The End of the Beginning

If there’s one thing everyone learns, it’s that all things end, nothing lasts forever. This includes school. There is a progression, suggesting that there will always be more: grade school leads to middle-school, middle-school to high school, high school to postsecondary, be that trade school, college, or university. It’s a dizzying succession that leads on forever, or so it seems at the time. So many years, so many people.

I’d been fortunate in my companions along the way, both domestic and foreign.

I’m surprised at the number of “foreign” people in my life, the first being Tony Siball. I don’t know if Tony could be categorized as “foreign,” but he was from Jamaica, or at least his father was. Tony never had an accent, so he was probably from Toronto, and not Jamaica at all. But he was black, so he was certainly foreign to these parts. He was the first black person I’d ever met. He was curious insomuch as his skin was a different colour, but he was just a kid, and I was a kid, and we were in the same grade. He liked to play, and I liked to play, and that’s about as far as my thoughts went at that time. Tony was Tony. His skin colour didn’t matter a whit.

Once I left Pinecrest and began attending St. Theresa, there were Natives, specifically John. John was shy. John was quiet. Aside from that, I liked John. He smiled a lot. But John went back up the coast before the year was up, and I never saw him again.

I met Renato Romey in high school. Renato began life in the Philippines, and never lost his accent so long as I knew him.

In college, both in Haileybury and in Cambrian, there were a number of African students. I only knew them in passing; they hung out with one another, generally, keeping to themselves, speaking their mother tongue often, English when needed. I recall our having to make presentations (it didn’t matter on what, so long as we were able to speak in front of the class for about 15 minutes), so one of the Africans chose to lecture us on the life of Bob Marley, his revolutionary music, and his love of the sacred Rastafarian herb. Naïve as I was, I had no idea that they’d heard of Bob Marley in Africa; obviously they had. But love of Bob’s music broke the ice, and allowed we Canadians and they Africans to begin to bridge what had been until then, a fairly wide gap. They never became friends, but from that point on we never shied away from sharing a lunch table.

And finally, there was Jak Yassar Ninio. Turkish and Jewish, Jak was quiet, and a bit effeminate by North American standards. But Jak was not North American, and as I had no reference as to how Turkish men acted, I thought Jak was gay. I could not be further from the mark. Jak’s girlfriend was gorgeous, so beautiful she might have been a supermodel. And Jak’s girlfriend slept over, and slept over often.

And then there was Matt Hait. Even though Matt was from Toronto, he was in many ways as foreign to me as any of those others. Until I met Matt, I had little exposure to Torontonians. To be clear, I know, and knew, people are people and you’d be hard pressed to find two who are completely alike, regardless how close or far apart they may have grown up, but for the most part, I thought Ontarians were Ontarians, and thought little of it. But Matt’s Torontonian perspective, and my Northern one, were rather different. His level of urban maturity dwarfed mine. And though he never belittled my naivety, he did chuckle about my being from the sticks, on occasion.

Matt was wilder than me. When he was drinking. Sober, he was a diligent student, achieving far better marks than I usually did. He was far less constrained by perceived responsibility and duty, and really didn’t think much about decorum. In his world view, it didn’t matter what people saw, heard or thought; because you were likely to never see them ever again. That could lead to rather startling behavior. One might say destructive, evil behavior. And anarchy. Surprising for an Economics major. I’d have expected him to be buttoned dawn and straight laced.

Matt liked punk music. Not like I liked punk. I liked punk that bordered on New Wave. Matt liked his with an edge, nihilistic. Matt liked the violence of a mosh pit. Matt would pop Ecstasy. Matt could then party until the sun came up, writhing to the beat at an afterhours rave.

I was invited to a party by an acquaintance in 1^st year Economics. He introduced himself to me early on, noting my thinning hair. He swept his hat off and said, “Hey man, you’re bald, too!” That really didn’t win him any points with me then. But he was persistent. He’d park himself beside me in the Spoke (the cafeteria) when he’d spot me, insist we pair up in study groups and such. He was a Frat boy. Older than his roommates, so he was eager for a friend his own age. But he was angry and bitter. That annoyed me. I had a lot of anger in me, but I wasn’t that negative. At least I thought I wasn’t then, but I probably was. When Matt heard I was invited to a party at a Frat house, he lobbied me to accept, and he wanted to come. I did. We did.

Their house was older, and more opulent than ours. They had a full-sized billiards table in their rumpus room. We didn’t have a rumpus room. We had a 13-inch colour TV in our living room. I didn’t know anyone there except the one, so I never actually relaxed. We’d also only arrived with a limited amount of beer, owing to our having to carry it on the bus.

We stuck around for a couple hours, largely ignored by the Frat boys and Sorority girls. That pissed Matt off, so we left, drinking our last couple beers on the walk home under the heat of the starlit canopy. That’s when Matt revealed that he’d pocketed four billiard balls on the way out. We pitched them down the street, watching them bounce and roll and roll until they faded from site.

Track & Field

Or just track, in my case. I was always fast, faster than most in my class, anyway; so, it was only natural that I would enroll in track and field, or more specifically, the 100 and 200. Never long distances. Maybe it was because I came from a smoker’s house, but I lacked the lungs for it. I was usually placed in long jump, but I always seemed to either leap too early, or be disqualified for stepping on the board. I was hopeless at field. When attempting shot put, I’d have to dance out of the way to avoid crushing my toes. Javelin was not much better. Maybe I ought to have spent time in the gym, but I wasn’t interested in pumping iron. I had some at home. They were largely ignored, excellent at collecting dust in the corner. I tried hurtles, but we trained indoors at O’Gorman, and we only had room in the gym to set up three, and a mat against the wall. So, we’d have to crash into the far wall when training to keep enough momentum to clear the third hurdle. I always crashed into the fourth when in competition; I suppose that was that flinch instinct kicking in, expecting a wall to rise up and slap into me.

Track was late in the season, so I never made it into the yearbook. Those who ran cross-country in the autumn did, but never us in track and field. Too late to make the printers, I suppose.

My first meet was at RMSS, my first time on an asphalt track, too. I did alright, considering my never having ever worn cleats before, well enough to not lag behind, fast enough to finish with the field, but that was all. What I remember was an RMSS senior turning his dirty tube socks around so that the dirty bottom was on top. I wondered why he did that. It must have felt wrong, what with the heels all stretched out, not to mention the crusty feel they must have had.

I improved with age. Winning heats. Never quite coming out on top, but I remember always making it to the finals, and usually crossing fourth.

And then there was the joy of seeing friends who attended other schools, hanging with them, lazing out in the sun between races.

On one occasion, and I think it was the only time I’d ever seen him since Pinecrest, I watched an old friend, Mike (no idea what his last name was), running in the 400 meter. He was a short guy, muscular, long flaming hair flying behind him. I called out, “Go, Mike, go,” to him; he glanced over, but I don’t know if he recognized me as he passed. Time passes, people move on, and who knows, maybe he didn’t like me much back in Grade school. Or maybe he moved away, because, like I said, I never did see him again.

I do recall my less than finest moment. I was set to run the lead leg of the 200 m relay (not to brag, but we placed our two fastest runners in the lead and final leg, or so I’d like to believe). I surveyed the field, the competition, got set in my lane, one of the outer lanes, and anticipating the gun. There was the sharp snap, and I took off the moment I heard the shot. I focused on the race at hand, and when I ran, the world faded away, until there was only the pumping of my arms, the pounding of my feet on the track, my rapid breathing, my eyes on the lane ahead. What I remember most of the 200 was that you couldn’t see the other lanes, so when in the outer lanes, you couldn’t gage how you were faring against the inner lanes, so you had to really focus on maintaining speed, and on gaining speed. I thought I was doing pretty well. As far as I could tell, I was so far ahead that I couldn’t see anyone in my peripheral vision. What I did see, was my team mate, Mark Charette, the next leg on my team, running back toward me, waving his arms. I looked up, then around, then back. Not a soul. I was alone.

“What?” I asked, I yelled. I knew what.

“False start!” Mark said. Not my fault, either.

I was shocked, then furious in a heartbeat. I’d just ran 100 meters of a race for nothing. I threw the baton down. Cursed, almost threw a fit. Retrieved the baton. And sulked back to the starting point. Hoping and failing to get my wind back.

When the second start fired, I was slow to start, too aware of time, the gun, and another potential false start. And found myself too winded to do much better than to keep pace with the other lanes.

Early Music Lessons

I’ve always loved music, but didn’t engage in it much until recently, active more as an enthused appreciator than as an actual participant. I’ve always loved live music, and always preferred being up close and personal with the stage, never content with seeing acts and superstars who are no more than miniatures on a distant stage. More on that “up close and personal” in later posts, but you’ll have to be patient for those.

My sister took piano lessons from an early age, reaching 11th grade. She didn’t play in public often, just the recitals she was obligated to do. She rarely ever played when anyone else was in the room, either. She did make an exception for my father, who would sit and listen to her play for an hour at a time. She played when I was in the room, as well; probably because I never judged her performance. But she was a perfectionist, and never pleased with her playing. My mother asked me once, when I was still quite young, if I’d like to take lessons too, after noticing me fingering the keys on Karen’s piano. I declined, rather shyly, sure I could never learn. There were SO many keys, and they were SO far apart. And, having watched my sister play, it looked SO difficult. That was stupid of me. I regret it to this day. The earlier one begins to learn anything, the better, and it’s more likely to become innate if one does start at an early age.

There was "choir" practice for the plays while in Pinecrest. I know I said that I hated learning harmony, but I always loved to sing. I used to sing along to LPs and the radio, often humming along while doing homework. I don’t remember musical instruments being taught there, at all.

That was relegated to art class in St. Theresa, where we were introduced to the recorder, probably to see if they could scare us all away from pursuing music as a career. I have patchy memories of music classes, I think it was once a week, where we were all expected to screech and squeak for about 15 or 20 minutes at most. I can’t recall anyone coming away from those music lessons with a desire to continue. Unless you took guitar lessons as an extracurricular activity. I did. And I really wanted to learn. But I was learning on a J-45, enormous for me at the time. And the strings hurt my fingers. I was told it would take time to build calluses on my fingertips, but impatience took its toll. I’d pick at it a couple time a week but I just couldn’t reach the fret board and reach around the body at the same time. I also had to endure the ridicule from bullies. They threatened to steal my guitar, they threatened to break it, they pelted me and the guitar case with snowballs. I quit shortly after that, afraid I would lose my dad’s guitar. I regret that too.

I would pick the instrument up from time to time, browse the method manuals, and attempt to teach myself, but learning to read music by myself was daunting, at best. Then, a schoolmate at college said he would teach me, but he only taught me a couple cords, never following through.

I began taking actual music lessons much later on, in my 40s, through the TSO. No guitar there, but by then I was interested in more than just guitar. I began with a plastic clarinet, later added alto sax. And now that I can read music, I’ve started back on guitar again. I’ll likely never be great, maybe not even good, but it’s the journey that matters. Challenge yourself. It’s never too late to learn new things, it’s never too late to chase down a dream.

Interclass School Games

I’m not sure what else to call them, but I recall we had them at both Pinecrest and St. Theresa, where the school made up teams of members of different home rooms and grades, named them particularly cool and evocative names like the blue team, the red team, green, etc., or some such, and set the teams to compete athletically for points. Sort of like team Olympics.

Pinecrest was held in the warm spring months, so the sports were relay races, high jumps and the sort. I was especially good at the sprints, somewhat good at high jumps, disastrous at throwing events. We’d compete, and the teachers would award the points to the winning teams, and after completing the full circuit of events, the points were tallied and the three teams with the highest scores won gold, silver, and bronze. I don’t remember actually winning a medal, although I do remember once or twice being confused by who actually did win an event, not keeping the actual number of home runs or whatever clear in my head. Paying close attention to details like timekeeping and unmarked scoring was not really my strong suit back then.

St. Theresa’s was held in the winter, but the events were pretty similar. The one I recall most of all was a simple one. One team had to kick a soccer ball through the opposing team, each player in turn, and the team that kicked through the other the most got the points. I knew I would do well at this one. I’d played soccer at recesses since grade 1 and was always good at it. I could always kick long and far, and with reasonable accuracy. There were no other rules than those simple ones; so, when my turn came, I prepared for the kick by setting up the ball on a built up, make-shift tee of snow. I set the ball atop it, stood back, and having already figured out who had guarded their end the worst, decided to kick through them. I decided to keep the angle of the kick as secret as possible to the very end so the other team wouldn’t be able to shift their goal keeping at the last moment, as I’d seen them do, skipped the first couple steps, and then quickly wound up and kicked hard. And realized my mistake the moment I connected with the ball; I’d stacked the tee too high. My instep kicked the ball, not my toe, and the ball went high, not hard and deep as I’d intended. It went oh so high, like a pop-up fly ball in baseball. I watched the ball as it rose, as it seemed to hang in space forever, and I cursed. It was the easiest catch of the event. I didn’t win a medal at that particular Olympics, either.

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.

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.

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.

Sliding at Pinecrest

Everyone in my neighborhood used to slide down Pinecrest hill; this was before the school erected a fence around its front perimeter, probably prompted by insurance companies to protect the school from lawsuits. Probably for good reason. There were two points of departure, one terribly steep, where one would take off like a bullet but still remain on the school property; the other slightly less steep with a terrace in the middle, less terrifying, but also ending in a phalanx of trees with only two gaps one had to aim for, one barely wide enough for a sled to pass, the other about four sleds wide. We aimed for the larger; it was safer in terms of potential impacts, but it also allowed us to slide clear across Toke Street. Cars would round the bend from Brouseau, wait for a gap in the sliders, then proceed up the hill. We in turn would delay once we saw the car. Common sense prevailed, and adults never complained about our sliding there, as far as we knew.

Maybe common sense didn’t prevail as often as it ought to. We were daredevils then, waxing the bottom of our toboggans, occasionally standing up on the toboggan while sliding downhill (I would never try that on the steep slope: too scary). There were a lot of spills, the occasional ditch if we saw ourselves about to collide with a tree. Sometimes not. Sometimes we just held on and screamed as we closed with those thin gaps in the trees. Impacts were hard. Kids were hurled from their sleds. Tubes bounced off. But their occupants were thrown forward, regardless where that tube might be headed.

One didn’t have to hit those trees to have an accident. Once could be hit while climbing the hill. I was. I was exhausted after so many climbs to the top and not paying as close attention to where I was going as I ought to have. I was staring at my feet with each step. I’d strayed from the dedicated lane we’d formed to regain the hilltop.

“Dave,” someone called out to me. “Look out!”

“What?” I thought, twisting about and trying to see beyond my pulled-low and snow-crusted toque to see who was calling out to me.

It was at that exact moment that a slider took my legs out from under me. My legs flew out and I landed hard enough to take my breath away. Once I could breathe again, I thought it pretty funny. I felt like I’d spun 360 degrees before landing, although I had just been laid flat.

It wasn’t always that dangerous. Sometimes it was just cold. Bitterly cold. Deathly cold. On those days there were few kids on the hill, if any. Dave and I were. And on one day, so was a younger girl and her friend. No one else. Were we cold? No. We were bundled up and climbing the hill repeatedly had toasted us nicely. Steam must have risen from us.

But in the course of the day, the young girl spilled from her slide, losing her boot in the process. It flew off as she tumbled. Try as we might, we couldn’t get that boot back on. Her laces were a tightly frozen knot, and our fingers froze trying, each of us in turn. We finally gave up, jammed her boot on as high up as we could get it, and ran, dragging her home behind us on her sled, her personal team of horses. As we arrived at her house at the lower end of Patricia, if I remember correctly (not far, but it seemed an endless run), her mother must have seen us coming, because she was waiting at the door. She thanked us, we blushed, and we went home.
That was enough sliding for one day.

Allergies

I’ve been plagued by allergies for most of my life. Anyone who’s ever seen me suffer through an outbreak of hives, especially in those early ones, understands what I mean when I say plagued.

The first, and the worst, was in Grade 5, in the spring, just before our school celebrated some sort of Chinese festival. We’d spent weeks preparing for it (I have no idea how long we prepared for it, but we’d begun before I was stricken, and I was still stricken when the celebration was complete) when one weekend morning I woke to horrible itching. I scratched to no relief, and when I finally found myself in front of a mirror, was horrified by the angry red welts covering my face, rendering me somewhat unrecognizable. I called out to my mother in a panic, and her reaction to my new look was less than comforting. Further inspection confirmed the presence of hives everywhere, some small and round and only beginning to blossom; others mature, fully grown, and in all manner of shape, soon to be subsumed again within the confines of my skin. About three and a half weeks would pass before I was free of them, but not before my hands had swollen to the point where I could not even bend my fingers, my feet so bloated and sensitive to touch that I could not even walk, reduced to crawling about. Worse still was the blow to my vanity: the hives never left my face, painfully altering my features in some new caricature of self from first to last day. Begging sickness and hiding from view, I missed the entire festival, including the much anticipated Chinese food feast. Mr. Litchfield made a special trip to my house that day, carrying with him enough food for my whole family. I was thrilled, but I also refusing to come to the door until he’d left. My mother would have none of that, coaxing me from hiding to thank Mr. Litchfield for his kindness. Mr. Litchfield treated my fragile vanity with more tact than I thought anyone could muster, and never once showed any of the shock or loathing I’d expected.

Testing was prescribed. I was instructed to abstain from those things I was exposed to most often...to see what might happen, or not. Then the day arrived. The allergist had arrived and inked my arms with numbers, and over each was scratched an oil, an extract of some fruit or vegetable, some dust or dander, some sap or some some-such. I can’t say how many allergens were exposed, but there were certainly enough, including dog dander. I had to abstain from those things, which apparently was to include exposure to dog dander. There was some deliberation about what to do with Cookie, our dog. I would have nothing to do with being rid of her. She was an integral part of my existence.

Monthly shots were prescribed, not that I believe ever had any effect in halting, or even lessening the effects of further outbreaks, whatsoever.

So, further outbreaks followed, and were endured. Once, when renovations were again in full swing at the Hart Street house (still some years before the addition), I was sleeping in the basement, as my bedroom was reeking of paint, the red decorations poised to be put in place. Upon waking, I climbed the stairs to wash my face, which was feeling unusually tight, just then. I gazed down the upstairs hall and wondered, in my morning confusion, who the kid was down the hall. My heart skipped a beat upon recognition. It was me. It was my reflection in a mirror set out and leaning against the far wall. My face was in such a state as to render me unrecognizable, even to myself.

I learned, in time, to take the shock I would see in others’ faces in stride. I had no choice, I could not hide away from the world for a month at a time, two or three times a year.

But it did get better. Years found the outbreaks lesser, and in time infrequent.

I learned an important lesson throughout those ensuing years. Most people have difficulty with deformity, in whatever form it may exhibit itself. They retreat from it. And from the person. Dealing with that hardens one’s soul.

The Playground

Every kid watches the clock when the minute hand closes in on recess. Then the seconds as that final minute ticks down to twelve. I always felt cheated out of my most special times of the day if the bell didn’t strike at the exact moment the second hand struck the top of the circle. Ten, nine, eight…three, two, one, and….

The bell rang. The desk legs scraped the tiled floor as we’d rise in unison and somehow kept our exterior cool, lining up, and marching like the little army we were taught to be, bursting out into the yard.

I remember a number of Pinecrest school playground moments: chasing balls and things like that. I remember once dropping flat on my stomach when I presumed (unseen) that someone was going to bean me with a ball from behind. There wasn’t. But there was a boy rushing me to lay me flat with a push (we were always pulling pranks like that), but when I dropped before he could, he tried to check himself and ended up on his face. Karma.

Larry McDowell and I had a fit one day, alpha male boy’s stuff, and during the recess soccer play, I purposely hooked his ankle with my foot, sending him spinning and landing on his face. I was thrilled when I saw his bloodied nose. Take that, I thought. But I knew I had to be on my guard. I knew he’d retaliate.

I remember playing basketball with Donald Rhodes, and Don always mimicking the Fonz from “Happy Days,” the apex of cool in the mid ‘70s. “Eh!” he’d say, hooking his thumbs out.

I remember recess always beginning and ending with a long peal of the bell. We’d run to the bats and balls set out at the ready. And we’d run back in to where we knew our places were, lined up by class, awaiting our instruction to enter the halls, always walking at a measured pace following the brass sheet tile lines to keep us orderly, until we came upon our class and had had to wait for a break in the girls walking the halls in the opposite direction, following the other gold seam.

It was like keeping to our lanes on a highway. I’m surprised that the leader did not have to signal his intent to turn.

The Snowball

Nick and I were roughhousing, throwing rough, icy snowballs that we mashed together at each other. It was a running battle. Much dodging, a lot of weaving. I remember it was great fun, running and dodging those poorly aimed throws; maybe not that poorly aimed, given the amount of dodging and weaving involved. We didn’t pay much attention to our surroundings. We ought to have.

I mashed a couple snowballs together, took one on the back, rose and threw. Nick dodged. Neither of us noticed the younger girl coming up behind us. Anyway, Nick dodged. It was a near miss for him. Just not for the girl. She caught the ball on the forehead. And that was the end of the fun.

She began crying. We dropped everything. We rushed towards her. Inspected her. There was no blood. There wasn’t likely to be; I didn’t have much of a throwing arm. Her right brow was red, though. We were consoling her. We were also worried. And rightly so; this was still the age of iron fist discipline and the strap. We knew kids who’d had the strap, no one in our class as yet, but we’d heard talk, none of it good.

Rumour had it that some kid had pulled his hand away at the last moment and Dick Litchfield had strapped his own hand. Dick was furious. Dick doled out two strokes for the kid having flinched. That was likely untrue. But urban myths prevail. And everyone loves a good horror story.

She would have none of our consoling. She went into the school, still crying, that damning red mark on her forehead witness to our impending doom. Before we know it, Mr. Reade was out the door, descending on us. The look on his face informed us that he was none too pleased with us. He took us by the collar and hauled us into the school, down the hall, and into the Principal's office. Mr. Litchfield was none too pleased with us, either. But Mr. Litchfield was also a wise gentleman.

He gave Nick and me a choice: the strap or two weeks detention during recess, doing long-hand division. Neither Nick nor I hesitated. Terrified of the strap, we spend the next two weeks at a table in the picture window across from Litchfield’s office brushing up on our math, and our marks went up with it.
That cagy Mr. Litchfield, forever a teacher. He knew how to dole out discipline.

The Cop Car

The police seemed quite different when I was younger. They were enormous, most officers towering over those around them. I know, I’ve never actually been tall, and I was a kid then, so, everyone towered over me. But the stories told me suggested they were of sterner stuff. That may not be true, that may just be tinted memory.

Be that as it may, one day, when I was a kid, David Miller and I were at the base of Pinecrest, taking a break from whatever. It was hot. It was the dog days of summer. I recall us standing, straddling our bikes, leaning on the handlebars, not actually going anywhere, not actually doing anything, when we heard a distant siren. Our interest was perked. What kid doesn’t love a siren and the excitement that always seems to accompany one? We noticed the siren was getting louder, and louder still, overlaid by the high-pitched whine of a motorbike. Dave and I looked at each other, aware that their source was definitely coming our way. And then we saw it, the motorbike flying up Brousseau, actually leaving the ground as it topped the rise at Toke Street. Its scream was terrific, loud enough that we’d have cupped our hands to our ears had we not been astounded at what was playing out in front of us, had it not crossed right in front of us, so quickly that it was a blur that was already receding. The bike threw a spray of fine sand behind it as it fishtailed into the bush trail at the base of the school hill, back towards the cruiser that raced after it. Remember the cruisers then? White and blue, and as big as a ship. It too passed in a blur, a white streak that to our surprise was not slowing down. The cop car was way too wide for the trail ahead, regardless how wide its entry. We ought to know, we all but lived back there on those trails. As the cop soon found out as he sailed into the trail in hot pursuit of the bike. And then he was lost to sight. We heard the snap of branches and branches and even more branches. And then just the siren. And then silence, just a tiny motorbike in the far distance, and the thrum of the cruise however far it had carried into the trail. Dave and I hadn’t moved, never having taken our eyes off the trailhead. A short while later, not long, no more than a minute or two, the cruiser backed out, breaking still more branches. Twigs and leaves stuck out from the hood, the front lights, the wheel wells.

I suppose the cop gave us a hard look as he backed out and drove away; maybe not, maybe he was too embarrassed to want to see if those kids were still watching him. I wasn’t, I was still too bewildered at what I’d just witnessed to actually see him, still staring at the bits of bush bristling from all over the cruiser.

A Birthday Party

I haven’t had many birthday parties. What I had were birthday celebrations, dinners, the like. Mostly just with family. But actual parties? None that I haven't thrown myself.

My first that I remember was in Timmins. I was in my early grades at Pinecrest, but after I’d been held back, because I remember that it was those boys who came: Larry and Tony and Leslie and Mark. David Miller, too. David was my neighbour, my first friend in Timmins.

I was excited. I’d never had a party where school friends were in attendance. In fact, I can’t remember my ever having a birthday party before, at all. So, excited is an understatement. I was bouncing off the walls. I would check the street about every minute or so, regardless how much time remained until the guests were set to arrive.

In time, they did. I recall not being sure what my role was. Host? My mother certainly instructed me to greet all my guests at the door. Man of the hour? Prince? I think my mother may have told me I was the host of the party, but I would not have understood what that meant, at that age. What did a host do? They entertained their guests, my mother said. Me, entertain them? I thought it was my day. Wasn’t it?

I can’t say what was for dinner. Hot dogs? Most likely. I was a kid, not terribly fond of most meats at the time, so hot dogs must have been on the menu (in later years, the standard was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas; how that came about I'm not sure; I suppose it was deemed my favourite meal, and it came to be a tradition; but my favourite meal was spaghetti and meatballs, but I suppose that might have been deemed either too messy, or too pedestrian for a birthday celebration). There was cake. Of course there was cake. That’s what a wound-up kid needs, more sugar.

I was a bit of a tyrant, I think. Actually, I know I was a bit of a tyrant. I wanted to be the center of attention. I wanted to play with every toy. I took toys away from the other kids. I had a tantrum. My mother was having none of it.
She demanded that I behave. She demanded that I let my guests play with the toys, too. I had a fit. They were my toys!

I ended up getting a spanking and being sent to my room for a time.
Did I deserve it? You bet I did.

Held Back

It’s hard starting over. Twice in three years was a bit much, to my mind.

I really don’t remember too much about my first two years at Pinecrest School, or even those kids I spent those years of school with. Which is odd. They were there with me for the next four years, but we invest in the kids we share our classes with, not those who are in separate rooms.

Why didn’t I spend my grade school years with them? Because I was held back. I was young and struggling to keep up those first years. I remember being small, smaller than all my classmates, but that stands to reason, considering that I was a December baby, and most of my classmates had a full year development on me. I do remember struggling. I felt stupid most of the time. I’d never felt stupid before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

The principal, Richard Litchfield, recognized that I was struggling and advised my parents that I should be held back. My mother tells me that it was a difficult decision to undertake, but in the end, they did what he advised.

I was too young to understand. The kids I spent the next four years with told me that I failed Grade 2, which was why I was repeating it. It must have seemed the only explanation, to them, regardless my explaining that I was held back and that was not the same as failing (I didn’t understand it, myself, so I had a difficult time convincing others). They didn’t understand why anyone would do that, and must have thought I was lying to save face. Dave failed Grade 2; simple; easy to understand. The year passed and I suppose it slipped from everyone’s mind; they knew me by then; I was one of their friends by then and it didn’t really matter anymore. But I never forgot that feeling of failure as I walked into Grade 2 for the second time. I guess those early traumas leave deep scars.