School Trips

Memories are a muddle, all twisted up together, at times. Two memories collide in my mind, somewhat similar, but obviously separate upon further exploration: the Grade 6 Midland school trip, and the Grade 8 Toronto school trip. There had actually been two school trips, not just one! I’d suspected that, but couldn’t separate them. The two were similar in only one aspect, the visiting of historic forts, but that was enough to overlay one on top of the other, confusing them in my mind. Middle-age, and the long span of years taking their toll, go figure. Pictures would have helped separate them, but I have none, either never having been taken, or long lost.

The Midland trip. Grade 6. I recall the theft of the ten dollars from my suitcase vividly. That left me with almost no mad money for souvenirs, as I’d mentioned in that earlier memory. Left without the means to buy much, I had to be very careful with what remained. I made one purchase that I remember, a small fur pelt, purchased at the fort from a native display, one about a foot in length, the pelt, not the display. It was soft, the hairs parting and flowing between my fingers. I had to have it, and I did. I remember placing it on the small desk in my bedroom at home, not sure what else to do with it, always wondering as the months and years passed why I did buy it, what use I had for it. My first impulse buy. Not the last.

The Toronto trip. Grade 8. I recall the Pong game and the shoplifting at the end of the trip. I remember who did it, but as with the theft from my bags during the Midland trip, I don’t believe any mention of names would be fair, not after so many years have passed. And what would it serve? One memory is rather vivid from the Toronto trip, however. For whatever reason, our bus had not picked us up at the end of some tour, and our supervising teachers decided that we were not so far away from our hotel that we could not walk back. We were further than they imagined, as we were exhausted by the more than the hour’s walk on concrete. Along the way, a woman stepped away from a building, and through a wicked smile, asked me/us/the cluster of boys I was with if we would like to party. She was dressed as you might imagine. I imagine she was in hot pants and a tube top, her hair flared out, her make-up loud and not particularly subtle. I blushed. I think we all blushed. The woman laughed, so did her “friends.” Embarrassed, we begged off, trying and obviously failing to be cool, and found ourselves walking a little faster, to catch up with the more numerous cluster of kids ahead of us, the one presumably protected by our chaperoning teacher.

That was the first time I’d ever seen a prostitute.