The Transfer

My mother wanted my sister and I to go to O’Gorman High School, part of the English Catholic Separate School Board, so, my sister Karen and I being 23 months apart, I had to transfer to St. Theresa (now O’Gorman Intermediate) when she entered O’Gorman High School (it’s a taxes thing). I was not pleased to leave all my friends behind (I imagine was my sister wasn’t too keen, either), but we weren’t given much of a choice. My mother was also under the impression that O’Gorman gave a better education than the public school, Timmins High; a lot of parents were under that impression, but as all school boards had to teach the same curriculum that was mandated by the Province, I can’t see how going to one school of the other made much of a difference, but hindsight is 20-20. I don’t regret going there. I enjoyed going there, for the most part.

I was nervous that first day; I was going to another new school, after all, and I didn’t know a soul (you’d think I would have this new class/new friends thing down by now, having moved from Cochrane at 4, and then held back in Grade 2; see earlier posted memories).

Karen and I walked together as far as St. Theresa, then she continued on her way to O’Gorman. I didn’t mind the walk; I’ve never taken a school bus (I always lived within the bus limit), and we gave one another moral support. But once she’d left to face her own first day in a new school, I was on my own. I recall milling about, leaning against the school walls, trying to appear cool in such a way as to attract the right new friends, trying not to appear envious that others were already grouped together. They at least, were not alone; they were already friends, having spent the last seven years of school together. The bell rang, teachers emerged to group us by grade, and my new school year amongst strangers began. I expect Karen’s experience was similar.

I met two boys fairly early on. The first was Garry Martin, a largely hyperactive boy who was drafted to take me under his wing, so to speak. Thank God for that, and thank God it was Garry. He and I became close friends and would soon share about a decade’s worth of life experiences together. The second was Gord Disley. We found ourselves at the back of a class together, and we began chatting. It was a comfortable chat. Then came introductions, but there was a sight change to the usual exercise where the teacher would just get each student to stand and tell something about themselves. In this case, we were to write something about ourselves, place the papers in a hat, and then as the teacher read each in turn the rest of the class would try to guess who that person was. I was clueless to all these clues, of course. But the girls were actually giddy about the game. When each was guessed or not, each of us then stood up in turn to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we wanted to do when we grew up. No one guessed mine (understandable, considering no one know who I was); I can’t even remember what I wrote, or what I said. But I’ll always remember what Gord said when his turn came: “I’m Gord Disley, and I want to be a Rock Star!”

True to his word, at 18, Gord packed his bags and moved to Toronto, guitar over his shoulder. He never looked back.

Did he become a rock star? No. But he did become a professional musician for a time, which is very much the same thing, I expect. He worked in restaurants to pay the bills while he waited for the expected to happen, which never did. Did he become famous? He did, somewhat. He became a stand-up comedian. He’s been on TV. He never became famous, but he did something few others ever did: He took a shot at it.

Muskoka

We didn’t venture out on vacations often. My father spent much of his time on the road, such is the life of a salesman, so he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of spending more time on a highway when he was on vacation. We went on a few, though. I recall Sudbury. I recall Niagara Falls and Clifton Street. And I recall visiting my mother’s cousin in Muskoka.

I was old enough to forge out on a canoe alone with Joe, son of Doreen, a cousin on my mother’s side, which would mean that I was probably 12 or 14, or around there. Joe and I stuck out to explore the lake. It was a sweltering day, the sky was blue, the air calm. Joe knew the lake by heart, whereas I’d never seen it before. I’d also hardly spent any time paddling a canoe. It had been years since we’d moved to Timmins and sold the Rancourt cottage, years since my father had taken up travelling for a living, so travelling while on holiday was not a priority to him. We had that summer, spending a short while at Pat and Doreen’s cottage on a Muskoka peninsula. I was bored. I didn’t really know Joe that well, and he seemed a lot older than me at the time. Our parents were sitting about chatting. That’s when Joe suggested the canoe. I was game, but a little nervous. I told him I had little experience in one, but he set me at ease, saying that he’d do all the steering, and that we’d be fine, so long as I didn’t flip us mid-lake. He laughed. I tried to. We stayed close to shore.
We were some ways out, about a half-hour or so, likely more, when the wind picked up some. Joe looked to the sky. Shrugged. We kept on. But, in no time at all, clouds resolved in an empty sky, grew dark, and piled high, one on top of another, as high as I could see. Joe stopped, surveyed the sky again, and thought it best that we head back. The wind began to whip us. We paddled hard. Rain began to fall, then pummel us. The boat rocked and pitched and I began to get very worried, and tired. My scrawny adolescent arms were spent, but fear kept me keeping on. Owing to Joe’s silence and his laboured breathing behind me, he too was worried. He too was tired.
That was when I saw a motor boat racing towards us. Pat was at the wheel, my father with him. I felt a wave of salvation. They slowed, motored past and swung around alongside. Joe climbed aboard while my father reeled me in. Pat ordered Joe to tie a line to the canoe. And we were off, the storm in our faces, the cottage still some way away despite our speed. The boat bucked and leaped through the chop, landing hard, jarring my jaw and impressing me to hang on with all my worth to my seat. I watched the canoe weave and jump on its line, as though trying to throw its hook. Lightning cut the sky, and I thought on how I’d always been told that one should never be on the water during a thunderstorm. I wondered what would happen if the boat was hit, what would happen if the lightning struck the lake.
Safe back at the cottage, dried off and changed and sipping instant hot chocolate, I watched it lash at the lake. I’ve always loved storms. I’d never once seen a storm rush in that quickly before.