One Very Good Teacher

One Very Good Teacher

 

On the coldest of winter days my intrepid mother would pull me on a wooden sleigh with curved metal runners, I was bundled up immobile and beyond recognition on the cross-country trek to my kindergarten class with Miss Linkletter at Prince Phillip Public School.  It was there that I learned to count and sounded out the alphabet years before Sesame Street ever aired on television.  My earliest memories of this class included my inability to use a coat hanger in order to hang up my coat which ultimately led to a total reliance on coat hooks and a fear of trying.  I had a slow start.

I do clearly remember nap time when we would, as a group, lay our little blankets down in a large circle on the cold, hard linoleum floor and pretend to sleep while Ms. Linkletter busied herself preparing for our next activity.  In cold weather every morning was like an indoor recess for her.  I can say with all certainty Ms. Linkletter was my first love, a secret until now.

In later grades after failing grade one I especially liked art and music classes, but soon realized that taking joy in such activities did not necessarily bestow me with any natural talent and I soon made peace with the realization that my love for those passions soon withered because my grades never matched my passion and there was no grade for passion. 

I did like show and tell.  My dad made me a wooden violin, or maybe it was a small guitar. He had cut the shape on his jig saw out of quarter inch plywood, then stained it and painted on strings and a dark circle for the hole.  I don’t know the technical terms now or then but when show and tell came around I was too embarrassed to show it. Instead, I hid it in the coatroom.  

The first time I got the strap was for throwing snowballs in the “No Snowball” zone which was exactly the area between the soccer posts.  To this day I believe Mr. Lowen was waiting for me to cross the boundary from no man’s land with an active snowball in my hand so he could send me and my brother and two hangers-on’s directly to Mr. Hall’s office for the strap.  

The four of us stood in absolute fear before our diminutive, but powerful principal as he gripped one by one our wrist in one hand and the coarse leather strap in the other then wound up in ahard ball pitchers wind up and let loose a forceful downward strike that displaced the air in the room as the belt made contact with my hand.  I did not yell.  I faced forward and received four on each hand, as I did the following week for the same offence.  The only thing that ultimately saved me was the coming of spring and the melting of the snow.

In the Spring came marble season and a time of competition out on the yard, with little chance of the strap unless a fight broke out over excessive losses or cheating.  We served up our games like a small casino at a fair ground.  The few fights I got into during this time were relatively inconsequential.

 

The frost had left the ground

the school yard transformed

to a cratered lunar like surface

as happy kids with numb fingers

squinted and took aim in

winner takes all games of:

Eye Drops,

Potsies,

Hitsies,

Snap-Crackle-Pop

or

Blanksies

 

A vocabulary for size:

 

Croak, supersize,

jumbo, bolder,

peewee and mini

 

and one for appearance:

 

Fogs, Specks, Cat’s Eyes, Sharks, Oilies,

Horsetails, Steelies, Ghost Galaxies,

Red Devils, Onions, Bloody Mary’s, Rainbows,

Skunks, Jewel Crowns, Crystals, Frosties, Spies,

Blueberry, Black Knights, Chestnuts, Galpears and

 

...never ever forget the lonely,

 

Plainie.

 

Few things on the yard match the excitement of

a mass marble scramble, or the eagerness in the eyes

of a potsie winner proudly clutching

a Royal Crown bag full of marbles.

 

Some days I would give a jumbo rainbow-swirl

to be ten again.

 

Later in math class my teacher mocked me for my weak numeracy skills while working on a slide rule.  In conversation he had asked what I wanted to do in my future and I had told him I was interested in science.  I remember his derisive laughwith mocking tones as he told me my math skills would have to be a little tighter and he added a chuckle. Whatever joy I had seen out in the yard playing marbles was dismantled with onecruel comment.

I eventually concluded that the teachers were right and I was far too sensitive for my own good and for a while I just stopped taking school seriously at all, that was until I met my Keagler in grade ten Geography.  He gave me back my passion for Geography, and trivia, nature, travel, humour and life.  His classes were like the joy of playing marbles out in the schoolyard and learning new things all at the same time.

 I took every class with Mr. K that I could.  I believe because one teacher helped me re-discover myself and my passions and overcome my insensitivities, I was able to eventually succeed as a student.  I never excelled at art, music or math, but I did connect with Mr. K’s son who I envied and through him was able to send greetings to his retired father in Fort Myers wishing him well and thanking him for being my teacher.  I don’t know if he ever got the message, or if he did if he remembered me out of a long career of students, but I do know I will never forget Mr. Keagler for making me the Geography teacher I became.