but my old friends from Pinecrest living in my neighbourhood didn’t share my nostalgia, it seems, Larry specifically, not to rant on Larry; in retrospect, he had grown up faster than I had, and he and I didn’t actually share the same interests, anymore. What they were then, I could only guess at: girls most definitely (I liked them, too, but I really didn't know this new batch of girls, was hopelessly confused about them, and was terrified that this new batch of girls didn’t like me much, a couple of which were openly hostile to me), hockey maybe (I don’t really know if hockey was in his repertoire, at all). I’d call on them/him weekends, but nothing came of it. Larry’s younger brother Ralph hung out with me for a couple summers, then I outgrew him, we outgrew each other. By then, I was hanging out at the pool more, first as a teacher’s aide (junior life-guard, we called it). These people became my closest friends throughout high school.

But separations are sometimes hostile, fueled by hurt and doubt and the need to sever and move on. Shortly before the summer vacation following Grade 7, I was missing Larry, who I thought my closest friend at Pinecrest. I walked the short distance (just around the corner, really) from my house to his, hoping to find him and rekindle our flagging friendship. I crept up to his fence and peered between the boards to see if I could catch a glimpse of him before ringing the doorbell.

Larry and his new crew rounded the front corner of his house just then, and he and they saw me at the fence.

“What are you doing there?” Larry yelled.

“Looking for you,” I answered.

“What are you doing in my yard,” he said, his voice full of threat. His tone baffled me. And I had no idea how to answer, thinking I just had. His new friends thought this the height of fun, and laughed. I had no idea who these kids were. I’d never seen them before. I still don’t know who they were. I have no memory of their faces.

“Get off my yard,” Larry ordered.

Not to lose face, I didn’t, but I did begin to make my way home, keeping an eye on this menacing group led by my grade school and childhood friend. I wasn’t not fast enough, apparently.

Larry said, “I said, ‘get off my yard,’” again. Now, I knew that this was city property and that his yard ended at the fence, so, I said so. Not the brightest move, because Larry’s pack decided to force the issue. They rushed me. I stood my ground. Again, not the brightest move, as there were 5 of 6 of them. They rushed me, pushed me, grabbed me, surrounded me, and made to push me off balance. I pushed back, more to keep to my feet than to do damage.

I blurted, “You don’t scare me,” and “That didn’t hurt, at all,” or something of the sort.

That’s when the first punch landed, first to the body, then others to the neck and head. Now, I was never much of a fighter, but I fought back, limited mainly to elbows, knees and kicks. For every landed blow, I lashed out, and with every new punch, my fury rose. I remember landing a few vicious elbows to other’s heads. And that’s when the punishment stopped.

We separated, exchanged the expected insults, and then each made our way home.

When I got there, my Dad saw me first. I was crying, by then. He asked me what happened and I told him. I could tell he was mad as hell, but he told me to not tell my mother, that telling her wouldn’t do any good, anyhow. Then he decided I should know how to fight. Fight dirty, he told me. That’s the only way anyone fights, he said. You may not win, but if they’re going to hurt you, make them regret it. Make the fuckers bleed.

A Reader is Born

I was never a reader until Grade 7. I didn’t have the attention span until then, preferring to be out and about, running, playing, riding my bike. I suppose I may have always been young for my age. It’s not that I had never read; I did, but the books were largely short, children’s books, the ones a couple steps above picture books, books where anthropomorphic animals were the main characters. Each story was no longer than a couple pages, at most. They actually put me in “special” reading class before I was held back, where the text was largely “see Jack, see Jack run.” Keep in mind I was a December baby, and a year younger than others when I began school. As you can imagine, special reading class was a real boost to my self-esteem. Only dummies were enrolled in special reading class, that’s the way we kids looked at it. It was only for one year though, my first year in Grade 2. Once I was held back, that extra year of development meant that I could concentrate more, absorb more, and make those cognitive leaps required to transform those symbols on the page into words and sentences and finally into thoughts and images in my head. I went from a struggling student to a high B student, and remained that way until post-secondary where I continued to improve. Still, regardless my huge improvement as a student after being held back, special reading class may have put me off reading.

Everything changed in Grade 7. My mother had always read, and now my friends read, too. And who does’t want to fit in with their friends? I had a book report to do, and I chose Arthur C. Clark’s 1952 science fiction novel “Islands in the Sky” from the library after much deliberation. I had grown up watching Star Trek, so when I saw the cover, I thought I might like it. There was a man in a space suit (a suit without individual legs) floating in space above the Earth, a ‘50s style rocket, and a space station similar to the one in 2001 behind him. Luckily, it was one of his earlier works, and a juvenile novel, so it wasn’t outside what I’d be able to handle for a first novel to read. I ate it up, surprised by how completely I was captivated by the story. More books followed, this time without the requirement of a book report. And then books into the summer, nothing too taxing, yet, the first few like “Alien,” adapted from the screenplay, and a few other horror and sci-fi.

I’ve read ever since.

Hockey

My father always wanted me to play hockey. That’s understandable; he’d played hockey most of his life, mostly defense, but he could play any position, except goal (my Uncle Jerry played goal...right up into his 80s, if you can believe it). And he was good. Really good. I remember seeing him play a couple times when I was 4 or 5 years old. To say he flew on the ice would be an understatement. He had grace on the ice, as well. But he was dirty, too, I was told. No kidding. One of his nicknames was Dirty Leonard.

Back to my father wanting to follow in his footsteps: There was one problem. I never really learned to skate. Not from lack of trying. My parents had bought me skates when I was a tot, and I used to scurry up and down the driveway, mainly on my ankles, despite ankle supports. As years passed, I spent quite a few hours skating around the rink at Pinecrest, but I’d also spent some of it on my ass and even more time hugging the boards. I was alright taking a slow turn after years of practice, but crossing my legs over one another was out of the question, not to mention executing the classic hockey stop. Gliding or crashing into the boards was more my technique.

Not that my father didn’t try to teach me, he did, on occasion, but he was also a travelling salesman and didn’t come to the rink with me often. I don’t believe he knew how to teach me how, actually; it came to him too naturally to know how to describe it well, let alone teach it, and I don’t think he had the patience, either.

He took me up to Pinecrest one time, probably on my mother’s urging. He did not bring skates. There were a couple older kids there. They had a net, and took turns playing goal while the other took shots. My dad just had to get in there, so he called out to them, and I was left on the boards to watch. He winked at me before he slid over there. He may not wearing have been wearing skates, but he did glide over there with grace, he always had perfect balance on ice. He told them about his glory days (I did say he was really good, by the way), I’m not sure if they believed him much, so, he asked if he could take some shots on them, they agreed, exchanging looks that said, “let’s humour the old man.” They shouldn’t have (stupid kids, didn’t they see how he moved on the ice even without skates?). My father had a wicked slap shot, a good wrist shot too. He warmed up with a few wrist shots before hammering the poor kid with a few slap shots. The kid was hit a couple times, then there was fear in his eyes. Needless to say, my dad was showing off, more for me than them, but them, too.

Later, my dad wanted to put me on a hockey team. I think my mother tried to put him off the idea, but my father was adamant. I was going to play hockey. So, he enrolled me on a team, Esso, I think (actually, I remember the name, quite well). My mother took me to my first practice, and stayed, watching from the boards the whole time. When I got on the ice, I knew I was in trouble, not only were the guys racing back and forth the length of the ice and doing rapid direction changes, they were skating figure eights...backwards. I promptly landed on my ass. The coach sent a kid to help me, to teach me the basics. And to give the kid his due, he really tried. But there was too much skill to make up in so short a time and he grew frustrated, then finally giving me some tips, and raced off to practice with his friends. Once the “practice” was done, humiliated, I slumped into the car and told my mother, “I’m NEVER going back there again.”

I know my parents argued about it, but my mother won. I never did go back.

I’ve hated hockey ever since.

John

A John. Not The John. This distinction will be evident in posts to come.
One of my first friends in St. Theresa in Grade 7 was a Native boy. His name was John. I have no clue what his last name was. I can’t even say that I knew him well. I didn’t know him that long. He was a quiet young man, not terribly scholastic. Maybe that was what drew me to him, his unpresuming quiet. He seemed out of place in all the bluster and activity that surrounded him. If you've ever known a North American Native, you'll know what I mean.
As to his less than scholastic nature, he was not stupid. He was just quiet. That said, he was not particularly interested in his studies. I cannot comment on what is schooling was, or where he went to school before I met him, or even how long he had lived in Timmins. But I remember seeing how he struggled. I wanted to help him. He was kind to me, after all. I lent him the notes he was missing once (he'd been away, and had fallen even further behind than he'd already been), he tried to hand them back, but I insisted. John was too shy to insist I take them back. He had reason to; he was moving back to Moosonee, and I would never see him again.
I had to borrow Garry Martin's notes to copy when I discovered that John had left. Needless to say, I studied how my straight-A friend took notes. They weren’t that different from the notes I took. He just retained the information therein better than I did.

Discipline, Of a Sort

What is acceptable at school has certainly changed since I attended St. Theresa. Most teachers today probably remember their own treatment with horror.

Point in case: Grade 7, recess, one of my friends blurted out to the student body that it was my birthday. It was. Everyone wanted to congratulate me and help me celebrate in the most time-honoured tradition: by giving me the bumps. They grabbed me, took me by the arms and legs and lifted me off the ground, whipping me into the air and back down so that my bottom kissed the earth with each repetition. Each landing was accompanied with the most gleeful ONE, TWO, THREE, and so on, by everyone gathered, and laughter. They never reached twelve. Midway through, I screamed “Jesus Christ!” Not the best thing to yell at a Catholic school, or any school for that matter. Then we all heard an adult cry out, “HEY!” over their count and their collective laughter. Everyone fell silent, in fact the entire playground fell silent, like all animals do when they sense danger. They parted like the Red Sea, and I saw Mr. S. staring at me. Everyone was terrified of Mr. S. He was small for a man, no bigger than the tallest of us—the only thing large on him was his Roman, aquiline nose—but his reputation proceeded him.

“Does your mother know you talk like that,” he asked me, his voice filled with authority and menace.

“No, sir,” I whispered, very interested with the ground at my feet, glancing up just often enough to see if my deference had had any effect. It must have, because he cut me some slack, let me off with a warning. Maybe his having seen me repeatedly slammed to the ground had something to do with it. Although he did not have enough sympathy to stop them from doing it.

I was lucky. Not so a classmate of mine later on. I do not remember his name, but I do remember that he was a class clown, harmless really, but he did have a bit of a mouth on him. Looking back, I think he might have come from a bad home, but that’s just a guess. He was slight, average height, long, straight, shoulder length hair. Not the cleanest. Not the best clothing. He had a bit of a skittish poise about him. He had the misfortune to answer a question by S with a little sarcasm, not much, but enough to make us all titter nervously. S chuckled, too. And then he struck. He reached out over the lab table (you remember the type, blacktop, waist high, with tall stools on either side of a central sink) and grabbed the kid by the hair; he lifted the kid out of his seat, over the table, and literally threw him into the chalkboard. The kid hit hard and crumpled to the floor. We were stunned. There was silence as we tried and failed to process what we’d just seen. WHAT THE FUCK! Doesn’t begin to describe our collective shock. I still remember sitting transfixed, watching a lock of hair floating on the air as it fell to the ground. I remember seeing blood on the strands. S then hauled the wailing kid off the ground and slammed him back into the wall before dragging him out into the hall where he repeatedly slammed the kid’s head against the lockers. He then shoved the kid to the stairs and hauled him to the principal’s office. We didn’t move, we didn’t even whisper amongst ourselves lest he somehow hear us, not the entire time S was gone, not even when S returned and resumed class as though nothing had happened. We knew better. Even children know when they’re in the presence of a dangerous animal.

Nothing happened to S, as far as I knew. But I seem to recall that the kid transferred to Ross Beattie Public immediately afterwards. I did feel a thrill decades later when I heard that S had contracted cancer. That sounds horrible, I know, but I remain unrepentant of it to this day.

St. Theresa, Grade 7

In a few weeks I’d settled into St. Theresa Secondary, I’d mapped out the layoff the land, so to speak, even made a few friends. Garry Martin welcomed me into his group of friends. We were a ragtag motley group of those who didn’t quite fit in anywhere else, but we didn’t just let anyone IN, either. It was a relatively small school, and not so many people as to have unlimited cliques. Some may have tagged us geeks, and that’s bullshit, but not actually wrong, either. We may not have been jocks—there was not a hockey player among us—but most of us played sports; many of us were in track and field, a couple loved to watch football, and Garry and I discovered we were both swimmers (although how we both managed to grow up as pool rats at the Schumacher pool and never share lessons or even meet is still a mystery to me). None of us had girlfriends, so maybe that’s where that came from, not that we didn’t like girls. We certainly talked about them a lot. But we were also still a little young for that, I think. I did have my string of crushes by then: Heather, Allison, and Patricia, by then. But I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do about those crushes. We were each of us experiencing a little arrested development at that time, I think. Or maybe everyone develops at their own pace, in their own time.

I remember playing tag in the school compound. We played with an Indian rubber ball. You got tagged by the ball, you were IT. This guy was chasing me, his name was Archie, I think, but we called him Lou for reasons that escaped me even then. Lou was IT. I ducked and wove between groups of people, trying to keep them between him and me, trying not to get boxed in. Long story short, he boxed me in. I found myself up against the gym wall, turned a little sideways, hands out to ward off the coming pain, waiting for the inevitable that never seemed to come. He made a couple fake throws to see if I’d bolt left or right before finally committing. He tagged me with that hard Indian-rubber, and bolted. The ball being Indian-rubber, and the ground being packed gravel, it didn’t bounce too far. I gathered it up, stretching out the knot of pain he just gave me. The ball was heavy. I looked down the gym wall and saw that Lou was running a straight line, not weaving at all. I took aim, and threw as hard as I could. I didn’t really have much of a throwing arm, I was more a sprinter and a swimmer, and could never throw too well; but this time the ball flew straight and true, arcing beautifully. But as I released the ball, I thought that I’d thrown too hard. I watched the ball as it rose and as it began its decent, then I looked back down at Lou, who was still racing straight ahead without any hint of variance at all, back up at the ball, and back down at Lou. And I felt a thrill rise up in me. I’d actually thrown the ball perfectly. The ball came down on Lou’s head before ricocheting up again, Lou flattened to the earth beneath it.

Bits and Pieces, and Such

Oddly, I have a lot of gaps in my memory of attending St. Theresa. I have a fair number of gaps in my memory of attending Pinecrest, too. Grades 1 to 2 are not quite as vivid as 4 through 6, when my class had solidified, somewhat.

I remember surprisingly few teachers. I remember a woman in ruffled shirts and salt and pepper hair teaching Grade 2 (don’t quote me on that, she may have been Grade 3), then Mrs. Gage (I do not remember her maiden name—she had that the first semester, then returned married after Christmas...unless I’m confusing two separate school years) for Grade 4, Mr. Litchfield for Grade 5 (our Principal took over the class after the nameless teacher we began with left for maternity leave quite early in the school year), and finally, the beloved Mr. Reade for Grade 6. I remember Mr. Battachio subbing in for gym class, his change jingling in his pockets. I remember mistakenly calling Mrs. Gage mom, once; being seated beside Alison Tilly for art class in Grade 6; Mr. Reade reading a chapter of a novel about a winter plane crash to us each day. My memory is replete with playground recollections: lots of soccer and touch football, then baseball and basketball. I remember being bused to the Schumacher Pool for swim classes, the water so cold that Tony Syball (sp) used to shiver uncontrollably. There were occasional testosterone clashes with Larry MacDowell in the playground, and sometimes with Donald Rhodes. I remember Alison Tilly and Tony Syball joining our class sometime around Grade 4 (I’m sure there are many who can tell me exactly when). There was Kathy Kreiner mania after her gold medal win at the ‘76 Olympics, and track and field try-outs.

But surprisingly few memories of Grades 7 and 8. I remember a snow day which turned out to be one of the best winter days ever, a solar eclipse when we had to sit in class with all the curtains drawn to protect us, a school Olympics where teams made up of people from different homerooms and grades were combined. I recall a socially awkward boy who was ridiculed by almost everyone. He was clueless, it seemed, unable to follow others’ lead to fit in. I first saw him up against the urinals, with his pants and underwear down around his ankles, all the boys in the washroom laughing at him. I felt so sorry for him, but what was to be done? He went from one social gaff to the next, never talking to others. I do recall how many people left to go to Ross Beattie in Grade 8, the socially awkward boy among them, the year parents had to pay extra for the privilege of having their children attend Catholic School.

I am cognizant of how many times I had to “start anew.” I began school in Cochrane, then began again after moving from Cochrane to Timmins (another beginning, when you think on it), then again when I was held back in Grade 2. I began again in Grade 7, when my parents transferred me from the public-school system to the separate. Losing many people mid-middle school was another surprise.

This trend of my starting over would continue in post-secondary, even in work, but those are stories for another day. Throughout my entire life I was always finding myself starting over. I shouldn’t complain. I may have lost many friends with each renewal, but I also met new people with each beginning, as well. It’s no wonder that my memory is a riot of mixed memories, somewhat loosely anchored.