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.
