Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
At last! The big day had finally arrived---first day of school! I'm sure my mother had mixed emotions. She'd had to police this little monster for an extra year so she was looking forward to her freedom. On the other hand, she'd become just that much more attached and knew that she would miss me. After all, I was her baby! My hair was washed, combed and slicked down and I had been told at least five times to behave myself and stay out of trouble. I knew Mom hated to let me go off on my own although Lord knows I'd done it enough times for unauthorized reasons. Both Bob and Lloyd were going to school anyway and finally convinced her that they could get me to the right place at the right time.
The school was about a fifteen minute walk from our house. Although leisurely, our progress lacked the scuffling, horseplay and fooling about that would muss up my clothes and hair in the days to come. I was wearing dark brown corduroy knee breeches, brown woollen socks, black shoes that laced up above my ankles and a buttoned gabardine jacket. A proper fashion plate! Mom had tried to get me to wear a cap but I had talked her out of it.
'You're sure to get 'Rusty' Byers,' Lloyd said with all the assurance of a one-year veteran.
'How come?' I asked.
'Because she's the only Grade One teacher there is!' he said smugly. This valuable input was typical of the gratuitous coaching I was to receive all the way to Sunalta for my scholastic debut. When we rounded the corner of Shelbourne and Superior I had my first good look at Sunalta School, where I was to spend most of my days for the next eight years.
Like so many of the Calgary Public Schools built during the early years of the century, Sunalta School was built of local sandstone, probably from the Oliver quarry, (by then abandoned) less than half a mile south of the school. It dominated the hill above the quarry and gully (now the Crowchild Trail) with a doorway marked 'BOYS' on the north side and one marked 'GIRLS' on the south side. Ironically, there was a main entrance on the east side but it had a lawn in front and was fenced off with the gate locked. Very mid-Victorian! I remember it being used only for posing classes for the annual photograph. I think we had to bring twenty-five cents to the teacher on the day the photo was taken. Unbelievably, I have no class photos from any of the eight years I spent at Sunalta! I can't believe that my mother would have considered the cost too high. Is it possible that I and a couple of my buddies decided that we didn't want any 'stupid' class photos? Sentimental, what? Quite incredible! What a jerk!
Predictably, my brothers spotted the queue in front of the Grade One room door and dumped me there with hurried assurances that everything would be fine, all I had to do was wait my turn. Presumably the line-up ahead of me extended from the registrar's desk out into the hallway and was comprised largely of women whose hands were being tightly gripped by either one or two children. The goofy age-limit rules in effect at the time resulted in our class having one set of twins and five other brother-sister combinations, the McCulloughs (the twins), the Lewises, the Campbells, the Standerwicks and the Weinheimers. Each set was bisexual (is that the proper word?). What I mean to say is that each set comprised both a boy and a girl.
When I made it to the teacher's desk I was confronted by a chunky middle-aged redheaded woman who asked me questions in a no-nonsense manner: Name? Age? Address? Phone Number? Fourth seat in the first row next to the windows and the geraniums! Next! She was obviously in a hurry to process all forty-two little monsters as quickly as possible and was in no mood for idle chitchat. I walked over to my assigned seat and sat there watching the various scenes of separation trauma surrounding me. Mothers and children alike were sobbing and clinging to each other as though consigned for criminal transport to Australia.
Perhaps it was a spooky omen of things to come. Seated immediately in front of me was a freckle-faced Killarney boy called Lawrence (I learned all of this later, of course). He was engaged in an ongoing struggle with his tearful mother whom he was attempting to prevent from leaving him in this terrifying new environment. Each time his mother seemed to have reassured him, detached herself from his clutches and started around the classroom toward the exit, she would turn to see him following a few feet behind her. She eventually succeeded in getting him to stay in place by watching him constantly as she made her way slowly around the classroom. Just as it appeared as though she were going to exit successfully, Lawrence bolted from his seat and ran across the front of the room behind Miss Byers, literally 'cutting off his Mom at the pass'. This exercise continued until Miss Byers had finished registration and was free to play a role in Lawrence's incarceration. Fifteen years later he was again incarcerated having been found guilty of murdering an elderly clockmaker in Bowness. His original sentence of death by hanging was subsequently commuted to life imprisonment. If he's still living he would have long since been paroled.
Since I spent eight years at Sunalta School, much of it was like army life, long periods of boredom interspersed with brief moments of agony or excitement. It would be boring and pointless to attempt a linear review of those years, therefore I will touch only on those things I consider to be the highlights of my activities. Some of them took place within the school but others in the surrounding neighborhood.
Political correctness today would militate (if I may be allowed to use that word) against the corporal punishment rules existing in the schools in those days. There were probably others besides me who were strapped in every grade but I haven't met any of them. I met a fellow the other day who claims to have received the strap at an Edmonton school for throwing a snowball in class! I think that deserves at least honourable mention; it's one I never thought of, regretfully.
When 'Rusty' Byers had finished signing up everyone, she gave us a brief lecture concerning expected rules of behaviour, impending curricula and optional supplies, then sent us all home for the rest of the day. I thought school was going to be pleasurable after all, if every day was like this. How little I knew!
Lining-up (queuing) seemed to be 'de rigeur' in those days. We were not allowed to improve our 'self-esteem' by wandering around the school according to how it suited us. When the school bell rang we lined up in our class groups (boys on one side of the school, girls on the other) and waited for a signal from the vice-principal to begin an orderly march into the building. This unfortunate man had a stiff leg, conceivably the result of a war injury, but even more unfortunately was called, unbelievably, by the name 'Mr. Badcock' ( not Mr. Babcock, it was definitely 'Badcock', I guarantee!) The vulgar low-class comedians of the school (me included) 'dined out' on this unusual concatenation. Although 'larking about' in the lineup was strictly forbidden, the crude allusions to his name were too risible to prevent isolated gusts of subdued juvenile snickering.
We were lined up one day in our 'home room' in preparation for a visit to the school Assembly Hall, so named because this was where we were 'assembled', (there may have been more dissembling than assembling, but that's another story) for concerts, memorial speeches, singsongs and disciplinary warnings from senior staff members. We liked to assemble there to watch the Grade Eight girls in short shorts play basketball.
Miss Byers gave the order to the lead girl to proceed with the column to the hall. As I passed old Rusty I was hauled rudely out of line by one shoulder and told to return to the classroom. Rusty was pissed off because I had decided that the big HB pencils we had been issued for drawing alphabet letters were better used for drawing Italian type mustachios on my upper lip. Such a silly boy! Apparently Rusty didn't agree.
'Wash that mess off your upper lip, then go and sit in your place until we all return,' she said brusquely. Having said that, she marched off with the class to the Assembly Hall. I was intensely embarrassed. Fortunately I wasn't required to correct my attempt at vaudeville humour in front of the entire school populace; I made my way down to the boy's washroom and scrubbed away with water and paper towels until I had removed most of my unappreciated makeup then returned to my home room and sat quietly alone awaiting the return of my classmates. When at last they returned Rusty wasted no time in getting her strap out of the right hand upper drawer of her desk and summoning me to the front of the classroom.
'Raise your right hand,' she said. I raised my left hand, not deliberately, of course, it was merely confusion.
'That's your left hand,' she said, her face reddening. 'I told you to raise your right hand!'
'Sorry,' I said, switching my hands. I was tempted to say 'What's the difference? they're both going to get it eventually anyway!' but I decided that silence was the better part of valour. My cheekiness seemed already to have increased the vigour of her swings. I took one on each hand and was sent back to my seat.
I was going to discuss the subject of corporal punishment each time I encountered it on my tortuous path through eight years of scholarly involvement at Sunalta School; I've decided, however, to discuss the subject in general at this time. I was strapped in every grade at least once; not a record, I'm sure, but certainly uncommon.
The ever-present instigator and 'agent provocateur' in my life was Bill Friendly. Let's just be kind and say he was my self-appointed 'promoter'. He was a year older than I and seemed to be the perfect counterpoint to my childish gullibility. I was still in Grade One when it was our turn again to have Superior Avenue oiled. First, the graders came along and ripped up the road surface which had become rutted and potholed after two or three years of service. Next, it was recrushed and rolled level and, finally, the oil trucks came along and sprayed on black oil of medium viscosity and left it to soak in. Inevitably, overspraying occurred occasionally and the noxious black oil would pool in the gutters.
Ruth Smith was the daughter of the owner of a 'tony' clothing shop in downtown Calgary. They lived in a lovely home about half a block west of us. Ruth owned a pretty beige-coloured coat of sheared lamb. It occurred to Bill that it would be immensely amusing if someone dipped a finger in the pooled oil and surreptitiously dabbed it onto the back of her coat. He further suggested that I would be the ideal person to perpetuate this hilarious caper. Ho, ho! What a yuck! Word of the outrage reached the school almost immediately and I was ordered to go and see the school Principal, Mr. Van Volkenburg. I have no recollection of Bill ever 'fessing up' to his involvement. I'm guessing he may have decided to distance himself from the episode. Very supportive! We've all heard of the 'Fear of God' and I think this may have been as close as I ever came to it.
'Mr. Van' (for that was how I addressed him) was all of six foot two, maybe more, because he looked like ten foot two as I ran down the hallway tugging at his coat tail, attempting to get his attention.
'Mr. Van! Mr. Van!...'
He noticed me eventually and told me to report to his office at 4.00 p.m. I'll never know whether it was skillfully planned on a psychological level or merely accidental, but Mr. Van told me that he was too busy to discuss it and I was to report to him again the next day at 4.00 p.m. I spent the next day in an agony of apprehension. I was in his office waiting promptly at 4.00 p.m. Something had come up that required his immediate attention, he said, come back again tomorrow, same time! Finally, on Friday, at the end of the school week, he asked me to be seated, facing him across his desk.
'Now, then,' he said sternly; 'what's this all about?' What's it all about? I thought. You mean you don't know? I thought everybody in the school knew! So I had to give him a brief but painful account of the event. But I was between a rock and a hard place; relating the basic facts while at the same time minimizing the long term potential damage. He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity while I nervously speculated on how many he would give me and how hard he would hit.
'Well, Ronald, I hope you realize what an unkind, mischievous trick you played on an innocent young girl.'
'Yes, sir,' I said, genuinely contrite.
'We'll all be watching to see if you live up to your potential. I hope I won't have to see you here again!'
'Yes, sir! I mean no, sir!' We sat looking at each other without further discussion for some time.
'That'll be all, you can go now, Ronald.' I could hardly believe my ears. It was over! I wasn't going to get the strap! I almost felt cheated, but not quite!
Meanwhile, next door in Grade Two, Lloyd was experiencing his own exciting adventures, including some hilarious confrontations he witnessed involving the strap. His teacher was referred to by Lloyd and his classmates as 'Old Lady Evans'. Let me tell you about 'Old Lady Evans' from a mature perspective, rather than from that of a seven year old. I remember her as a very shapely medium-height blonde about twenty-three years old wearing a belted grey crepe de chine dress, black high-heeled pumps and silk stockings that showed off her excellent legs to advantage. I don't know how long she had been teaching but I got the impression that she was still somewhat tentative in her approach to student discipline.
In my opinion early-grade students are not unlike wild animals; if they sense any weakness or deference in the behaviour of their instructor they immediately try to use the knowledge to their advantage. I believe it was Aubrey who had decided to sass her a couple of times one morning. Aubrey was sent back to our class again a couple of years later and this may have been a contributing factor. Miss Evans had apparently decided to put a stop to Aubrey's impudence so she made an impulsive decision to give him the strap.
The strap was made of industrial belting about two inches wide and two feet long, folded on itself in the middle so that in most strappings at least half of its length was held by the teacher, presumably to afford a firm grip to the disciplinarian. Even before my subsequent frequent strappings by a variety of teachers through my years at Sunalta I came to a clear realization of one fact; the school board did not hold instructional strapping seminars. Every participating teacher had his/her unique whacking technique. There were some early environmentalist/humanitarian/liberal tree huggers who either didn't have the courage to strap or disapproved of corporal punishment but I don't recall having the good fortune to encounter many of these. Miss Evans was a memorable example! After summoning Aubrey to the front of the class she gripped the strap firmly and ordered him to extend his hand. Taking a full backswing she slashed down with all her force. Aubrey casually moved his hand to one side with the result that Miss Evans's vicious cut at him followed through, striking her painfully on her shapely right shin.
Aubrey, smirking noticeably for the entertainment of his classroom fans, raised his hand once again for Miss Evans. He did everything but say 'Have another go, sweetheart!' But Miss Evans was not about to be further mortified by this troublesome boy.
'Go to the Principal's office,' she said bitterly, 'I'll talk to you later!' Aubrey sauntered cockily from the room for his appointment with 'Mr. Van'.
-o-
In an attempt to rectify the registration 'cock-up' that previously existed, the School Board decided to have us 'skip' a year, which, in effect, had us take Grades Two and Three in one year. Miss Timms had the assignment at Sunalta and although she must have found the responsibility taxing I confess that I never knew when Grade Two ended and Grade Three began. Or did she find the work so similar that she just combined them as we went along, giving each student assignments that met his capabilities? This is February of 1997 and I read the obituary of Miss Timms last week; she was 93 years old. Not bad for a stressed out former teacher, bearing in mind that all of our classrooms had six rows of seven desks each (if you didn't get past Grade One that comes to forty-two desks!) That's one reason why I'm puzzled by the claims of present-day educators that they need smaller classes. They already have classes of no more than thirty-five and they have educator's assistants to do the 'grunt' work teachers were previously required to do. I'm also led to believe that they will not spend extra time with the students after school hours to coach and instruct them in athletic activities.
In my day every school had at least one rink surrounded by standard hockey boards. I don't know who did the rink flooding but I suspect that it was a part of the school janitor's duties. So how come our Teacher's Union leaders claim they are hard done by but our students (contrary to the Union's claims) score lower in some grades than many foreign students? It would be great if they were playing golf!
Miss Timms was too tiny to strap effectively but our Principal and Vice Principal were happy to oblige. I say 'happy' advisedly because I think at a certain level the punishment meted out by the 'strappers' gave them a degree of satisfaction if not of pleasure. My arch nemesis in this respect was 'Wink' Potter, who was Vice Principal from 1935 to 1939. Strapping was mandatory for the offense of fist-fighting in the school grounds. Other offenses which culminated in a visit to the Principal's office were: larking about or loud talking while in the lineup prior to entering the school, throwing snowballs (loaded or not with stones), talking back to a teacher in a disrespectful manner, engaging in prohibited games or other playground activities, e.g. 'Dog Pile' or 'Horse.' Perhaps I should explain how these last two fun games work and you will be better able to understand why they resulted in routine punishment.
The 'Dog Pile' didn't require a great deal of advance planning. If two boys were involved in a wrestling match on the ground, a bystander would occasionally decide to join in. If a fourth boy decided to jump in, the pile would automatically go 'critical' and the cry 'Dog Pile!' would be heard in the grounds. Boys from near and far would come running like pigs at feeding time and gleefully hurl themselves on top of the pile. If you were unfortunate enough to be one of the original antagonists you would eventually find it virtually impossible to breathe with eight or ten giggling schoolboys stacked above you. Actually, it was great fun if you were somewhere near the top of the pile.
Believe it or not, Mrs. McAllister, mother of twins, lived directly across the street from the unfenced playground and had a pair of binoculars so that she could track the activities of her children at recess. Her older boy was her particular concern, tall and skinny and wearing what we called 'bottletop' glasses. Constantly baited because he was 'different', he frequently ended up wrestling on the ground. At the first sign of a 'Dog Pile' Mrs. M. was out the front door of their bungalow and headed for the schoolground, frequently arriving before the schoolground supervisor of the day, to begin peeling off the offending latecomers. All of this was doubtlessly helpful to George in the short run, but regrettable in the long run. He was thought of as a 'sissy or 'Mommy's Boy' for years. The 'third man in' was usually identified and sent off to the Principal's office.
One has to believe that in some respects, dogs are more civilized than humans. I occasionally saw one dog piled on top of another but never six or seven at a time.
The other prohibited game, 'Horse', was even more brutal. Teams were limited to a maximum of ten players each. The team leader would bend at the waist and clutch one of the steel goalposts at the end of the football field. The rest of his team would line up behind him, each bent over at the waist with his arms tightly wrapped around the waist of the player ahead of him. The captain of the opposing team would take a run from a distance back then leap high in the air and run as far along on his hands as he could before landing, preferably on the other captain's back with as much spine-crushing force as possible. The 'object' of the game was to see how few players were needed to leap on the line before it would collapse. The additional attraction of 'Horse' was that the goalposts were close to the GIRLS side of the school, giving the 'macho' component of the boys an ideal opportunity to show off.
Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah, 'strapping offences'. I'm sure I was involved in strapping or surrogate strapping in every grade up to and including Grade Eight. Maybe I've just been saying it for so long I've started to believe it, but there really were exceptions. I've mentioned Miss Timms, who was too small to handle the job which was readily assumed by a number of alternates.
Roy Harris was an early version of 'cool'. He played baseball for my Dad's 'Pucksters' during the summer months and used to give me his glove to 'keep warm' when he was at bat. We got along just fine and he never came close to punishing me in a corporal way. Maybe I just didn't give him an excuse. Roy Harris was our Grade Seven teacher and his reluctance to strap me would have spoiled my perfect record if it weren't for Mr. Riedel (who was also a first rate ball player but subject to day-long four o'clock shadow, for gracious sakes!) and was always ready and willing to limber up his bit of belting when necessary. He managed to find a couple of necessities that Grade Seven year. Al says he doesn't have the same fond memories of Mr. Harris.
Mr. S.R. Sinclair replaced Mr. Van Volkenburg when I was in Grade Four. Miss Anderson was our teacher that year. She was our teacher again in Grade Six so I sometimes confuse events that took place under her jurisdiction. We hadn't started the repetitive shuffling from room to room and teacher to teacher while we were in Grade Four. Rumour had it that Mr. Sinclair ("Sinky" as he became known) had been a professional wrestler at one time. Whether or not this was true was 'academic' (heh, heh!) because he had the necessary build, which was all that mattered to us. I still recall with considerable clarity the strappings I received from him. In his office with the door closed, he would face me, strap in hand.
'You know the drill, Helmer; hold out your hand. Higher! Bend your wrist! That's it!' Sinky, in my opinion, was the quintessential 'strap-giver'. He knew that strapping a hand too low could result in the end of the strap cutting the flesh on the wrist of the 'strappee', so eliminated that possibility with the 'high-hand' technique. There were no wild flailings about with the strap; he laid it carefully on the victim's hand exactly where he intended to have it land, then raised it slowly to about eighteen inches above 'ground zero' then whacked down hard with a controlled follow through. Same thing for the other hand, then one hand after the other again, two on each hand. I must have been caught using obscene language to deserve such a count!
In fact, he could have given me five on each hand without really increasing the punishment. After the first blow on each hand they had swollen and become numb and were effectively immune to further abuse. Additional strikes were redundant! The first painful blows smarted so keenly that it was difficult to prevent a minimal lachrymal effect in the corner of each eye. One drop in the corner of each eye was considered acceptable because these signs could be easily wiped away before returning to the classroom. Blubbering, that is to say, outright crying, was a definite 'No! No!'.
'Right, you're dismissed, Helmer!' Sinky would say, turning to replace his strap in its drawer. He would then sit at his desk and watch the final act. The heavy door to the Principal's office had a large round brass knob that seemed to be ten degrees colder than the ambient temperature. I had learned early on that attempting to open it in the ordinary way with closed hands was not wise. It seemed to re-excite the nerves in the hands that had become numb so that the original pain returned with a vengeance. As a result, the recommended door-opening technique was to crouch down slightly, clench the fists and turn the knob by pressing the wrists against the knob from either side and rotating it. This pathetic procedure seemed to provide the final touch of sick amusement for the disciplinarians.
Although I hesitate to say so, the frequent intervention of 'Wink' Potter as a 'surrogate' strapper for otherwise willing disciplinarians had the effect of forming a sort of bond between us. Even extraneous explanations were dispensed with and a simple 'Helmer, office!' was sufficient to guarantee my presence in the Principal's office, waiting for his arrival following the recess.
One day he entered wearing his customary wide, 'shit-eating' grin. He was in an unusual mood for sure, because on this occasion he chose to 'consult' with me. 'Whatta you think?' he said. 'One and one, two and two, two and one?'
'One and one would be good!'
'How about we say two and one?'
'Okay!' He proceeded with the punishment in customary fashion then widened his smile and asked 'How was that?' Sadistic bastard! I thought. At least he did not strike with the vicious force of Sinclair or Riedel.
'Fine, thanks!' I said. 'Could I have another one on my left hand, please, sort of even things up?' I realized that anyone but Potter could have construed this as egregious impertinence, but 'Wink' could go along with a gag. I extended my hand and he gave it another perfunctory whack. When I returned to the classroom and told my cronies of the experience they were wild with amusement. If a teacher had not been present I believe I would have received a standing ovation. Nevertheless, I was a hero for nearly a week.
-o-
'I guess I'm gonna have to get a date for the dance,' I said to Mom.
'Why do you have to have a date?'
'Well, everybody else has one,' I said.
'Why don't you ask Lois to go as your date?' my mother asked predictably.
'Aw, Jeez, Mom, I grew up with Lois. I mean, really!'
'Well, I think she'd be glad to go with you! If you have a better idea, help yourself!'
'Yeah, right!' I grumbled; but I considered the options and ended up taking Lois. There were other girls after whom I lusted, but typically, convinced myself that I didn't have a hope in hell of getting them to go with me. This all took place in 1938, years after we had moved.
The Grade Nine dance was principally engineered by 'Gus' Florendine, popular Vice-Principal of the school in the late 1930's. There was no excuse for any student who tried to avoid the big affair with the claim that he couldn't dance. Gus preempted any such moves by holding regular dance classes for a couple of weeks for the Junior High school students on school time! By the time the big social event arrived we had all been exposed to the current popular dances including the 'Heel Toe Polka' and 'The Lambeth Walk'. We'd begun to think we were 'cool'. Naturally, on the big night the boys sat on one side of the assembly hall as though glued to their seats and the girls sat on the other side of the hall with their sweaty handkerchiefs balled up in their clammy hands. Gus quickly cured that problem by making everyone get up on their feet and form two large concentric circles, boys in one, circling the girls in the other. The music started and everyone began moving, boys clockwise and girls counter clockwise. When the music stopped we were required to dance with the person facing us. Incredibly gruesome!
Once the original compunctions were overcome everyone loosened up to the point where the dance assumed almost normal behaviour. Many of the girls were sweating profusely and smelled of body odour. The handkerchiefs balled up in their fists were already soaking wet so there was virtually no redemption for them.
'Girls pick your partners for the waltz!' came the announcement and to my astonishment I saw Marjorie Horn approaching me with a determined look on her face. Marjorie had been affectionately referred to by the guys in the gang as 'Tarzan'..., 'Tarz' for short. Her typical dress throughout the school year had been loose-fitting faded blue jeans, open-necked work shirts and scuffed running shoes. On the night of the dance she had sent all of us lads into a state of mild shock by showing up in a clinging rayon dress that revealed to our astonished eyes the splendid, mature figure she had been concealing from us all year.
She was wearing powder and lipstick and silk stockings and high heels. Her jet-black page boy bobbed hair glistened like polished ebony. And now she was pressing her firm young breasts against my slightly befuddled dance persona, whom, while inhaling Marjorie's newly-acquired fragrance, was praying that the lights would not be turned up too high when the slow dance ended. No, ma'am, that is not a .45 calibre pistol I am carrying in my pants pocket--it's a two-battery flashlight, and I never leave home at night without it!
'Some of us have been out at the swings,' she murmured huskily into my ear.
'Really?' I wondered why anybody would be spending time out on the swings when there was a neat dance going on right here in the Assembly Hall. It was a balmy, unseasonably warm night in June. 'What are you doing out at the swings?' I asked. Stupid question!
'Just fooling around,' she whispered. 'You wanna come out?' A bizarre thought struggled to lodge itself in my mind, but was immediately rejected as being too outrageous for serious consideration. Surely they couldn't be doing that!
'Naw, I guess I better just hang around in here,' I said. 'Thanks, anyway!'
As the music ended she looked directly at me with her large, dark brown eyes. 'Well, if you decide there's anything you want....' she said, with an obvious tone of regret, 'you'll know where to find me, won't you?' She gave my hand a final parting squeeze and walked off across the floor toward the door leading to the 'Boys' entrance.
It wasn't until the following week that I told a couple of guys in the gang about the dance conversation. I remembered the disclosure well because I'd injured my hip trying to kick myself in the bum when they told me what had really been going on out at the swings. I had condemned myself to another four years of agonizing juvenile virginity because of a stupid school dance, (and my own shyness and naïveté!)
— The End —